[Eden Prime] Bloody Sunday

If there was one challenge Natalie King feared, it was trying to get Hope to school. But Kaseka was busy with Shiori, who was inconsolable no matter what they tried. And Nat would’ve really loved to just go back to bed and try to recover those four hours of sleep that Shiori had decided to interrupt. But life in the form of her niece had different ideas.

“I don’t wanna go to school,” Hope said, arms crossed and pouting.

“Why not?” Nat asked, raising an eyebrow, the girl’s uniform folded in her hands.

“I’m sick.”

Nat leaned on her cane, “Where?”

The girl hesitated thoughtfully, “My belly.”

“Really.” She said flatly.

Hope nodded hopefully.

"You’re going to school, Hope. Get dressed.”

“But, Auntie Naaat-”

“No buts,” Nat said, “Go on--”

Her OT beeped insistently. In the kitchen, Kaseka was nursing the baby and Nat caught her exasperated look. Nat shrugged helplessly at her and retreated into their bedroom with one more admonishment for Hope to get dressed. Five minutes she was walking out in her uniform.

“Briefing,” She told Kaseka. The asari said nothing and Nat paused for a long, stretched out moment while Kaseka kept her eyes on their daughter’s scrunched up face. “Sorry.”

She’d have to make it up to her later, Nat decided, even as she crossed the base. The air was still crisp and sharp from the night, a galaxy away from the dulled air of Earth’s cities. It was mornings like these that reminded her of postings out in the arse-end of nowhere, where she’d liked to get up early and just run. Easier to think when running.

She rapped on the Company commander’s office door with her cybernetic hand, the metal casing thumping oddly, “Sir? First Sergeant King reporting.”

Staff Lieutenant Benelli was just in his thirties, an athletic-looking, olive-skinned man with pleasant features. At the sight of her, he smiled, “Morning King. How are you?”

“Good, thank you sir.” She said politely, “There was something about a briefing?”

“Yes,” said the Skipper, quickly gathering a few things. “Follow me.”

She fell into step beside him, hand wrapped around the top of the cane. She'd started forgetting to be self-conscious about the damn thing.

“How does the healing process go, King?” the Lieutenant asked, both walking side by side.

She shrugged, “Well I can walk, sir.” That was an improvement over the first few months, “I’m not entirely certain when they’ll finish the cybernetic therapy for my back, but I can do my job.” Thank god.

“That’s not why I asked, because it’s apparent,” the Skipper replied, raising an eyebrow at her.

King was quiet for a few taps of her cane, “In that case, I’m doing okay, sir. Good to have two hands again.” Even if it was so obviously not the one she was born with, it was better than one hand.

“And the family? I hear you live on-base with your spouse.”

“Yessir. My wife, my daughter and my niece. They’re good. As good as can be expected.” The war had left a lot of scars.

“How do they find Eden Prime?”

The Skipper liked his questions, didn’t he? She decided to be blunt, “It’s not as nice as it used to be, sir. My wife finds it a bit hard.”

He simply smiled back. “That’s why we’re here: to make it better.”

He legitimately believed that, didn’t he? Thought they could change this place. “I hope so, sir.” She wasn’t feeling his optimism though.

Gus was on time, which - translated to English - meant proper early. He was standing next to the briefing room’s door, arms crossed and waiting for anyone else to arrive. Only the company senior NCOs and officers were supposed to be there, which included The Skipper, XO, Gunnery Chief Girl, Tritt, and the command element of the Second Platoon. Ekman, having started in the unit a lot later than the rest, still hadn’t met the Skipper, the XO, nor the Second Platoon guys... There’d be lots of people to remember after this one, he thought, slightly grimacing at it.

After meeting King he’d somehow felt rather discouraged to see anyone else, and hadn’t even tried to introduce himself to anyone. He wasn’t the most sociable or amiable person normally, but stick up the bum -types made him even more reclusive. Especially the sort with weird alien fetishes. Ugh.

But, as long as King proved to be competent and wouldn’t try to shove shit down Gus’ throat, he wouldn’t have a problem with the girl. Maybe.

Hopefully.

His thoughts vanished at hearing steps from his right, causing his head to snap to that direction.

And be amazed. “Dawar?” he asked at recognising the woman approaching him. “The hell you doin’ here, hey?”

“Should ask you the same damn question. Rumour said you went and had a kid.” The tone was lighter than the words might have suggested, the Indian woman looking rather relieved to see a familiar face.
.
“Ja, sorry about that,” said Gus, smirking, the feeling echoing in his head. “Guess you and me were never meant to be then.”

“Damn shame. The hell you doing here?”

“I work here, numbnuts. Platoon Sergeant, First Platoon.”

“Ack,” she said, still grinning. “Guess we’ll be seeing each other more, then. Command went and decided to put me back in charge of paperwork, too, only I get stuck with a whole bunch of new people over in Second. And Knapp, but that’s a whole different story.”

“I’m still with Tritt, but I reckon you know that already...”

“I heard. Haven’t got to rail on him yet, though,” she snickered. “You must have had a damn good time with that.”

“You mean with the part where I accuse him of selling his soul to the devil for a couple of shiny bits?” asked Ekman, beginning to grin. “Ja, that’s a tidbit fun.”

“Just a tidbit?” She shook her head. “I expected better of you, Gus.”

A new figure settled in next to the two. “As a matter of fact it was for two shiny bits and Halley’s immortal soul, but don’t tell her I said that.”

Gus’ head turned towards Tritt now, snorting quietly.
“Well I’m not gonna... Not like you could hold your ground against her ever, you blerry ponce.”

“Remind me to swipe those creds from Irwin...he now owes me 200 of them,” Dawar chimed in gleefully.

Tritt shot her an extremely unimpressed look. “For what.”

“Her sticking around longer than a year.” She paused. “And another 100 because it was long enough for you to pick up some shiny gold bits.”

If anything, Tritt looked even more unimpressed. “You had a bet on me staying with Halley and getting a field commission.”

“Damn straight. Sir.”

“Am I that predictable?”


“There were actually more bets, highest one being about a grand...” muttered Gus, looking serious, or trying his best to.
“I never participated in those, of course. Quite tasteless, I say.”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with you not having enough money, would it.”

To which Ekman’s reaction was to stare at the ceiling innocently, while mumbling quietly, “Of course not...”

The LT, for his part, was laughing quietly. “Only a grand? Gus, I’m disappointed. I thought my love life was worth much more than that.”

Then, hearing more footsteps, the trio turned and saw Gunny King accompanying another man who Ekman did not recognise, but could take a guess at:

The Skipper.

At the sight of the man with Staff Lieutenant’s bars, Tritt snapped to. “Attention on deck!”

“At ease,” said the Skipper, tagging the door to the briefing room open. “And inside. The briefing starts now.”

“Yes Sir,” said Tritt, waving for Gus and Dawar to precede him inside. Staff LT Benelli was the man’s name, but everyone knew him as the Skipper, and not without affection either. The man had proven to be a good CO, so far, looking after his men’s personal problems and morale. Hell, he’d even checked up on Johnson in sickbay after the guy had gotten brained.

