Well that Clone Wars finale was awesome. The naming of Chapter 6 was pure coincidence. I published that chapter before the finale. Sorry about that false update. It must’ve tripped when I deleted a chapter updating what the status was with the story. Check out for revisions of older chapters too. Hope you guys are all well. Please review!
0103 HOURS, MARCH 22, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR), STRATEGIC DEPLOYMENT BASE 5
"Warning! Enemy boarding craft inbound! Contact E.T.A 2 minutes. Prepare for hostile boarding action. Defenses engaged. Warning! Enemy boarding craft inbound…" the computer's synthesized voice sounded off throughout the station.
A klaxon was blaring in the background, unnoticeable in Fredrik’s mind, and blended in with the activity of the Marines scrambling. The station’s motley supply of missiles and CIWS were attempting to intercept the fast approaching Republic boarding craft, managing to only take down a couple despite the breakneck speed of the advanced systems.
Fredrik’s squad took up position alongside two others in the large corridors leading towards one of the emptied out primary hangar bays; the UNSC doctrine for fending off boarding attacks called for defenders to avoid engaging boarders in large open spaces that could be vented out to vacuum like a hangar could.
Even so, in case the Marines were suddenly exposed to the cruel environment of space, they were equipped with a primitive quickly attachable vacuum rated rebreather which would cover the Marine's face and allow him to survive for up to fifteen minutes in vacuum.
He was one of the 29 Marines present behind the barricades. They anxiously waited as some of the men said prayers, others wishing their fellow Marines the best of luck or, those like himself, dealing with battle anxiety with silence. In his unit, only the senior NCOs and COs were veterans of the Great War. The men under them only had respect for their superiors. They’d gone through hell and back.
Now it was Fredrik’s generation that would get their chance in the crucible.
His heart was pounding; he felt his fingertips pulsating and his heart rattling against his sternum.
“Incoming, incoming, incoming!” the station dumb AI’s voice blasted. The station violently shook, the lights shut off before turning back on a dull red. Fredrik’s heart beat even faster, he started to perspire.
The intercom announced, "Enemy forces detected in Hangar Bay, Block D3."
"Here we go!” Sergeant Rawlings called out. LeClerc murmured a quick prayer to God before allowing a two second stream of the images of his friends, family, and girlfriend into his thoughts. He cleared his mind and let out a shallow breath. He activated his weapon's sights, both the holographic red dot sight and his HUD's targeting reticule. He aimed towards the large blast door that was the size of an old Scorpion tank.
Rance nudged him. “Hey Fred, the briefing said the Twenty-First Sector Army is some unit, huh.”
“Y-yeah. Supposed to be formed from hardened vets.”
“You scared?” Rance chuckled.
“No, just a little nervous.” Fredrik had never seen any real combat, just some minor antiterror patrols on backwater colonies.
He clicked the old MA5B to full auto. That mode was handy in a nice and tight corridor guarded by a firing line; coupled with a 60 round mag, nothing would get past the storm of steel.
The seconds seemed to last for hours as he and the others waited, the squad machine gunner shuffled in his position to get a better handle on his SAW.
"Let them get through the door before we open up," the 2nd Lieutenant in command of the platoon ordered through his helmet comms.
His motion tracker displayed multiple hostiles on the perimeter, showing small clusters trickle in until it was completely full of little red dots. Fredrik gulped.
“Steady men, steady,” his sergeant said.
Everything became a slide show. Fredrik could feel everything around him. He became hyper aware of his surroundings.
He blinked.
The blast door exploded, and the clones swarmed in.
The first clone troopers, all in their pristine white plastoid armor and helmets decorated in yellow/orange markings, breached through the door with their weapons raised, blasters they called them.
His lieutenant screeched through his comms, “OPEN FIRE, OPEN FIRE...”
Fredrik hadn’t heard the command before he held down his trigger finger, drowning out his LT. He’d actually been the first to fire, the rest of his platoon shortly following suit. A flurry of metal went downrange into the tidal wave of troopers.
Whole squads of clones went down, dead or dying. A round cracked open one of their visors, painting his following brothers in arms a deep red. A fallen trooper slumped over into the breach, dragged out of the way moments later by his comrades. The clones ferociously returned fire as they stormed into the opening, adding blues to the orange tracers and red emergency light. Ally swept a clone’s legs out from under him, literally, with her AA-22.
Fredrik realized his gun wasn’t firing anymore, his HUD and ammo counter read zero. He reloaded while Frank covered him with a furious SAW burst, fumbling with his magazine but slamming it into his rifle, and then brought his weapon to bear.
He squeezed the trigger again, and a stream of tungsten penetrators was let loose. His sights were set dead on one of the troopers.
The first round was most likely defeated by his armor, but the second round which hit a millisecond later punched right through the trooper's chest. The trooper fell forward onto the ground spewing up blood from his wound and bolts from his blaster.
Fredrik shifted his fire to another clone and caught one of them in the aim.
He let out another burst. The clone spun to the ground as his chest was splayed open, sending a bloody mess to decorate the wall behind him.
Hundreds of hypersonic projectiles cut down the lead troopers in less than a minute.
The clones that took point began to fall back from the entry while their brothers still behind the breach soon regrouped.
Rance cut down another clone with his DMR, sending a bullet clear through his chest as some clone stragglers leapt to cover and began to return fire, bolts either hitting the Marines’ cover or striking their shields.
The SAWs quickly forced the offenders back into cover with an earsplitting roar and a blast of lead.
“Keep ‘em pinned down boys!” Sergeant Rawlings yelled.
The clone carcasses littered the hallway, obscured by the dust and debris Fredrik’s platoon had kicked up. Suddenly, small orbs were thrown through the wide breach.
“GRENADES! MOVE MOVE MOVE!” the lieutenant called out.
