Burning aircraft was not a new situation - anyone who had paid attention during the opening months of the war had seen how many of the world's aircraft were simply ineffective against the bio-ships. The only effective weapon we had was quite literally basic missiles used for interception of other nations' aircraft, but we made do. Still, they did lose almost seventy percent of all fighter craft in the world alone in those months.
The two aircraft streaking towards us, though, they were more of an unknown quantity. We had no idea what ran them, what payloads they actually carried, or if there were actual pilots at all - for all we knew, they could have been expertly crafted drone vehicles with onboard mission software, and the speech we heard could have been from operators far across the globe from us. Our questions were dashed, however, when, despite the initial recognition that they had been headed toward us almost exactly, the twin - they looked like darts more than aircraft - dartcraft blasted by above our heads. Twin plumes above both myself and Sergei opened up, the plumes coalescing into parachutes as two pilots descended, their uniforms unfamiliar and their parachutes doubly so. However, they were human, just as much as anyone could call themselves human. As they landed, one crumpled to the ground as the other slid to their side, both groaning in pain as they came to a standstill, Sergei and I raising an eyebrow at each other. The bio-ship completely forgotten, we inched closer, only stopping when one noticed us and pointed a rather ruthless-looking handgun at us, more a jumble of wires, coils and magnets than an actual tool of war.
"Reste en arrière! Je suis armé!" While no one in the outfit spoke French, not even a word, the understanding was clear as they waved their 'handgun' around, motioning for everyone to move away. Raising my hand instinctively, I looked around at the other members of my outfit, all of them geared up and holding their coil rifles at the ready. I lowered my hand, signaling them to calm down and rest easy as I glanced back at the two pilots. The one that had yelled at us and was still waving their handgun around, their finger on the trigger - it may have been on safe, we did not know - was sputtering and crying in French, trying to get their compatriot to move. Before our resident medic could move in or identify himself, the pilot removed their helmet, short blond hair outlining rather feminine features as she holstered her handgun, removing the helmet from the other pilot. No matter what I had been expecting, the metal face, miniaturized pistons and glowing eyes were not anything I had expected.
"This unit is undamaged, Captain Arsenault. Please cease your sorrowful displays of emotion," the metal man stated, its voice rough and metallic.
Nor had any of us expected it to speak. It looked like a machine, but spoke like a man, and yet it moved with purpose as it stood, standing taller and taller until it even slightly towered over our tallest member, Joe Sprang, our seven-foot-tall scout. The eyes were the worst part - even when it was not looking at you, it felt like it was still staring into your soul. Gleaming chrome shone through under dull, chipped paint, rolling reflections shifting as it did.
"Hey, hold up there, metal man-"
"Ah, Sergeant Hayes. Wish we could have reunited under more... advantageous circumstances."
Rifles were instantly up and aimed as the tall metal man spoke my name, my own squarely lined up with his head. As it turned to face me, I could see identifiers - something detailing the 'Terran Defense Force,' what I could only assume denoted him as a Colonel in rank, and his last name. I stopped, my eyes locked intensely on his name, and my knees shook as they buckled, my eyes never faltering in their gaze. It was quite obvious who it was meant to be, with the name 'Westerhouse' sewn onto their flight uniform.
"C-Colonel?"
"This is, er, Sergeant Hayes? Of the Legionnaires?" The woman spoke questioningly, the one the colonel had identified as Arsenault. She sighed, pinching her nose as she stared me down with incredibly piercing blue eyes, leaving me feeling extremely and harshly judged. I could swear she was stating something, but I could not fully grasp what she was saying with the amount she kept switching into French. As far as I had been aware, only three months before just this moment, Colonel Westerhouse had fallen in the line of duty, perishing at the Battle of Vancouver. To see him, even a potential facsimile of the man I had known, was too much. I could feel myself falling backwards, landing in the mud as I stared up at the sky. Rain streaked down the sides of my now smiling face, as I simply started laughing.
"This... this is all a dream, isn't it? I'll wake up soon, and there won't be a war, there won't be an invading alien species hellbent on our destruction, and I won't see the damnable metal face of something pretending to be someone it is not!" My laughter continued to echo as my chest cramped with each continuous chortle and chuckle. It hurt immensely, I knew it did, but when you are two months into a constant, day-to-day struggle, sometimes your body decides to release all of that in one fell swoop. It felt like I had gone mad, though, if that was what losing your mind felt like. Crawling pain, my brain just would not, could not register that anything was real at that exact moment.
Then I felt it. A hand impacting my jaw, hard. One of the worst stinging slaps I had ever encountered in my life, and the Captain had delivered it. A fairly good thing as well, as everything re-centered and I stopped laughing. The sky still poured the little needles of ice-cold water, the lightning still arced, and the thunder still boomed. No matter how bad it got, this was still reality, and I still had to face it. Sitting up in the mud, though, was a painful chore, the laughing fits that had occurred making almost every muscle in my stomach cramp as I attempted motion beyond simply flexing my abdominals.
"You... you mind helping me- ah, watch the arm, watch the arm!" I shouted as loud as I could, trying to get Mister Metalhouse to release my arm before he broke it with the immense grip strength his body afforded him. As he hauled me to my feet, I could feel the bruising almost instantly, his hand letting go before any permanent damage was caused - still hurt like a kicking mule, but it was not broken, just bruised, like the diminishing ego I could have sworn existed before.
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Rubbing the bruise in some vain attempt to relieve it, I stared into the machine's metal eyes, daring him to try something, anything. I was not holding a weapon, but I did blame him for my minute mental meltdown that had occurred, however much I had needed it. Rolling the arm to stretch seemed to help, so continuing on with that, I cleared my throat, giving a nod to the Colonel and the Captain.