Good so far, at least, but if we’re getting briefed on what I think we are it’ll be the moment of truth for him.

The Skipper walked to the end of the long table, carrying a couple of holopads in his hand. “Sit down, folks,” he ordered as he came to a stop and turned to face them again.

Tritt settled down, motioning for Gus to take a seat next to him. Dawar followed suit, trailed by a skinny, sober-looking man also in Lieutenant’s uniform. Tritt had to suppress a smirk at that. Second’s PL, Johann Knapp, had proven a very punctual sort. He was new enough to be very precise with timing, uniform maintenance, and all the stuff that a war taught you mattered very little in actual action. Fortunately, he wasn’t a douche about it, which made him far more tolerable than he might otherwise have been.

“Think it’s on?” he muttered to Gus. They’d been waiting for the colonists to try something for a while now. Hell, you could work with sticks and stones for only so long before blast bombs started looking mighty appealing. And Mike had no doubt at least one bigshot amongst the anti-Alliance group was considering that.

But before the man could reply, Benelli’s voice cut through the quiet chatter that was still taking place, “Quiet down, people!”

When silence had fallen and all eyes were staring at Captain Benelli, he started speaking again. “First of all, there’s a couple of people I haven’t yet met...” His eyes wandered. “I’m Staff Lieutenant Giovanni Benelli, and you’ll probably know me mostly as the Skipper.”

His eyes wandered again. “Alright, I guess that’s enough chitchat...”

A large holographic display depicting a large city square appeared. “Someone recognize this one?”

Mike raised his hand. “Constant, Sir?”

“That is correct,” replied the SLT, for a moment pointing at Tritt before turning back. “Constant City Square, the largest square in the largest city on Prime. I’m showing you this, because this is the place of our next deployment.”

A murmur went around the briefing room at that. There was only reason the entire company would be stood-to to go to a place like that, and it was one that could turn ugly in very short order. Tritt glanced over at Knapp, trying to gauge how his opposite number was reacting to the prospect of a mission. The young man looked calm, collected, but...so did a great many officers before their first action.

Though with luck this won’t be an action.

But then again, luck wasn’t something they were issued, now was it?

The Skipper leaned on the table now, looking serious. Mike had to admit he was impressed with the briefing, this man could give the Raging Russian a lesson or two on thespianship. “See, Command has noticed the disturbances on Prime, and the District Adjutant himself is coming over to talk to these radicals. Our job is security.”

Great. This was not gonna be fun.

“According to Intel, there will most likely be at max a hundred or so people in addition to the press, these persons being political activists. Our mission is to be the reserve for the Constant Police Department, provide them aid if such is needed.”

He turned off the holographic display, then added dismissively, “But that is most likely not necessary. The audience is very likely to remain small and peaceful, and we’re there to simply represent the Alliance.” And then his expression became serious again. “That means I don’t want to see any Gung-Ho attitudes. We’re there as ambassadors from the Alliance, not as soldiers. I don’t want anyone to provoke the locals at all. I hope this is understood?”

After hearing a rather loudish sigh/snort from Gus, Mike heard the room murmur an “aye-aye, sir.”

The Skipper nodded. “The Executive Officer will give you the particular details about what that entails. We’re done. King, with me.”

And just like that, the man exited the room, King getting up and following after him.

Quick ending to the briefing was nice. Banalities of his conclusion aside, the man had been brief and to the point, unlike some other officers Mike had served under. Once again, the Agincourt’s old XO sprung to mind. Mihailovsky really should’ve gone into the theater, he’d been wasted in the Navy.

“First time out, eh?” murmured a voice next to him.

Mike glanced over to see Johann Knapp sidling over to him as the briefing room began to empty. “For you maybe,” he replied, amused.

“Roger...” Knapp said, trailing off. For once the young officer seemed to be at a loss for words.

“You alright?” Tritt asked with a frown.

“Just...nervous.”

”So you’ve sought out the wisdom of the prior-enlisted?”

A nod.

Mike smiled. Behind the facade of youthful confidence, Knapp was just as nervous as any other platoon leader about to lead his men on a real mission for the first time. Good sign. Only idiots weren’t nervous before an op. “Look after your men, make sure they look after each other---and get everybody home in one piece. Did they tell you guys ‘mission first, people always’ at OCS?”

“Yeah.” Another nod.

”Well it’s true. Get the job done, but get everybody back. That’s what matters.” By the briefing room exit, Mike could see Gus irritably waving for him to hurry the fok up. He clapped Knapp on the shoulder. ”You’ll do fine out there. I’ll see you when this mess is over and done with.”

And with that, he hurried over to Gus to quick march out of the building. They had a platoon to get ready.

King's steps-unsteady footsteps, the resolute thump of the cane-fell out of cadence with Benelli's effortless stride. She kept at his side as they passed out of the room, leaving the platoon leaders and the SNCOs behind.

And she was frowning.

"Sir," She began, "I have some concerns."

“About the upcoming task? I don’t see why. It looks like a pretty standard security mission.”

Her frown deepened. Standard. The tension running through this colony grated against her, “The marines are going in with very light equipment, sir.”

“Yes,” replied the Staff Lieutenant. “Like I said, we can’t afford to provoke the colonists any more. We’re here in the spirit of peaceful cooperation, not hostile occupation.”

She hesitated, glancing at him, “And if it turns violent, sir?”

“It won’t. The colonists will see that we mean no harm to them, so they will have no reason to turn violent,” the Skipper explained, an inkling of annoyance creeping into his voice. “And this comes down from the top, Gunny, and is not open for discussion. Period. Do I make myself clear?”

She nodded stiffly, “Yessir.” She thought wryly, let’s hope the colonists co-operate then. There was little use continuing her line of argument; she knew from the edge to his voice that he was set on this being peaceful. But she’d seen enough action to know when a situation could go wrong it most generally did; and you didn't have to be on this planet long to feel the fractures. She kept her misgivings from her face, frown fading into an indifferent expression.

“And I need you to enforce my orders, King,” continued Benelli, now his voice normal again. “I need you, you hear?”

Today was going to be a long day. She said crisply, “That’s my job, sir.” If she was being slightly sarcastic, her voice was as bland as her face, “Is there anything else you need of me, sir?”

“Just get the Company ready,” the other replied. “I wanna make a good first impression on these colonists.”

Good...impression. Was this like meeting the parents, or something? She nodded, “Aye-aye, sir.” The thought of her previous CO flashed across her mind, but then she thought Matthias is dead and squashed it.

Nighttime was mostly spent in the barracks, after dinner, unless you had watch, at which point, well, it kinda sucked, because then you had to sleep during the day when you wanted to do other stuff, or get very little sleep once you got off watch or patrol or whatever you did.

Kat was rather glad to not have watch or patrol or whatever tonight, because it was nice to rest after dinner and study and angry mutterings and glares and trying to be friendly when things didn’t seem all nice and pretty. And PT and bending physics with her mind, because that’s all they ever did if they weren’t patrolling or watching.

And this poker thing was...interesting.

“Eh, Nidawi?”

“Yes?”

Irwin looked a bit exasperated. "Bet’s to you again.”