They started to explode, sending a Marine flying in two separate pieces. Another Marine’s shields were taken out, throwing him against a wall where he was dispatched by combined blaster fire from the advancing clones.
Blaster bolts became more accurate as the Republic troopers began to pour in once again, the Marines firing back as they retreated. One Marine was quickly taken out by more than a dozen clones shooting him.
Fredrik sprinted down the corridor where their next position lay. His sergeant was the last one in the retreat. He didn’t make it to cover in time, the clones were in quick pursuit, and caught him running down the metal bulkhead.
Sergeant Rawlings uttered a profanity after glancing at his motion tracker and up again at his distant squad. He quickly ducked behind a structural pillar, pitiful cover, rather than face the enemy out in the open.
“Cover fire!” Fredrik yelled after quickly reloading. He spun out of position to gun down the trooper who was pinning down his Sergeant.
A trio of blaster bolts slammed into Fredrik one after the other and spun him around, collapsing his shields. Another hit him hard square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and putting him on the ground. Thankfully he was out of the line of fire and his armor took the hit with a burn mark to prove it. His sergeant ran past and took up position further behind Fredrik.
Rance looked at him and all but yelled, "You alright bro!?"
He could only give a faint nod while he caught his breath. When his adrenaline high began to wear off, Fredrik rolled to his feet with a grunt and began to fire again.
Thank God this armor can take a couple of hits, he thought privately.
He waited in cover as his shields recharged, the Squad SAW gunner tearing two more troopers into shreds before a storm of bolts hit him, his shields giving out with his armor penetrated and melted through, turning him into swiss cheese.
The man slumped over; his gun still firing in his death throws, thankfully aimed at the enemy until it ran out of ammo.
The clones advanced as quickly as they could, but the Marines were going to make them pay with blood for every inch they went forward.
Fredrik let loose with his rifle and ducked down again. The Marines were losing fire superiority. Fredrik’s cover was being whittled down to the bone by the assault while the walls around him and his platoon were being pounded into ozone and powder.
Three more Marines went down when Fredrik’s lieutenant commanded. "Cover fire! Tactical retreat! Fall back to the next position!"
"We’ve only got two more after this!" Rance yelled. Rance hugged the wall while he leaned out, firing the semi auto DMR as fast he could, managing to take out a couple of clones who were trying to set up a heavy weapon, called an E-Web if Fredrik remembered correctly.
While Rance reloaded, more troopers quickly manned the gun, laying down devastation. The E-Web blasted straight through a Marine’s shields, tearing his chest apart and sending his arm flying. The remainder of the platoon quickly took cover. Even the cover was starting to get demolished by a combination of small arms and E-Web fire.
"Alright people, staggered withdrawal! Give us some covering fire!" Sergeant Rawlings bellowed while spraying the hall with his own MA5B, joined by Frank's SAW. Ally popped up and let off a blast from her shotgun. Fredrik joined in on the shooting and sprayed down some of the Republic’s finest.
Another one of his squadmates tossed a frag grenade down the hall, dispatching a cluster of unsuspecting troopers, but the clones were soon to return the favor, a thermal detonator charring his comrade from the waist down.
The remaining Marines withdrew one at a time, falling back to cover further down the hallway as the Marines next in line repeated the action, everyone covering each other with zealous suppressing fire.
However, two more Marines were cut down as they withdrew, the incoming fire was too intense and there were too many clones.
"Pump some 40's down range!" Rawlings roared while he switched mags on his MA5B.
Fredrik acknowledged by twisting his body around mid-sprint down the hallway, and using his neural uplink he fired the 40mm underslung grenade launcher, sending a 40mm airburst shell into the largest group of clones 30 meters away.
The grenade exploded right amongst the clones, sending dozens of pieces of cruel shrapnel flying into a squad of combatants. The closest had his limbs torn off, others had their armor punctured and deformed like a defective pin cushion, and a couple of lucky clones were only knocked to the deck as their armor stopped the shrapnel.
One particularly unlucky clone however had actually been hit by the grenade itself as it exploded, turning the slave soldier into a bloody smear of gore and viscera.
That seemed to stun the clones enough to give the remaining 18 Marines the time to fall back into the next firing position, an observation deck that was the size of a medium sized apartment building with three sloping levels and a large window facing the planet.
As he threw himself into a position behind a raised service station he stole a glance at the space outside, the planet Cienna. It was a backdrop to the battle for the station as dozens of explosions occurred in the distance, mere dozens of miles away.
"Here they come!" One of the Marines cried out. Fredrik snapped his head and brought his rifle up. This time the clones would have ample cover from the defending Terrans. The clones slid into position and began to rain down a hail of blaster fire.
The Marines were determined to not let themselves get pinned down, so they opened up once again, and again his shoulder rocked as his weapon spat hypersonic tungsten at the enemy, taking one of them down and spinning another around with a glancing blow, deflected by the armor.
The heat of battle took over Fredrik’s senses. He could no longer hear the screams of the wounded, the report of his own weapon, or feel his armor. He was only focused on the rush and thrill of battle.
He let off a wild burst into a clone dragging away one of his brothers and then reloaded, going back at it. He shot another 40mm grenade into the clones, but it turned out to be a dud, only smashing the unfortunate clone’s ribs in from a direct impact and then bouncing off harmlessly. Fredrik cursed at whatever manufacturing plant screwed up the order.
Hypersonic projectiles and the blue plasma of blaster fire destroyed men and women alike, Republic troopers were eviscerated into bloody messes while the flesh of Marines were seared by superheated gas, charring their bodies and reducing their armor to slag.
Again, the clones moved up their E-Web and started to make quick work of the Marines’ cover, and any Marine that was dumb enough to pop out.
“HEY FREDRIK!” Rance called out.
“HUH?!” Fredrik answered in a trance-like state, partly because of the noise obstructing his hearing and partly due to his engrossment in the killing.