"All right, everyone. We're going to move out here soon. Considering the darts those two were flying," I jerked my thumb in the direction of the metal man and Arsenault, "it's likely the bugs have this area targeted. I would rather not be here when they get here. Mount up, we're moving out! That good enough for you, Captain?"
"I would not take that tone with the Captain, Sergeant," Westerhouse warned, his eyes shifting in shade to something more akin to a crimson light. If looks could kill, I would likely have been a smoldering crater with the evil eye he gave.
"You might have his name, botman, but you're not Westerhouse-" I turned right into Arsenault snatching the front of my jacket and lifting me straight up into the air. Despite any appearances to the contrary, she was strong, and I became very acutely aware of my standing with the both of them as she slowly lowered me to the ground. Westerhouse was looking away, and it seemed like he was working his jaw in some fashion to figure out what he wanted to say, but we had a timeline to keep, and nodding to both of them, I motioned to our four vehicles, pointing them towards the fourth, a refitted dark green monster of a sport-utility vehicle - long-range radio antenna, linked twin-mounted two-forties, reinforced door panels and a tuned engine to push the older block to its limits. Feeling the weight of the metal man's hand on my shoulder, I glanced up as I moved towards the vehicle, ignoring it as I helped one of my outfit pile duffel bags correctly in the trunk.
"Sergeant, I-"
"Save your circuit-based breath. We've got nothing to say to each other."
"I'll... explain what's happening on the way," Westerhouse offered, causing me to pause for a moment. The question was nagging at me, but making sure the Legionnaires and I survived to keep fighting was more important than just answering burning questions. Their futures came first, and I would be damned if I let anyone take that from them.
"Explain now. On the way is subjective. There's no destination, we just find a spot the bugs haven't scorched and turn it into camp for however long we can stay there-"
"I did die, in the Battle of Vancouver, more or less. My unit was torched, melted or turned to ashes by those... things. Arsenault's assault force found me, though. Did you know the Canadian Armed Forces set up a research division to learn about the bugs? To understand them so we can finally fight back? Did you know that the bugs are the very solution to a long-term problem of humanity, a problem that, if we can capture one of their leaders, we can solve in only a few short months?!"
Hearing all of that in the metallic, synthesized deep voice of Westerhouse was mildly off-putting, but Captain Arsenault merely smiled as she opened a side door and sat down inside. Westerhouse shrugged, snatching a radio headset from the seat beside her and shimmying himself inside the controls for the mounted two-forties. Taking my own designated seat behind the driver, I tapped his shoulder, nodding in the mirror for all four of them to start driving. As the vehicle rumbled to life, I leaned back, buckling myself in as I felt the tell-tale thump of rubber leaving dirt and jumping up onto what was left of pavement. The highway was once the North-South Number One, the Coquihalla, but no one could really call it that when it no longer fully existed, and it still pained me to see it in such shambles. Passing out headsets, I tapped into inter-vehicle exchanges, hearing everyone stay relatively silent. With how deafening silence could be, I finally popped the burning question that had been formulating, about what solution the bugs presented.
"So, what can the bugs do, Colonel?"
"Their ships grow and regenerate, and run off of, near as we can tell, some sort of biological fusion generators. If we could somehow get one of their 'leadership', or, hell, even one of their bio-ships in one of those burrows they dig, we might solve the containment issue groups like Commonwealth Energy have been having," Westerhouse replied, his metallic voice much worse over the improvised radio headset. Groups across the planet had struggled to complete what they called the Fusion Conundrum, how to build containment that can last for far longer than necessary, or how to make containment that would not become so radioactive as quickly. Something he said stuck with me, though, even more so than the potential for humanity to fight back - what he said about burrows, and the bugs digging-
"All vehicles stop! Full stop, everyone!"
The vehicle lurched forward, clanking Westerhouse against the top ring holding the two-forties in place, while everyone else almost launched out of their seats. It was almost comical, except I felt the full force transfer directly across my ribcage with how hard the driver had slammed on the brakes. I felt the wind get knocked out of me, my lungs struggling to take in air for a split second as Westerhouse knelt down, Arsenault also taking sudden interest as well. Reaching into the back, I smiled as I saw the ammunition container that held our precious intel and cartography, with the one map I needed right where I could easily grab it too. Without hesitation, I spread it open, watching the eyes of everyone grow wider as they came to the realization that I had just arrived at myself.
"Colonel, this is-"
"I know, Arsenault. It's everything we need," Westerhouse whispered, his robotic eyes simply gleaming brighter as he took a vested interest in every part of the small scribbles Joe Sprang made every time he went to observe what we had thought was just the bugs building a mighty big hole. The fact that the bugs were digging a nest alluded to a fact none of us had been willing to acknowledge before - that they were not just invading the Earth to wipe humanity out, but seemed to be hellbent on turning the planet into their own breeding ground. To lose Earth would be tantamount to extinction, and my resolve refused to waver - indeed, I could hear muttered agreement through my headset, muffled though some of it was.
"Driver, turn us around. Joe Sprang! Take the wheel on lead vehicle and take us to where you normally scout from!"
Leaning back in my seat, I sighed. Despite everything, for all intents and purposes, I was still an opportunist, but while every fiber of my being screamed for me to retreat, to hide, to find some way to survive, my mind was dead set on that bio-ship, and finally getting some proper payback for the lives lost over the last several years. The Battle of Vancouver may have only been a few months prior, but many thousands had still perished, and many more could end up dead if we did not take that nest for our own.
"Something's changed, Sergeant."
"Yes it has, Colonel. Before, this was about hiding and surviving to the next day.
Now? It's personal."