Oh. Ummmm.... She looked down at the pile of chips in the center, then back down at her cards. “Um...here,” she muttered, tossing a handful in. Hopefully that was the right amount...

Jackson tossed in the same amount of chips as her, plus more. “I bet... that I’m kickin’ all y’all asses.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

Irwin shot the American an amused look. “I’m gonna raise some doubts about that,” he said, tossing in even more chips. Maybe also. Most likely.

“Yo homes, I’mma smoke all yo’ asses so much it’ll look like they got stuck in a fireplace,” put in Jennings, throwing his chips into the table. ...Definitely not.

Irwin turned to glare at him. “Mate, would it kill you to speak proper English once in a bloody while?”

“What, you want me to speak all educated-like and shit?”

Kangaroo (Deby always called him that for some reason) settled for resting his forehead on the table.

“Homes your cards are bleeding worse than one of my niggas after he got shot outside the convenience store.”

“Fuck off Jennings.”

Another set of chips flew across the air and landed on the table. “I’m with my ram-rooting neighbour,” said Paraone, looking concentrated. “That’s pretty fuckin’ retarded, Jennings.”

Kat frowned, playing with a couple of chips between her fingers before putting them in. “And your eyes cross when you lie,” she said softly. She felt kinda bad for him.

“They do not!” exclaimed the other, sounding like Kat had just insulted his mother.

“They are now.”

“...Fuck you.”

Irwin snickered. “No, that’s Harris’ job.”

...Huh? Did they mean...no, that would be silly. There were regs, and Edward was grumpy. Well, grumpier. Besides, that stuff was personal, even if it were true. Kat didn’t say anything, just looked at her cards, wondering what made them think that.

She was spared from thinking too much about it though, when her omnitool beeped, and the rest of theirs did too. Kat frowned, setting her cards down on the table absently when she saw the sender. Gunny - Lieutenant Tritt now, that was really weird - usually didn’t send them stuff directly...it came from Chief Ekman or Kozlov. “Um, guys...”

Deployment orders.

She saw Corporal Jackson staring at his omnitool, looking ever more incredulous as he read on. “You gotta be fucking shitting me...”

Political demonstration. Light battle dress (okay...), no hardsuits (ummm), no service rifles (made sense), no helmets (what the bloody fuck?), concealed pistols (also made sense, sorta)... batons, mace, taser authorized for carry if trained, but highly discouraged...

At least she got to keep her amp, but that wasn’t exactly comforting for a vanguard with no hardsuit or serious combat shields, or even authorization to use it except in extreme cases of self defense, which, to Marines, meant ‘use only if you are pinned and are two seconds away from dying’. Ugh. Whoever wrote up this list had obviously never walked an outside patrol or dealt with unhappy people or...well, had ever been on the ground.

Was this where she was supposed to start blaming inept Navy squids?

“So...” started Paraone, looking amused. “What if these people get all proper rowdy? What’re we supposed to do? Wave our fingers at them? I ‘m not sure all of us even have training for tasers or mace...” She did, because it was required in her job specification, and maybe the NCOs and one or two of the rest decided to take the class or had backgrounds in it...but, no, not everyone.

“We can regale ‘em with tales of your sex life,” cracked Irwin, but even he looked a little uneasy, “ought to be enough to send ‘em packing.”

“Says the bloke who don’t pull ever.”

Corporal Jackson, however, was looking at something else now. He looked even more incredulous than before. “And I ain’t gonna play anymore. At least not with Nidawi.”

He slammed his cards on the table, sighing, still staring at Nidawi’s cards. “Four fucking aces. The biotic chick cheats.”

“I don’t cheat,” she said, frowning and lifting her head from where she was staring at her omnitool.

Everyone else was staring at her cards now, all looking rather bemused. “Anybody else got an ace?” Irwin said after a second. They really thought she was cheating, and that and the silly orders and Edward being grumpy this morning and getting stuck on mess watch just before this...

Today sucked.

Ekman was walking towards the barracks, wearing his light battle dress already, with all the necessary gear he thought he’d need. Which wasn’t much. When he’d been younger, he’d carried all kinds of gear with him, just trying to look cool. Now, he just had what he needed, and nothing else, making him look rather... plain.

He tagged the doors open, stepping inside and noticing the current Duty NCO, Private Eriksson. The large Swede was, even after all these months they’d spent in the same unit, still the same dumbass who was good in the field and horrible at everything else. All that gentle care Gus had given him seemed to be utter waste of time. The blonde man nodded to Ekman as he noticed him. “Chief Ekman. Good to see ya back.”

“I bet,” said Gus back bluntly, then began staring at the dorms again. “Everyone ready?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Eriksson replied with a shrug “Dunno. I’m ready though.”

Ekman eyed at him briefly, seeing him wearing his light battle dress as well, with a bit more gear than Gus had. “Right. Closing down the unit barracks then if you’re going too.”

“Yeah, Chief. Looking forward to smack those motherfuckers around who bricked fuckin’ Johnson,” the Swede answered, looking eager now.

Gus raised an eyebrow. “You did read our orders, did you? No provocation whatsoever, is it?”

Eriksson brushed him off. “Chief, that was a fucking joke wasn’t it? No provocatin’ the fucking dumbass colonist bitches? They goin’ DOWN, man!”

Ekman squeezed his eyes shut at the stupidity, then snapped back. “We don’t joke in the fucking military, especially not when the ‘joke’ is a flippin’ order.”

“Really?” asked Eriksson. “Looked like a joke to me, dude... Chief.”

He glared at him now, scowling. “You do what the orders say. And if you fuck up, Eriksson, I’ll donner ten shades of shit out of you. That clear?”

The Swede looked dumbfounded for a second, as if wondering if a person could even contain ten different colours of feces. “Aye-aye, Chief.”

Gus shook his head, turning about and seeing... Tritt walking towards him again, this time with Lieutenant Knapp. Ekman snapped to attention and saluted both of them as they got near enough. “Lieutenant,” he said to Knapp. “Wanker,” he said to Tritt.

“Doos,” replied Tritt, still thinking he could speak Afrikaans, returning the salute.

Knapp blinked at the breach of protocol, but seemed to shrug it off as prior-enlisted oddities. “Chief.”

Gus glanced at Eriksson, making sure he wasn’t listening, then turned to Tritt. “What’s the word on your end about these orders? Bit on the light-side, isn’t it?”

The LT scowled. “Johann here taught me some very nice ways to curse in German and King almost felt like punching the Skipper. That ought to sum it up right there.”

“Verdammte scheisse,” grumbled the other officer.

“Right,” said Gus, now scowling slightly. “Not quite sure what we’re supposed to do if we’re to pacify the situation... Which apparently ain’t gonna happen...”

Tritt’s face hardened. “They were kind enough to let us keep our sidearms, Gus. Use them.”

Ekman raised an eyebrow. [color=yellow]“I meant defensive gear, man. And other stuff, like water cannons and tear gas launchers... I’m not dead eager to shoot at civilians. The baton rounds from that distance can really sting, man.”

“Roger.” Gus’s platoon leader shook his head. “We have the mace and the tasers but other than that I’m really not sure.”