“WE NEED TO TAKE THAT SONUVABITCH OUT! HIT ‘EM WITH THE 40. GO, I’LL COVER YOU.” Rance popped out of cover momentarily and laid down covering fire for Fredrik.
Fredrik popped out right after him, bolts coming left and right towards him. As quick as he went up, he aimed at the blaster cannon, fired, and was back under cover.
“GOOD HIT MARINE! HIT THEM WITH ALL WE GOT!” The lieutenant barked.
The remaining 14 Marines let loose with shotguns, grenades, and assault rifles. A whole squad of clones was caught trying to move up by the Marines and were turned into a pink mist from the combined fire of the stubborn platoon.
Again, the Marines held steadfast as the clones were forced to make costly advances to cover or flanking positions that usually left half a dozen or more dead clones for every Marine lost. It wasn’t pretty, but the clones pressed their numerical advantage and the Marines were left hanging by a needle thread.
The Republic had far more men to throw at the Terrans than the Terrans could kill, and clones were not bad soldiers either, slaves to the Republic or not.
In the end, the battle was turning into a dire situation that threatened to leave the Marines out of ammo (the main disadvantage with projectile weapons versus energy weapons) and overrun with the Republic forces swarming in.
After three minutes of brutal fighting which was one step away from devolving into hand to hand combat, Sergeant Rawlings, now in command after the lieutenant had a blaster bolt put clean through his cranium, screeched out the order.
"Retreat!"
In the CQB situation that they were now in, the Marines only had one option. Rance switched to his shotgun while Fredrik simply swung his MA5B wildly in a wide arc on full auto before being forced back into cover. Fredrik cursed as his HUD read a big fat zero for ammunition on his rifle. He swung his rifle onto his back and grasped his shotgun. Cocking it, he turned around over his cover and gave a clone a face full of buckshot, deforming the helmet and the clone’s skull.
"Frag out!" Frank announced. He undid the grenade from his belt and stood up while firing his SAW blindly from the hip. His shields were brought down, but not before he tore a clone into ribbons. Frank armed the grenade by flipping up the safety and tapping the priming button against a pillar and he threw it to the ground. Before he made it back into cover, another two bolts caught him exposed, one in his thigh armor and one in the chest plate, sending him down to the deck in a grunt of pain with his armor sizzling down to the bone, his vitals plummeting.
The 8 Marines remaining ducked down into their cover that was now in shambles from the firefight.
The huge thump and blinding white light could still be seen and felt from behind Fredrik's cover, it was still loud, even with their hearing protection.
A few troopers were taken out, and the clones who had been advancing to finish the Marines off were disorientated and injured.
Some tried to blindly and dazedly keep fighting, but they could hardly stand up as it was.
Without hesitation Fredrik ran to where Frank lay, the man groaning in pain as he tried to sit up to bring his SAW to bear on the delayed enemy.
The thicker chest plate had stopped the first blaster bolt after the third layer of composite armor, but the second had burnt right through the thinner thigh armor and had shattered his leg, but with a little elbow grease and biofoam, Frank would be back on his SAW in a few days, a week tops.
In one swift movement he scooped the wounded man up with a heavy grunt. The other members of the squad, namely Rawlings, Rance, and Ally cut down the dazed Republic Troopers and fell back to the next bulkhead, giving Fredrik covering fire as he carried the 220 pound Marine in 120 pounds of armor and nano suit to safety, a feat done thanks to the latter. It was a mad dash to the rally point and no one wanted to be left out exposed in the open.
“Damn it Frank, I told you to lay off the cafeteria burgers!” Fredrik moaned while he hefted him down the hall. Frank gave him a painful mumble in response.
Once he was through the blast door, the blue blaster bolts sailing by, Rawlings punched the door control, sealing the door shut and then locking the controls, blocking their enemies. He ordered one of his subordinates to weld it shut.
Frank groaned again when Fredrik set him down. Rawlings turned to the remaining Marines, "We will fall back to the armory, stock up on ammo and regroup with the Marines from Charlie Platoon. Command has tossed around the idea of venting sections of the station to even out the numbers disadvantage, but as it stands now, we are outnumbered over 10 to 1. I’ve got some good news though, people. Every one of us that they manage to kill, 7 or more go down with them. This is going to be a long day of CQB, and we only have so much station to fall back to. Let’s kick these fuckers out of this system, oorah?"
“OORAH!”
UNSC Warhound Flight Leader, FS-837 Fascine Starfighter, Callsign "Slayer 1"
"I've got tone! Missile locks on two targets!" Slayer 1's wingmate, Slayer 2, called out.
His viewscreens and HUD emitted a shrill tone alerting him of a positive lock. Two out of the thousands of Republic fighters on his screen had a white outline of their silhouette, which promptly turned red. His HUD read out that he had locked onto two fighter profiles.
The process of designating targets was made all the more faster as his neural link was hooked into the fighter, allowing him to blaze through actions with lightning quick speed and precision, though all pilots still manually piloted the fighters with link-aided controls and launched the weapons by pulling triggers or pressing buttons.
"Open fire on my command." He ordered as the large missiles under his wings were armed. Slayer 1’s HUD indicated that their targets were two unfortunate ARC-170's, the Republic's premier fighters, and the biggest threat to his formation. His HUD was integrated within a battlefield network, showing him which of the enemy fighters had already been locked onto.
Normally the Fascines would have most of its ordinance carried in its internal weapon bays, but with this predicament his was hastily equipped with hardpoints mounted under the wings to mount extra weapons for heavy combat. These hardpoints were currently loaded down with additional long range air-to-air (or in this case, space-to-space) missiles and two MLRS Micro Missile launchers. The MLRS was loaded with 20 short ranged missiles in each pod, nicely complementing and rounding out the already impressive armament of 20 AAM missiles and the twin 50mm coilguns.
‘Two missiles a fighter for the initial barrage, we have around 2,000 Fascines so 4,000 missiles heading towards them, and about 40% of the Republic fighters will be able to evade, so maybe two thousand kills, but that leaves around 5,000 more in this wave alone. Not good.’ He grimly thought.
Even though the UNSC fighters were supposedly better than whatever the Republic had in terms of fighters, at least that's what ONI had assured them in the mission briefing, in total they were outnumbered ten to one. It was going to be a bloody battle for the history books.
"Prioritize the ARC-170s! Let’s thin out the herd!" Slayer 1 commanded.
"Roger!" The squadron leaders, all arranged in V formations by squadrons, answered.
The distance between the two tidal waves counted down. 20,000 kilometers. 17,500. 15,000. 10,000.
His mind quickly thought of his family back home before he roared into his helmet's radio. "Fox 3!"
He pressed the button on his joystick as two of his wing mounted missiles screamed away at breathtaking speed.
It was immediately followed by the bluish fiery plumes of several thousand more missiles as they rocketed straight into the Republic formations. The missiles accelerating at hundreds of kilometers a second gave the Clones little time to react.
The Republic pilots were clearly taken by surprise, not only by the engagement range, but by the missiles themselves.
They were obviously not used to being targeted by missiles which were that nimble in such a manner. The starfighters further back had mere seconds to evade, but the ones in front had no such luck.
Most of the clone pilots tried to take evasive maneuvers, throwing their fighters into wild spins and janky turns, but as he predicted less than half of those maneuvers were successful.
The missiles hit the formation in rapid succession. Over 2,000 missiles found their mark, the rest missing by mere yards.
He watched in fascination and glee as his two missiles both found their targets, an ARC-170 and a V-wing. His missile must’ve missed the other ARC-170, failing to correct itself, and the V-Wing must’ve dodged the wrong way, straight into his missile.
The sturdier ARC-170 was blown in half as the V-Wing was turned to nothing more than fireball and fragments.
Explosions covered the space before the UNSC fighters while they passed the 7,000 kilometer mark.
His radio was filled with shouts of joy as the fighter’s radar and computers tallied 2,132 Republic fighters destroyed in a single strike, the V-Wings taking the brunt of the attack, being the most numerous.
“Good hits, good hits. All pilots reacquire new targets. Get ready to fire on my command gentlemen.” His monitor beeped as he got two new targets.
“All callsigns under my command are ready Colonel.” Slayer 1’s subordinate officers said, with minor variations.
“Fox 3!” Once again, with a rush of testosterone and adrenaline fueled excitement, Slayer 1 launched off 2 missiles towards the ever closer Republic fighters, followed by over 4000 other missiles.
With little time to react, even more clones fell prey to the Terran munitions. Missiles slammed into starfighters, creating a storm of shrapnel shooting out into the cloud of fighters.
Slayer 1’s console read out that 2,931 Republic fighters had been wrecked by the second barrage.
More cheers echoed out through the battlenet. His fighters passed the 5,000 kilometer mark, not quite within gun range.
"Alright ladies, this is the moment you’ve all been training for. All wings full thrust!” He keyed into his squadron’s comms, calling out to his personal wing. “We are entering into gun range, prepare for Cobra maneuvers!”
The Cobra maneuver was an ancient dogfighting maneuver concocted in the early days of Zero-G space warfare. It was meant for Zero-G combat and was designed to take full advantage of it. The maneuver itself was a modification of the even older Immelmann maneuver.
The fighters would hold their vector and fly head on into the enemy. At around 1,000 kilometers away, the pilot would have only seconds to pull up and orient themselves onto a bearing which would take them either ‘over’ or ‘under’ the enemy. They would then spin on their axis and attack as they passed the flanks of the enemy. The momentum of the UNSC fighters would stay the same, keeping them at their current speed and making them very difficult to hit, after which they would then pursue the enemy.
Slayer 1 watched the battle play out through the interconnected viewscreens that gave him a complete 360 degree view of the space around him. The Republic fighters grew larger and larger in his view.
The range quickly dropped to 4500 kilometers, 4000, then finally 3000
The UNSC fighters opened up with their autocannons, devastating any Republic fighter they hit. Their autocannons had a muzzle velocity of 1% lightspeed, meaning they could fire with relative impunity at a distance of 6000 to 2000 kilometers.
As soon as they entered in range, the Republic ARC-170s soon returned fire by opening up with their heavy laser cannons; they managed to take out several Fascines with multiple hits which took down their shields and blew them apart.
Once again ONI was proven right, those ARC-170s were the biggest threat.
When the 1,000 kilometer mark was past he blasted through his comms.
"Now!" He roared as he yanked on the stick, the Fascine shaking under him as the UNSC fighters all either shot ‘up’ or ‘down’ relative to the Republic fighters, which in turn began to bank to meet them.
His Fascine shot up as he cut his thrust and reversed it, flipping his fighter around 180 degrees on its central axis in a split second, slamming him with 3 Gs. Thankfully, his inertial dampener and G suit took care of the other 17. His wing followed suit.
Time came to a halt. The distance between the fighters was closing at kilometers a second. The speed at which the opposing sides were rushing towards each other was immense. For a few hundred milliseconds, he could just make out the pilots inside the Republic fighters, so small and bright.
An ARC-170 came into his sights, the ship still twisting to meet him, having been taken by surprise.
“GUNS GUNS GUNS! SQUADRON WEAPONS FREE!”
He grinned as he pulled the trigger and sent a stream of red hot 50mm armor penetrating tracer rounds into a hapless fighter.
The ARC-170s were the only fighter in the Republic's (known) arsenal that possessed particle shielding to stop projectiles, but they were quickly ripped through by the first couple of rounds, leaving the rest to shred the fighter apart.