Ekman sighed, now looking at his outfit with a scowl, “Ag man, look at this thing. I look like a mall guard. Could as well be wearing the fucking mufti, hey...”

“Looks stylish,” said Tritt with a smirk. “Pity you’re hitched, Gus, you might be getting lucky at this thing. Strike up a talk with some young thing and bridge the gap between military and civvies...”

“The Primeans are trying to bridge, alright,” Gus grunted. “Ask Johnson, man, they’re even providing us the bricks to build the bridge of..”

The smirk vanished. “Yeah. Hey, listen...what I’m about to say is a standing order for the platoon, OK?”

Ekman frowned, curious suddenly. “O--kay?”

“Anyone, anyone looks like they’re going to harm the platoon or they’re actually about to, you don’t fucking wait for orders. You deal with ‘em.”

For the second time since he’d been back, Tritt’s sudden changes in behaviour unnerved him slightly. The events on Earth had obviously had a huge effect on the man psychologically, and those changes were beginning to surface. Whether the change was for the better or not, remained to be seen. “Right. Self-defence. Not forgotten that one.”

Tritt shook his head. “No, man, I’m saying you don’t wait for me to give the order or the Skipper too. I know they’ve been pushing that angle, but forget it. I’ll cover for you guys, whatever it is that happens.”

Again Gus raised an eyebrow at him. “Ja, self-defence. I still do remember that...”

He wondered if Tritt meant exactly what he thought he did, that they should strike preemptively...

It was a solid strategy.

In war.

Against civilians, however... It was different to retaliate, to keep the situation pacified, but what Tritt seemed to suggest was... some sort of a revenge. Regardless of what he’d jokingly, provocatively said to King before, that really didn’t feel like the proper thing to do.

But the newly commissioned Lieutenant’s face had softened again. “I know you do,” Tritt said, letting out a breath. “Just...don’t want anyone else to end up like Johnson. Carry on, Chief.”

And with that Tritt walked off. Knapp shot Gus a curious glance, but followed suit with his stiff-legged stride.

It was sunny.

It was weird, having it be so sunny.

There were times, since she’d been with the 2/4, that things had been tense. But that had been war. This was supposed to be peace, and things were supposed to be not-tense.

Supposed to be.

Kat stepped (well, jumped) out of the Mako, wrinkled her nose, and automatically went to unhook her non-existent shotgun from her non-existent hardsuit, and....

Oh.

Oops.

“There weren’t supposed to be so many people,” she said, bluntly, softly, looking at the mass of people.

Harris dropped right after her, standing now next to her and staring ahead. “Yeah. Apparently they don’t know how to count or something.”

“So...what now?”

Kozlov joined in with them, “Uphold the order as best as we can...” He then pointed at something ahead. “There’s the local police, and they are apparently a lot better armed.”

Apparently. They had huge trucks with tanks and hoses, with launchers for tear gas - she recognized the latter, ‘cause they had used them, once, in Sydney, when she and Harris and Kozlov and the others were doing security before the relays had opened or whatever again.

And they were allowed shields.

Lucky.

“So why the fuck don’t we get those then?” came a distinctive twang from behind her. “Bloody cops.”

“I don’t even get to use barrier,” she muttered.

“Oi, Chief!” Irwin called over to Chief Ekman. “The fuck don’t we have their kit, eh?”

“Because the command wants to kill off your doff arse,” the petite Platoon Sergeant responded before starting off towards a direction unknown. She frowned. Hopefully it didn’t come to that. She didn’t survive all of this kak (Chief Ekman liked that word) to get killed by unhappy people.

“Cheers,” grumbled Irwin, but he shut up all the same.

Then a voice crackled over their earpieces, that of Gunny---Lieutenant Tritt. “Alright, platoon, fall in and look sharp!”

First they tell her parade stuff was important beyond important (enough that most of basic training involved parade stuff). Then she got to the ‘Court, and only slimy Weinman liked parade stuff, and it was all kinda silly when they were fighting Geth and Reapers. Now...

Now it was back to parade stuff.

Someone should make up the Alliance’s mind. Really.

Kat chimed in with a quiet “Aye-aye, sir,” like everyone else, and frowned.

Lieutenant Tritt stepped out in front of the team, Chief Ekman at his side, expression more intense than she’d seen it in awhile. “I won’t waste your time, guys,” he said, hands hooked into his belt kit. “You all have your orders, you know what to do. Don’t do anything stupid, but keep yourselves and your brothers safe, you hear me? I’m not bringing anyone else to sickbay because of some activist prick.”

And with that he paced off to confer with the other officers.

Chief Ekman remained where he was, still staring at the platoon with his intense pale blue eyes. Kinda scary, and she twitched, kinda remembering what it had been like when she’d first come to the ‘Court. “No funny business. The Lieutenant may have a soft spot for you lads, but I don’t. Do your jobs, so I won’t have to do you in. Some of you folks have never been deployed before. Don’t worry, just trust your NCOs and it’ll go fine. Questions?”

A hand went up.

“Hand down, Jennings.”

The hand went down.

“Let’s get cracking. Carry on.”

Well, time to serve and protect. That was what civvie cops said, right? Whatever their motto was, it was pretty appropriate given his platoon’s job and kit. As subtly as he could, he glanced over at the Constant Police Chief. The woman was trim, strack-looking, and looking very very pissed off that the Marines were here.

Or maybe she was annoyed that it’d be a miracle if the Marines could provide them with halfway decent support, given their kit. Mike had to shake his head at that. Anything happened to his men because they weren’t protected enough, Command was going to have to answer for that when all this was over.

Fortunately that didn’t seem too likely a possibility at this point. The crowd was a bit noisy, yeah, slogans being shouted left and right...but they didn’t seem like to be whipped up into a riot right now. Hopefully they stayed that way, but Mike could spot one or two guys who looked a good deal angrier than the rest...

Having finalized last-minute plans with Knapp, he went off to find his platoon sergeant. Gus was done post messaging the platoon, and was now simply staring at the crowd with his arms crossed. He didn’t look pleased.

His head turned towards Tritt as he noticed him approach, nodding to him. “Once more into the goddamn breach, hey?”

“Hope we avoid getting breached,” said Mike, irritably tugging at the notched brim of his patrol cap.

“Ja,” muttered Gus, turning to gaze at the crowd again. “What do you reckon? A couple of hundred to be going on with, eh?”


Tritt grimaced. “Event hasn’t even started yet. There’s gonna be more.” He bit his lip, pondering options. “What d’you think? Stun batons out or holstered?”

“Holstered, but keep the holster open. Ain’t gonna escalate that quickly...” the Platoon Sergeant muttered, just as one of the crowd shouted a very loud anti-Alliance rallying cry. “Ugh...Hope they keep their knickers on at least till the Alliance oke holds the speech...”

A stormy look had crossed Mike’s face at the catcall. The guy who’d brained Johnson had yelled something very similar before pitching his rock...

“Agreed.” He glanced over at Gus, shaking thoughts of how best to protect his men out of his head. “Let’s stand-to.”

“Roger,” replied Gus, his hand going over to his ear. “Guardian-One, Guardian-One-Seven. Form a skirmish line with two metres in between and stand-to. Over.”