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The process was repeated dozens of times by his own unit as Republic fighters were torn from space in a turkey shoot, the superior Terran maneuvers catching them with their pants down. Still, the Terrans got lucky.
Slayer 1 let out a delighted holler as his fighters were positioned behind the enemy. He was behind a flight of three V-Wings. He throttled forward to give them chase. While he held down the trigger he snapped his reticule over them one by one by applying his maneuvering engines. The ship subtly vibrated with every burst that came out of the mighty weapons, swatting two of the V-Wings down as the third evaded.
He built up speed and dove head first into a dogfight against the V-Wing, his wingman took position next to him. They blew through laser fire and began to twist and turn in wild maneuvers to avoid being blasted to bits. He let off a burst into the rear end of the V-Wing and then peeled off. He looked to his side to see the fighter flame up in a brilliant explosion.
An unfortunate group of UNSC fighters were eviscerated from being caught inside of the swarm of Republic fighters. The fighters were peppered with thousands of holes. The shields weren’t enough for this kind of battle.
Dozens of explosions highlighted the thousands of fighter silhouettes in the darkness of space. Slayer 1 realized he needed to end this battle quickly if he were to win. If he couldn’t control the numerical superiority of the Republic, he would be overwhelmed and the battle would be lost.
He found another ARC-170 and he fired three of his micro missiles while letting off split second bursts of harassing fire, the Republic pilot evading the first with an impressive barrel roll, but the other two tore a hole through the fighter’s right wing and sheared the right engine off the fighter, taking the damaged wing with it and leaving it to spin helplessly away into the vacuum.
The UNSC fighters were doing their best to quickly even the numbers, but the Republic pilots, by no means slouches themselves, began to learn and do what they could to adapt. The Republic started to take Fascines out in more balanced numbers, though the UNSC pilots still had at least a 1 to 5 kill ratio
As the Republic fighters adapted, the numerical advantage they held against the UNSC fighters began to take its toll, causing the fighting to be all the more bloody.
Slayer 1 threw his fighter into a spin to avoid an ARC-170 that was spitting green fire from its cannons; one twin burst hit him in his fighter’s back and dropped his shields to 30 percent.
He spun away but couldn’t get a bead on the fighter as it had learned not to try and play his game of getting into an outright dogfight, using hit and run tactics instead.
“Slayer 2, requesting assistance, I’m stuck in a scissor with this 170.” Slayer 1 said.
“Roger. Fox 2!” His wingman replied.
Suddenly, he stopped talking fire, he looked over his shoulder to see a fiery wreck shooting through space. A separate Fascine from another squadron, this one aflame, streaked by him, not more than a half a click from him
“Thanks for the assist.”
“Anytime. Watch out! You’ve got another bogey coming up on your six!”
Slayer 1 cut his throttle, the Republic fighter zooming past him. He switched to his missiles to end the Republic pilot's attack, sending a micro missile down its spine and turning it into a fireball.
The radio crackled as the other fighters duked it out.
"Viper 6, Fox 2! ...I got one on my tail, I can't shake the bastard! ...I’m out of missiles! Winchester. Winchester! …Turn around to vector three eight oh, enemy fighters coming in! ...He’s on my 6! I’m tagging the bastard! ...Someone slam a missile into his ass!"
His wingman was having similar issues. Slayer 2 was being attacked, harassed more like it, by an Eta -2 interceptor that was not getting off his tail.
Slayer 1 turned to engage.
Eta-2 Interceptor, Jedi Master Aayla Secura
The ferocity of the UNSC attack had stunned her, and if it weren’t for the Force, she would be dead right now.
Their maneuvers had dazzled her, and she doubted even Skywalker would have predicted their radical zero-G maneuvers, but that goes for many of the Terran tricks.
Extreme zero-G maneuvers were something that only the most well trained or talented pilots in the galaxy did. It required etheric rudders and inertia dampeners that allowed for the effects of the execution of accelerations by fighters to be either turned off, lowered, or removed altogether. This was seriously dangerous as it could lead to unconsciousness or your guts gutting crushed.
The clones did receive some training in zero-G maneuvers, but due to the rushed nature of their training it was detailed in their flash lessons but hardly ever touched upon during live exercises behind a cockpit.
The UNSC pilots must have trained for months and months on end, as well as subjected themselves to crushing G forces exerted by centrifugal force, making the Terran pilots all the more impressive.
After throwing her fighter (which was the size of one of the Terran fighter’s wings) into some of the most wild maneuvers she had ever performed while letting her senses and the Force guide her through the hell of exploding fighters, streams of enemy projectiles, and missiles, she eventually found herself on the tail of one of the daunting UNSC fighters.
Its two oversized engines spat red and orange flame as it tore a V-wing out of the sky with a short burst from twin cannons mounted inside the wings.
She struggled to stay on its tail as its pilot threw himself into maneuvers that the large fighter should’ve been torn apart by.
After achieving a lock with her lasers, she sent a double blast into its port wing section, however the blasts were absorbed by a glowing gold energy shield surrounding it.
The pilot almost immediately rolled to the side, which Aayla countered. The Terran cut his engines and flipped his ship around on its central axis to bring its weapons to bear.
Aayla quickly sent another double burst into the nose of the fighter, which was again absorbed. Then she yanked up on the stick to barely avoid the stream of red hot tracers from interring her fighter into the void, where so many other Republic fighters found their final resting place.
She didn't have the firepower to take it out quickly, despite being armed with 2 heavy laser cannons. Aayla kept her eyes on the fighter, darting towards it in razor sharp twists so as to not be an easy target.
Her skin was already drenched in sweat. She called out to the Force to get her through this hell. Her senses tingled as the UNSC fighter whom she had attacked had its wingman turn to engage her after blasting another 170 out of the battle.