Confirmations from the squad leaders came in, and soon the platoon stood in line facing the crowd. The men weren’t as stoic as they might have been, nervously fingering baton handles and belt kit. Again, Mike irritably tugged at the brim of his cap. Would it seriously have killed Command to let them wear helmets?

Gritting his teeth, he flipped open the sheath of his stun baton. Hopefully the demonstrators wouldn’t want to make a fight of it...but if they did? Mike and his Marines would be ready.

A taut shape stalking the line of Marines caught Tritt’s eye. The First Sergeant was walking the line, looking both pissed and like she wished she could join the other Marines. She nodded to him, paused for a moment, “Sir.”

“Top.” Tritt hesitated, wondering how to phrase his question. “Command group doing OK?”

Not really the best way to ask “is the Skipper regretting the shit choice of gear for us yet”, but you did what you could.

Her lips quirked in a small, wry smile, “The skipper seems to be doing alright.” The omission of herself and the XO was telling.

Trouble in paradise, then. Or at least trouble in the TOC. Why the hell wasn’t the Skipper out on the line with them, for that matter? Mike could see the police chief murmuring quietly with Lieutenant Knapp not too far down the skirmish line, King was here...what was keeping Benelli in the TOC?

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s getting a nice little show on his screens.” Bad, bad form for an officer to badmouth another, and Mike mentally kicked himself. He was still thinking like an NCO, not like a commissioned officer. And an officer couldn’t bash a fellow officer to an NCO. “Erm...forget I said that, Top...”

“Already forgotten, Lieutenant,” She replied, and changed the subject quickly, “How’s the platoon?”

Mike once more returned his attention to his grim-faced troopers. “Ready as they’ll ever be. What d’you think, Top? Think it’ll stay like this?”

She scanned the crowd, frowning a little, “Hope so, sir. This certainly isn’t what we’re trained for. But I’m certain the platoon will do their duty well.” The last was said with a smirk, and a touch of irony.

Tritt heard a snort from beside him, then a mutter: “I told you it’s Operation bend over and take it up the arse, Gunny.”

King turned her eyes to Ekman, raising an eyebrow, “What, playing cop isn’t your thing, Chief Ekman?”

“I don’t like playing in general. This whole thing is fuckin’ rubbish,” Gus replied, now scowling. “Situations like these have never failed to turn to crap very quickly.”

The same could go for whenever Gus and King had a conversation. Tritt resisted the urge to massage his temples. “Agreed, Gus,” he said, moving to squelch the argument. “Top, no need to worry about First. We’ll do our jobs, and damned well at that.”

“And worrying is my job,” She said dryly, “Know you will. Good luck.”

Her job? Being a PL was the most worrying job Mike had ever had...you wouldn’t think a man could worry about thirty Marines at once, but you’d be wrong. A man could worry himself to death over them. “Beg to differ there, Top...but thanks.”

She nodded to him and left to continue her walk.

“Worrying is her job... wish I only had that responsibility...”

“Roger that,” Mike said tiredly. “I’m gonna walk the line, make sure the guys are hydrating. We’re gonna be here awhile.”

“Right,” said Gus, looking at the further end of the line. “I’ll start from the opposite end, then.”

“Roger that,” Tritt repeated, then stepped over to Irwin, shaking the man’s canteens to make sure he’d taken a drink.

King was feeling antsy, and she was getting a headache-she could feel the pressure building up behind her temples. She stood still though and kept her face clean of any of her discomfort. She watched the read outs in the Op Centre, standing at Benelli’s side.

The Staff Lieutenant was carefully observing the tactical monitors about the Company’s individual soldiers’ current status, occasionally glancing over at the screens showing the city square from various camera angles. The crowd was restless-a shifting mass of humanity. The speech had started and at first there seemed to be a calm.

But then the restlessness had flared up again and Nat bit her lip, glancing at the Skipper and then back at the screens as the crowd got rowdier.

She was starting to think that the idiot in charge of PR really needed to be fired.

The crowd was starting to lose people-trickles of locals disappearing. She wasn’t sure she was pleased with that-on one hand the crowd was now smaller, but on the other, those that were left were pissed as all hell.

Whatever the Alliance rep was saying was not going down well. Great. Just fucking great. And to think that colony garrison used to be considered boring.

The screens showed a lovely view as someone chucked something in the direction of the rep. A kind of still came over the Command Post and King felt her own tension racket up. And then the bloke’s security detail were tugging him away and out of sight. The speech was officially a bust. So much for improving relations.

And the crowd wasn’t settling down.

“Sir,” She pitched her voice low to Benelli, “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Steady on, King,” said the Skipper, simply staring at the monitors. “I have it on good authority that the crowd will remain calm.”

Yep, that headache was certainly coming on. “Aye-aye, sir.” She replied, a little dryly.

The Police Chief stood to the side of them, her arms crossed, her head tilted as she looked at the screens. She wasn’t tall but there was a certain hardness to her. There was grey at her temples and her uniform was squared away. Her voice was low as he talked to her people, the cops looking slightly out of place among the military personnel.

And the cops were wearing a heavier kit, something Nat was pretty sure the Marines were envious of right now.

When the speech had started, for a moment things had looked well. The crowd had been listening in carefully, calming down. It was too bad the Alliance representative wasn’t saying the right things.

Out of the several hundred people there, not many remained ten minutes into the speech. Most locals left, shaking their heads and looking terribly pessimistic. Out of perhaps 300 people there, now less than half remained.

The unrest caught like wildfire among the Primeans left, and soon the crowd looked just as hostile as they had been before, perhaps even more so. Gus’ teeth gritted, his expression hardened, his hand wandered to the baton’s holster. “This is bloody brilliant...” he muttered, quickly eyeing at Tritt, whose eyes met his. “I bet I’m not the only one who can’t see this ending well... Startin’ to look all proper pear shaped, is it?”

“You’re telling me...” The Lieutenant was not looking happy.

The shouting had started intensifying among the crowd, causing Gus to frown. “Eh... If they start approaching with weapons and such, I got us a good plan. Or actually two.”

Tritt tore his eyes away from the crowd again, gazing intently at Gus. “Do tell.”

“I take the two dozen from the right, you take the two dozen from the left, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll die, then I’m gonna go to heaven, and you to hell for being a heathen.”

“It won’t,” said Tritt, somber as Gus had ever heard him, “because I’ll get all four dozen before you can even line up a shot.”

“You’re on.”

“...How much we betting?”

“Our health?” Gus asked, raising his eyebrow. “Whether Eden Primeans get even more miffed with us?”

Tritt snorted. “I was thinking winner goes to heaven, loser goes to whatever damnation his religion is fond of.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Just then one of the crowd had thrown something at the Alliance representative, whose speech was abruptly halted as a consequence to that. Again, Gus began hearing anti-Alliance chants, this time shouted through megaphones.

“Check it, man. There goes the Alliance chap...” Gus muttered, watching as the Alliance representative’s own security were escorting him away now. That did nothing to calm the crowd down, whose shouting was increasing in both frequency and loudness.

“They don’t seem too happy to see him go,” muttered Tritt.

“That they don’t.”

The plot was thickening.

Bad.

Very bad. This was very very bad, and Kat could feel her muscles tense as things started flying places. Not that they could actually fly, but having things thrown at you was scary and terrifying, and she reallly didn’t like it. She’d managed to avoid having things thrown at her on the patrols (probably because her outside patrols were always done in bright daytime, when everyone was at work or school or whatever have you. It made sense, mostly, sorta), but now that it was actually happening....

...She really wished she had a helmet. She supposed she could do a barrier to block things from hitting herself, Edward and Kozlov next to her, maybe, but that would be a biotic display, and biotic displays required amp use, which required only-as-a-very-last-resort status. Or permission. Koslov was squad leader, maybe she should ask him for permission?

No, no, that would be bad too, because then they’d have even more reason to throw things at her and make her wish she had a helmet. Even flaring as a warning could do that, as much as she might want to. Bad. Very very very bad.

Ummm...maybe being small had its advantages? She’d grown an inch in the last year, but she was still kinda small, so maybe she wouldn’t make that big of a tar--

She held up an arm in front of her, as something - not a brick or a rock, thankfully, but a something - flew towards her face, since the Alliance representative - Adjutant Staff Lieutenant Gopinah or something like that, Kat hadn’t been paying too much attention when the introduction to the platoon happened a while ago, what with all the saluting and trying to figure out if he or the Skipper were the most important person when it came to orders and things, not that it’d ever come up - had been moving behind the lines of marines.

A distinctive thunk of an empty can of Tupari hit her arm, then the ground, and Kat scowled at it. It wouldn’t have done much damage if it had hit her, but it wouldn’t be nice, either, and might have left a bruise or a cut or something that would have bothered her when she washed her face or whatever. Or made her smell like Tupari, lemon-lime flavored, which was the worst smell in the world, for the rest of the day, until they made it back to the barracks and a shower, and left the yucky scent in her nose for longer than that.

She wrinkled her nose and kicked it away carefully, not even looking up to glare at the person who threw it, the bloody litterer.

“Shouldn’t we do something?!” shouted Harris at Kozlov, since it was hard to hear over the people yelling now.

“No,” replied the Corporal, shaking his head slightly. “Our orders are to hold steady and not provoke the crowd!”

Edward looked grumpy, muttering so that Kat could barely hear him, “Well that’s fucking brilliant...”

Another can flew her way, this one bouncing off her side as her arm missed the block, letting the shields catch the impact. She grumbled. “Retrograde maneuver requested, Corporal.”

“That’s a negative, Private,” said back Kozlov, wincing slightly as some kinda fruit bounced off his shields. “We’ll hold steady at least until the shields collapse!”

“I think I liked the Geth better,” she muttered to Edward, holding an arm over her face again as more things flew at them. At least she could shoot back at the Geth, or do something, but then, she didn’t really want to shoot people anyway. She’d never done that before, because the Geth were robots and the husks and stuff were....not alive, sorta. Cyberzombies.

And these shields weren’t as good as the ones on her hardsuit.

“Guardian-One-One, this is One-One-Six,” she heard Kozlov’s voice over the radio. “Sound off your shields-status. Over.”

Replies began flooding in on the channel... 90, 80, 70...

They were throwing things, now. Not good. The Adjutant had done an absolutely shit job at quelling the crowd, if this was any indicator. Unsurprising considering the unsympathetic view the crowd already had towards the Alliance, but the bastard hadn’t been supposed to stir them up even more.

The hell had he even said for that matter? The platoon was supposed to be busy containing the demonstrators, but it’d be nice to have known what’d set them off. Maybe the police chief or the Skipper could talk them down. Assuming the Skipper decided to set foot out of his little control room. But if they could talk them down, maybe they wouldn’t have to---

And that was when a beer bottle slammed into Mike’s chest, causing his KBs to spark as they deflected and shattered it.

“Ag man...” started Gus from next to Mike, staring at the shards. “Then again, the local beers taste like shit anyways...”

“They make shit bottles too,” replied Mike, feeling his hands unconsciously clench into fists. “What the fuck was that made of, sugar glass? Stand by, Gus, I’m gonna see if the CO can’t help us.”

“Holding both my bloody thumbs...”

That said, he slapped a hand to his earpiece, keying for the TOC. “Guardian-One-Six for Guardian Six, over!”

“Send it, One-Six,” came the reply from the Skipper.

“Sir, we’re taking...well, projectiles, but it’s not just fruit. Bottles, cans, think I saw a rock or two. Permission to send in some men to secure the hostile demonstrators, over?”

He’d fucking well better say yes. Belt-mounted KB generators were decent, but under sustained assault they wouldn’t hold out for long. And on top of that, there was no way in hell Mike was going to let the locals get away with chucking shit at his men. Especially not when they were aiming to incapacitate them.

Two more beer bottles smashed on the ground as Tritt waited for the Skipper’s reply, still answered only by static. Tritt gritted his teeth as he could hear others nearby following suit. “Fucking hell. Gus, poll the squads, find out how everyone’s holding up. Six, this is One-Six, do you copy, over!”

As Ekman tagged on his radio, Tritt’s own became alive with another man’s voice. “Our orders are to keep the crowd contained. The crowd is currently contained. Continue with that. Over.”

You have got to be kidding me. There were a lot more bottles being thrown than cans now, plus one or two---

THUD.

Tritt abruptly found himself sitting flat on his ass, a brick on the ground in front of him. “Oh fuck this.” He keyed his radio once more. “Sir, they’re chucking bricks now, request permission to subdue, over!”

The answer from the radio was only silence.

Gus towered over Mike, offering him his hand while simultaneously - and not very gracefully - dodging another rock. “Shields are holding, but not for long. At any rate, don’t wanna stay here.”

He pulled Mike back to his feet. “Any word from above?”

“None.” Tritt said, spitting emphatically on the ground. “Standby. Two-Six, One-Six, over!”

There was static, then--- “Two-Six standing by,” came Knapp’s voice, sounding very stressed.

If things were as bad over there... “What’s your status?”

“It’s getting ugly. Have you been able to raise the Skipper?”

“...No. Our shields are almost gone.”

Knapp’s voice held a faint waver when he replied. “...Tritt, you’ve more experience than I, what do you want us to do here?”

“Stand fast, I’m gonna try and see if I can’t get the cops to serve and protect. Out.” He tapped at his comm, switching over to the command frequency. “Guardian-Seven, One-Six, over!”

“Guardian-One-Six, this is Guardian-Seven, over,” came Gunny King’s reply.

Thank fuck for senior NCOs. “Seven, is the Police Chief with you?”

“One-Six, the Police Chief is here, over.”

And thank fuck for that as well. “Seven, inform that we need her cops up here with water cannon and tear gas now, over.”

“Standby, over.” A pause, a pause that seemed too long and then King’s voice, “One-Six, they should be on their way, over.”

Mike glanced over to where the cops had massed. True to King’s word, they were already hustling into position, priming their grenade launchers and moving up the water cannons.

“Roger, Seven, they’re moving.” And thank fuck for that. “One-Six out.”