Dodging a stream of projectiles, she cursed as her little fighter buckled from a huge nearby explosion of one of the Terran's oversized missiles. Fragments embedded into her fighter’s hull. She decided to break off, rather than to continue to pursue the UNSC fighters.
Pulling hard on the controls, she regained control and stole a quick glance at the ensuing battle.
The macabre scene of explosions and of the dead and dying combatants was a surreal view. The curving backdrop of the UEG colony was accompanied by the fiery explosions of fighters with the lightshow of lasers, roars of missiles, and fiery tracers that helped set in the reality of war.
She checked her display, and subsequently looked on in gloom. The UNSC fighters had broken through the Republic lines and had made a gaping hole in the Republic's fighter cover, just shy of taking out a total of 10,000 Republic starfighters, nearly a fourth of the fleet's deployed fighter cover.
The UNSC fighters had paid a price though, just over a quarter of their own fighters were destroyed likewise, left behind as debris clouds or drifting wreckage. Aayla noticed that most of them had fallen prey to the 170's heavier weapons, although quite a bit of them had been taken out by other fighters as well.
Her fleet had broken off into three groups now. The first being the main bulk of the fleet which had taken up position near the UNSC starbase, which was under heavy assault, the second was a group of 10 Acclamator-Class Assault Ships and a couple of Venators which were going to land troops on the planet below, and the thirty ships that Tarkin had sent to give chase to the UNSC fleet.
"How many must die in this war?" She whispered before an alert sound played through her comms.
"Enemy heavy fighters have broken through the fighter screen and are gunning to attack Element Cresh 2 of the fleet. Scans now indicate them to be heavy bombers! Any fighters able to intercept are to attack! They can’t get through!"
Flipping her fighter over towards the fleet, she saw that the report was correct. The UNSC had been able to slip close to 100 large craft, each the size of a small freighter, through the massive hole in the Republic screen the Terran fighters had ripped open.
She and roughly sixty other Republic fighters were able to engage, as the UNSC fighters were busy keeping the hole open and clear of any Republic fighter reinforcements. The Terrans chose to continue engaging the starfighters, both leaving their own bombers to fend for themselves and keeping the Republic fighters too tied up to intercept, except her ship and a handful of others.
By redlining her ship’s throttle, she ate up the ground between the large flying wing ships like a mynock eats through a derelict hull. It was stressful for her and her fighter to close the gap. For their size, the bombers were very agile, far more agile than she thought was possible.
The bombers proceeded in random vectors as the Republic ships they were targeting, some 10 Victory IIs, the Imperator Devastator, 3 Venators, 7 Acclamators, and 5 Consulars all brought their weapons online to meet the looming threat.
The distance between her and the bombers decreased until she entered laser cannon range.
Before she could fire, the bombers split into 2 groups, with one staying on their present course while the others banked a hard left, forcing her to follow and alter her vector.
Aayla gasped as she saw where the second group was heading.
Straight towards the group of support ships that came along with the fleet.
The bulk of them were troopships, most of which were finished unloading their cargo of landing barges which were heading towards the Terran colony, but also present were Pelta-Class Frigates and MedStar-Class Frigates, hospital and supply ships which would provide crucial aid to both the fleet and the ground invasion.
They were completely defenseless against a bomber force of this calibre.
There were 2 Victory II-Class Star Destroyers moving to cover them, but they would not be nearly enough.
"Those kriffing bastards! Let’s get them!" A clone pilot that had come alongside her shouted. He boosted his fighter's throttle to the limit, waiting for a positive lock.
The Force tingled as she sensed that something was wrong.
Frantically looking around for any threat, she looked at the back of the gigantic UNSC fighter-bombers to see a dual barrelled cannon swivel out from under the hull.
"By the Force, look out!" Aayla screamed into her headset as she flipped her small ship over.
The V-Wing pilot had no chance.
The ventral cannon on the ship spat out a stream of projectiles that tore into the V-Wing and exited through the cockpit, leaving a bloody mist to spurt all over the interior.
Several other Republic fighters were taken off guard. They were forced to dodge out of the way, or join the V-Wing pilot in the Force.
Rolling her little fighter through 2 streams of cannon fire, she raked her guns across the nearest Terran’s rear, only to be rewarded with the glowing energy shields absorbing her fire.
Cursing, she gripped down on her triggers; her lasers began to overheat from prolonged firing. The UNSC pilot threw his ship into a spiral as he tried to shake her, performing maneuvers that only a fighter half its size should be able to do.
The distance between the oncoming UNSC ships and their helpless targets shrank. An ARC-170 tore through a craft’s shields, and turned one of the 2 engines to slag, sending the ship into an unstoppable spin before the clone pumped a concussion missile into it, vaporizing his target.
The beast’s shields finally gave in as she fired once again into the craft's rear, taking out one of the cannons, but not before a shell pierced through her fuselage, switching on her cockpit’s red warning lights.
Her fighter rattled even more as she dodged away from certain death by the hands of the Terran turret. She flipped up some levers and ordered her astromech, “QT-KT, give me back control over the left stabilizer, now!” QT gave a set of beeps in acknowledgement.
Her radio began screaming into her ear. "Shoot down those bombers! We can't get them all! There are too many...agh!"
The ID on the audio was that of the Victory II Gardama, which went up in dozens of bright white fireballs as the Terran ships unleashed a swarm of missiles into it, all of them powerful thermonuclear devices.
The fire settled to reveal that the ship was a twisted wreck, what was left of it at least. The Republic ships that the first group of Terran fighters had attacked fired every weapon they had, knocking dozens of the large craft out of the sky but not before the other Victory II went up in a white thermonuclear hellstorm.
Seeing that the support ships would go down in the same manner, she held the firing studs on her stick. She poured laser fire into the lead bomber, finally hitting something vital as the engines cut out; Aayla blasted past the out of commission fighter and watched it blow up behind her. While the rest of the Terrans were still accelerating towards the support elements, Aayla fought to catch up to them.