A senior cop on the field was hollering into a megaphone, telling the protesters to disperse. That didn’t do much. The protesters stayed put, still howling anti-Alliance invective and tossing projectiles. After a few more bottles had nailed the cops, the leader lowered the megaphone and nodded at his men with teargas grenades.

With several dull thunks the launchers triggered, lobbing the grenades into the crowd, followed up in short order by crimson-hued streams from the water cannon. Mike winced as he saw the rioters dropped by the high-pressure blasts, only to fall amid the growing cloud of tear gas. The cries of terror were changing to ones of rage, now, and Tritt could see the rioters picking up stones, bottles, bricks as they staggered to their feet.

“Stun batons out, Marines!” he barked into his headset. “Stay on-line...forward!”

Well, it appeared the world had a sense of dramatic irony. The hv screens showed the specks of items being flung at the Marines, the sparking of their shields as they deflected the projectiles. Lovely. This wasn’t going to raise tensions or anything.

Time to try again, it seemed.

Her nails bit into her palms as she watched the screens. “Sir,” she began but then Tritt was speaking over the radio, his voice intense-understandably so. And the Skipper was telling him to keep to the plan. Brilliant.

And the crowd wasn’t fucking around.

“Sir,” She repeated. The Marines’ shields had to be getting low. Soon there would be injuries. And not fucking provoking the crowd was all well and good, but they were beyond provocation now-that there with the Marine getting knocked on his arse, that was violence, “With all due respect, I’d suggest action.”

The Skipper was now slightly trembling, still staring at the screens silently. “We’ll stick to the plan, Gunny. Those are our orders.”

“Sir,” Her eyes intent on him as she spoke, “They’ve only got clip on generators and the crowd ain’t letting up.” she kept her voice quiet but the Police Chief was looking their way, in between glances at the screens.

The Skipper simply kept staring at the monitors, now muttering, quietest so far, “We have our orders...”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Guardian-Seven, One-Six, over,” Came Tritt’s voice, tense.

“Guardian-One-Six, this is Guardian-Seven, over.” She answered, never taking her eyes off her superior.

“Seven, is the Police Chief with you?”

King glanced at the Police Chief, who was talking to one of her subordinates, the words too soft to be heard properly, but the urgency unmistakable. “One-Six, the Police Chief is here, over.”

“Seven, inform that we need her cops up here with water cannon and tear gas now, over.”

“Standby,” She replied, before raising her voice so the Chief could hear her, “Ma’am?”

The Chief stepped forward, two other cops trailing her, “Yes,” A glance at her rank insignia, and then at the crutch she was leaning on-something King was now used to, “First Sergeant?”

She had to approach this carefully-she couldn’t do nothing, as Tritt radioing her had pointed out but she couldn’t be seen to be usurping her commanding officer’s authority either, especially not with the bloke just there.

She returned her gaze to the Skipper, “Lieutenant Tritt is requesting cannon and tear gas support from the police, sir, ma’am.”

This time, however, the Staff Lieutenant didn’t say anything, simply stared blankly ahead. Nat took a breath and made a decision. Potential court martials weren’t fun, but she wasn’t going to let her men get the shit pummeled out of them because they weren’t allowed to fight back.

“Can you assist, ma’am?” Nat turned her attention to the chief. The cop nodded firmly and began speaking into her radio.

King spoke into her own comm to let Tritt know what was going on, “One-Six, they should be on their way, over.” Tritt replied and then Nat felt a bit of relief: maybe they could get through this without more Marines in the medbay. But those cops couldn’t move fast enough.

Now for her commanding officer. She stepped closer to him, “Sir? You alright?”

Even still, having heard what she’d said to the police chief next to him, having heard her basically usurp command from him, the man looked expressionless. “I had... orders,” he muttered quietly, his blank eyes now bright.

“The situation changed, sir,” She said, a little uneasily.

The man didn’t reply, but now turned away from the screens and sat down, still staring blankly ahead.

Well shit. She knew what to do with a private who froze up-yell at ‘em a little, put the fear of god into them-but this was a unique situation, to put it mildly. There was a company needing direction, and her career was looking a little...shorter.

Ah, fuck it. She was screwed if Benelli had a problem with her later anyway, “Sir? We need you on your feet.”

The man wouldn’t react and King was starting to get pissed off. She was going to need painkillers-it seems aggravation made her back flare up.

On the screens the cops were moving. The Chief was glancing at them and Nat’s jaw clenched-what a wonderful picture of the professionality of the Systems Alliance Marine Corps they were presenting.

“Sir,” She repeated, more firmly. Someone needed to provide leadership but most of the people in this fucking room outranked her, “Sir, can you answer me?”

Apparently the answer was still no.

She muttered a soft, “Fuck.” and switched the channel to Tritt back on, “Guardian-One-Six, this is Guardian Seven. You need to take command of the company, over.”

There was a brief pause, static crackling. Then Tritt’s voice: “Seven, One-Six, say again. I thought you just told me to take charge of the company, over.”

“One-six, Seven. Affirmative. I can’t fucking do it, over.”

“Roger, One-Six copies all. Out.”

King turned back to the feeds, the CO’s blank stare at her back. The cops were moving, as the senior guy’s yelling scattered a few, sending them slinking from the crowd. But some remained, beyond shouting, beyond understanding the threat of the Marines and police. They were running on adrenaline, pumped up by those around them.

A contagious kind of madness.

She’d fought geth, slavers and husks, but there was something a little unnerving-something that made a red flush of anger rise in her. Because these were her people, who she had bled to protect, and this was not the way it was supposed to be.

The cops had had enough-they were launching the tear gas grenades, the noxious cloud billowing up around the screaming remnants of the crowd. And then the water cannon was dashing them over, tipping the rioters over like bowling pins. Relief began to cautiously emerge-surely they could control the crowd now.

But then there was anger, anger in the air in those shouts and the rioters were like a wave-climbing to their feet, clutching at rocks, bricks, anything they could grab. And like a wave they were thundering forward-not towards the police, but towards the Marines. And like a wave they were crashing into the Marine line.

And things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated

“Hold the line!” yelled Ekman, seeing that the attempt to control the crowd was turning into an ugly brawl. But, trying to control his guys in conditions like this by mere shouting was about as useful as knocking on the door of a deaf man. He glanced to see he wasn't targeted by any of the rioters, then tagged his radio on, “All Guardian-One callsigns, this is Guardian-One Seven! Regroup and reform the skirmish line! Over!”

Both Jackson and Kozlov confirmed quickly, and the line began reforming itself again, even if not perfectly. Gus tried to help the process by pushing and prodding the marines he could find, telling them to double-time it and find their place in the chain. He saw one of the marines helping two Eden Prime cops to cable tie one local’s hands as the person laid on the ground. Gus grabbed the marine by the shoulder, making him spin around to face him. Liu Ling... Should’ve fucking guessed.

“Ling are you fuckin’ deaf!?” Gus yelled at him as the young man peered at him curiously. “Get in the goddamn skirmish line before my clothes go out of style!”

The man didn’t reply immediately, but his eyes widened at something. “Chief Ekman!” he yelled, pushing Gus in the chest and making him topple over.