"I have to stop them, and there is only one way..."
Gunning her fighter, her ship shot out in front of the UNSC ships. To her shock, they fired on her with frontally mounted cannons. She flew in and out of their tracer streams, frantically dodging the thick fire of the guns.
She was only fifty or so kilometers away from the Republic ships before she flipped around to face the enemy.
"I have to stop you!"
The Terrans fired.
Each of the remaining 38 craft fired 4 large missiles, seemingly engorged with power, which shot away in fiery plumes while the UNSC bombers banked up and looped over to get out of the danger zone.
One hundred and fifty two missiles raced towards her and the helpless fleet.
There was no way in the Force she could get them all, but she had to try.
"Force, give me the strength…" She whispered to the dark unknown. She shot towards the missiles with all power, before spinning over and putting herself in front of the missiles’ course.
Five came into the sight of her targeting system, but she let the Force guide her shots.
Two seconds later, the missiles were reduced to dust from her lasers, but there were much more, way too much for her to handle.
The Republic support ships began to fire the few defense weapons that they had in order to save themselves, but they knew it was not enough.
The distance closed as she shot four more down, and then another and then another.
She had only stopped eighteen of them in the mere seconds before the first missiles struck a MedStar Frigate.
Brilliant flashes of light still shone through Aayla’s cockpit, impairing her vision despite the polarized canopy. The MedStar frigate had been cracked in two, split lengthwise.
Regaining her bearings, Aayla screeched as she downed two more that were heading towards the largest of the troopships. It was far too late. Dozens more of the missiles hit.
She turned to see one of the missiles explode 5 kilometers from her.
Her fighter was being torn apart, with sections of the hull flaking off, plating tearing itself free. Aayla was washed in red light and a constant beeping flooded her ears. She was thrashed about her seat and her left restraint snapped, sending her head face first into the console, knocking her out cold while her fighter was thrown helplessly through space.
SDB5
Among the Republic transports, wreckage, and bodies there strode a single Jedi.
Jax couldn't help but feel anger, one of the largest taboos of the Jedi, ebb slightly within him after looking around at the scene before him.
‘These damn Terrans have caused far more damage than I had ever even thought possible, by the Force! When the fleet wins, we’d be lucky to have anything left of it.’ He thought to himself.
He turned his attention to the Clone Commando who was jogging towards him through a pile of debris. To Jax’s angst, one of the volunteer medics bumped into the Commando, spilling the body of one of his fellow troopers onto the metal floor. The trooper had half of its head removed, brain matter and bits of bone and blood began to spill out onto the deck. The Commando gazed at the fumbling volunteer, who uttered a series of apologies. He walked past as the medic scooped up the gore.
The Jedi had to fight to keep his stomach from doing a backflip at the sight.
Never had he seen battle this brutal before.
"Sir, RC-1138 reporting for duty!" The clone snapped to attention as his 3 fellow commandos formed next to him, their bulkier and stronger Mark IV Katarn Armor each patterned in a wild display of colors and designs.
"Relax." He waved them down as they nodded and slung their DC-17Ms across their chest plates.
"What’s the situation?" Jax asked, as the sounds of battle could be heard. The familiar whine of blasters and the unfamiliar roar of Terran slug throwers sounded off down one of the service corridors that connected to the bay.
"We’ve managed to secure the main landing and docking bays on the station, but advancing and taking the rest of the station has been an issue. The Terrans have put up fierce resistance, and we’ve taken heavy casualties. We are advancing steadily, but for every hallway we take, every inch of it is soaked in the blood of my brothers." The Clone spoke with a grim tone.
"What were your orders when you boarded?" Jax asked.
The clone’s response was interrupted as yet another transport landed and disgorged its troops. The Commando answered Jax after shuffling around the landing craft, glancing over to see a row of wounded troopers being rushed onto the same transport, many of them screaming in pain or not moving at all. Some had whole limbs torn into bloody stumps, or their torsos full of fist sized holes, all of them spilling blood out onto the deck. Clearly the medical teams were taken aback. They were not used to dealing with such dreadful wounds.
Blasters were an elegant weapon, for a more civilized age. But it looks like times have changed.
"We were to take the command center of the station and kill or capture any enemy COs. Sir."
Bringing up his wrist mounted holoscreen, Jax projected a rudimentary tactical map of the station, with readouts down to the squad level. He stole a glance at the casualty estimate, and it wasn’t pretty.
He ignored it, and scanned through it, he quickly saw where the Republic forces were meeting the most resistance.
‘If they could break through key areas, the station would soon be under the control of the Republic.’ Jax thought.
"Belay that RC-1138. We need to pierce through the main area of resistance so our forces will be able to take the rest of the station." Jax ordered.
The clone seemed to be taken aback, "But Sir, if we can eliminate the leadership then the enemy loses cohesion and organization. Defeating them becomes a blue milk run." The Commando argued. His comrades noticeably looked at one another.
"That’s an order clone."
“It’s Sergeant, sir.”
UNSCDF Fort Longston
"This is gunnery control to command, we have ten tangos entering the atmosphere from low orbit. Two of which are attempting to gain orbital firing positions on us, both are in our firing arc. Do we have clearance to fire?" The gunnery officer of the underground defensive position asked the two star Army General, who was a veteran of the Human-Covenant War.
The radio in the control room fifty meters underground crackled. The monitor showed the MAC was charged and ready to fire.
"Permission granted. Clear the skies. With what little interceptors we have being tied up right now, and the Fleet unable to provide any fighter support, we can’t harass those starships. They’ve already landed assault ships and barges fifty miles from the city, but they came in on a low vector out of your firing arcs. It looks like they are opting to bombard us. Show them a warm welcome Lieutenant Colonel.” Major General Hudong said.