When Ekman regained his sense of direction, he looked over and saw Ling spray greenish mace at a Primean who was brandishing a long metal pipe in his hand. It was too bad both Gus and Ling were far too close to escape the spray’s effects themselves.

Almost immediately after the spraying, Gus felt his eyes close tightly shut and begin to painfully spasm, as if they were cramping. [color=yellow]“Fok!” he shouted, beginning to cough violently, his nose starting to run, his mouth beginning to fill up with drool. He covered his eyes, feeling like his whole face was on fire, finding it almost impossible to breathe. He felt suffocating.

Breathe normally, breathe normally, don’t panic.

Blindly, feeling around his gear, he took his water canteen from the belt, laid down on his back, and poured the contents on his face.

That helped slightly, and he could now at least open his eyes, even if his whole face still burned horribly and his lungs ached. He had to get up, couldn’t stay here and get trampled. Gus was lucky, though, because that had been simply the splash effect and not a direct hit. If it had, he’d be out of commission for at least several minutes.

Slowly, he got back to his feet, quickly taking in the scene around him and trying to find Ling, still pondering whether he should thank him or punch him. Unfortunately - or fortunately - the Chinese man was nowhere to be seen, so Gus had more time to think about the subject.This was exactly why you were supposed to train extensively with your gear, and not just be given a couple of lessons and expected to deal with a bunch of rioters.

Fucking Benelli and his shitty policies. Gus felt like knocking the man’s teeth out.

Loads of protesters who’d remained behind were on the ground now, detained and tied up with cuffs or cable ties around their wrists. A lot of them had been branded red with the coloured water of the cannons the police had used to try and disperse them originally. At least the situation was getting under control. Finally.

Unlike everyone else, who seemed to be really unhappy, Kat didn’t mind melee. Then again, she was a vanguard, her job was supposed to put her in the middle of all the flying fists and kicking people and dodging bottles. The rest of the platoon seemed to like hiding behind their rifles and people gave her weird looks when she told them what her job description was, since no one could remember the difference between vanguards like her and adepts like other people.

She vaguely recalled a squid on the Agincourt comparing it to medieval swordplay and jousting knights, whatever that was.

Deflect, deflect, deflect, pin, lock, pivot, move on.

It was hard though. She’d been fighting most of her life, not like any of the rest knew that. The instructors at Grissom had mostly beaten out the street fighting every kid learned, but sometimes, it was hard not to fall back into that, And it made her think of Chief Thapa, who’d always sparred with her (he’d been the only one who could, because she was supposed to practice sparring with her biotics) before he’d died in London...

No biotics here, though. She was not going to use them against unarmored people, even if they were throwing bottles and cans and rocks and no matter how many times Edward told her to just fucking throw them out of the way. No biotics, not even a barrier, because she hadn’t even pulled out the stun baton, because these weren’t...

They were bad guys, but they weren’t enemies. Were they? And the order had been to just defend themselves, not attack and defend with stun batons.

And...she wasn’t never really all that great with controlling the force behind her biotics. It was lucky, the last time she did, and she only did it because there wasn’t anything else she could do, and she’d been luck the person hadn’t gotten more than a concussion and none of the bystanders got hurt and...

No biotics. No barriers, because she was nervous about what they would do if they saw the flares. It would only make them angrier, she reasoned, so she told herself that i she needed a weapon, she had her stun baton and she had her pistol and biotics were the very very very last thing she’d use.

...Deflect, deflect, use opponent’s velocity against them to throw, pin, lock, disable, move on.

Edward was near her, still, almost inches away and she could hear him muttering curses and bloodies and what have you under his breath.

He’d just grabbed one colonist from the arm and hip threw him to the ground, landing on top. The colonist was struggling under him, and Edward was struggling to keep him down. “Kat!” he shouted, looking at her. “Help with this one!”

She frowned, wondering why she even bothered to spar with him if he was going to forget everything. She nodded, leaning down and twisting the colonist’s arm behind his back, forcing the back of his hand towards the back of his neck. He tried to resist, he’d dislocate his shoulder, and then she’d really hate to be him.

He slapped the cable tie onto the colonist’s one wrist, then beckoned her to bring the other one closer so he could be tied up. She handed him the wrist in her hand, muscles still tense - people were still fighting, and they probably weren’t going to be happy with this, either, she realized, watching him tie up the man’s hands.

She barely even had a chance to think about standing back up and making sure she didn’t get caught off guard, when there was a really sharp, awful pain in the back of her head, worse than when the implants liked to flare.

The last thing she saw was Edward’s horrified face before everything went black.

As the Marines and rioters clashed, the quiet in the TOC seemed paradoxical. Nat’s jaw was tight and this was so very strange, because she was used to being down there, with the Marines and here...here she could only watch.

The HV screens fluttered with images-camera drones and CCTV showing a seething mass of humanity, blue-uniformed Marines struggling to keep the skirmish line, showing a man snarling, his eyes wide and showing the whites, a rock raised to bash at one of her men, before another Marine struck him with a baton.

The assembled officers of HQ and the police command watched, with a few mutters of swearwords in various languages and reports being passed along.

The police were coming from the flank, ready to crush the rioters between them and the Marines, their progress slowed down by their riot gear. The cannon continued to thunder-at least when it could without hitting the Marines. The rioters were a patchwork of red-splattered clothing.

The Marines were starting to make arrests, wrestling the Primeans down and tying their wrists so they couldn’t make any further trouble. They’d be spending the night in jail and would hopefully be charged over this bullshit.

“Ah fuck,” Someone burst out and King looked back at the screens just to see the CCTV display a Primean get the jump on a Marine crouched over a subdued rioter.

King swore, that anger back to stay. That was blood there, on the screen. And the rioter was raising the rock again, bringing it down again.

Those fuckers, she thought, bitterness acrid on her tongue. This was all wrong.

King whirled to face the Police Chief, “Ma’am, you need to get your people in there. We’ve got Marines down.” Maybe her tone was a little too forceful, but her urgency wasn’t feigned. A knot of fire had formed on her spine and she breathed through it.

She'd lost too many Marines-don't think about it not now-during the war to lose one now because of a wanker colonist. Fuck that shit.

“They’re going, First Sergeant,” The Chief replied calmly.

And they were. The police, imposing in their riot gear sandwiched the remaining rioters who were still fighting between them and the Marines who began press forward as the weight of the crowd was taken off them. The Primeans were wrestled to the ground and handcuffed one by one and those who resisted met stun batons or tear gas and they too were bundled up neatly. The tension in the TOC was beginning to unravel and King leaned heavily on the goddamn cane, pinching the bridge of her nose against the pain spreading tendrils up her back.

“Irwin!” That would be PFC Martinez over the comms, cradling the fallen Marine’s head, roaring for the corpsman, “Irwin, get your ass over here goddamnit!”

The police wagons were moving in to pick up those who’d been arrested. The medevac for those injured in the fighting was enroute. The riot was all but over, leaving bedraggled Primeans in red-stained clothes and the injured Marines, but its aftershocks were yet to be seen.

King closed her eyes as pain throbbed up her back. She had a feeling the next few days were going to be...interesting.

Fin