"Yes sir." He answered crisply, shutting off the commline. “Gunner, all systems green?” He asked the MAC gunner.
He threw him a thumbs up. “All systems green!”
Lines of information that would be nonsense to any civilian streamed in front of him on his console, illuminating his face in the dimly lit bunker. A heavy MAC gun and 12 smaller Onagers pivoted out of their fortified positions and aligned themselves on target.
After the start of The Great War, it became apparent to the UNSC that due to the unlikelihood of the Navy holding orbital control against the then superior Covenant ships, once the Navy lost the battle in space the Covenant was free to simply destroy any terrestrial military base from orbit with little effort.
After the loss of Harvest, the UNSC Army and Marine Corps quickly began adding anti-orbital defense guns to their bases, usually rail/coilguns, or missiles. But by the Fall of Arcadia, the bases on the ill-fated military hub were all equipped with underground MAC guns. Once Admiral Cole was forced to abandon the world, its defensive fleet of one hundred ships and SMAC ODPs was swept away, the guns of Arcadia had cut deep into the Covenant fleet and forced them into a bloody battle with the UNSC military left on the planet, allowing 2 million civilians to flee.
Soon after the Fall of Arcadia, every major military installation had at least one battalion of groundside defenses; Fort Ticonderoga on Reach had four such units.
"The closest target is a… uh Venator-Class Carrier and the second tango is an Acclamator-Class Frigate, sir." A subordinate officer reported.
"Have the Onager batteries focus all their fire on the Venator after we drop its shields." The LTC replied as he took his seat.
"Ready to fire." The dumb AI in charge of the weapons at his disposal affirmed in a dull monotone voice.
"Fire!"
The gunner flipped a safety off and depressed a big red button.
From outside the base, half a kilometer away, electricity sparked for a split second before a monumental thundering crack and hypersonic scream filled the air. A 900 ton slug was flung into and out of the atmosphere at 1/4th the speed of light.
Its target, the Venator-Class Star Destroyer Hurlania, didn’t even have enough time to register the power spike on its sensors before the slug slammed into the shields of the warship, the force of the blow overloading the shields in one fell swoop while the shield generator exploded. They had no time to redirect the shields towards the bottom of the hull, not that it would’ve made a difference.
The warship seemed to lurch upward as the momentum was violently transferred to it, no thanks to Sir Isaac Newton.
However, as the crews of the ship began to recover and direct the ship’s weapons at the assailant 80 miles below, the twelve Onagers, their forked turrets surging with enough energy to power a small city, all fired in unison.
Twelve slugs slammed into the now unshielded ship, twelve golden lines reached out of hardened bunkers towards the sky.
Against the first salvo, the armor plating on the ship held, but the Onagers could fire every 5 seconds, so four more salvos slammed into the underbelly of the Venator before the armor crumpled away, allowing the next salvo to penetrate into the hanger, engines, and primary drive systems.
Now little more than a huge orbital paperweight, the Venator frantically tried to use its thrusters to push itself out of its rapidly declining orbit.
It never had the chance.
The MAC gun fired again, sending a slug right through the middle of the ship's ‘spine’.
The mass of durasteel tried to resist for a second, before losing and falling down to the planet.
The ship cracked in half down the middle as two halves, the port and starboard, began to float away from each other and enter the atmosphere.
SDB5
"I can’t believe that di’kut cancelled our mission," Sev huffed as Delta Squad made their way through one of the many service corridors that ran the length of the Terran battle station.
"I can." Scorch replied, "The UNSC would be doing the Republic a favor if they killed him."
Taken aback, Boss and Fixer turned their T-shaped visors to the commando, the simple act enough to make Scorch hurriedly reply, "Hey it’s not like I'm suggesting we do it."
Boss shook his head.
He had to agree it wouldn’t be too bad of a thing if Jax were to die at the hands of the enemy; in fact it was far more likely now considering what they’re up against.
He wasn't the biggest fan of the Jedi; in fact, aside from those close to Kal Skirata, he did not trust a single one. Not ever since they threw away 2000 commandos in the First Battle of Geonosis. The only one who he could truly stand was Etain Tur-Mukan.
Now that their lives and those of the regular troopers were once again being thrown needlessly in danger because of Jax's ‘tactical prowess’, that distrust was fast becoming loathing.
As if to break the conversation, Scorch took point, checking corners by expertly pivoting his DC-17M’s business end towards any potential cover where a UNSC Marine might be waiting to ambush his squad.
"These Terrans are just too good. They take down five of us for every one of them. Our brothers are having a tough time cracking their defenses planetside too." Scorch said while listening in on the battlenet.
Boss gritted his teeth at the thought.
They had seen the wreckage in the hanger bay, and the piles of dead Troopers, all of them horribly mangled by the Terrans slugthrowers. One thing that stuck out was how many more clone bodies there were, when compared to a dead UNSC soldier. Their bulky armor was literally hit dozens of times before they bit the dust, and when the Republic did take their positions, it was usually through overwhelming them, an ironic parallel to how the CIS had fought them. The UNSC is in almost the same position the Clones were. Outnumbered, yet not outgunned.
"Don’t get me started on what they did to our fleet." Fixer added.
Boss thought that was uncharacteristic of Fixer, who was a pure and uncomplicated soldier. His thoughts were soon interrupted as their headsets were filled with a frantic yell from the squad of the other Commando squad that had come on station, Valshtok Squad. They had boarded the station earlier and were who Delta Squad was to link up with.
“Mayday! Mayday! This is RC-1401 to Delta Squad! Requesting assistance!"
Suddenly the connection was filled with the unmistakable sounds of blaster fire and explosions, before the distinct barks and roars from Terran weapons cut in, followed by a scream. The link suddenly went dead.
Not wasting a second, Boss immediately yelled to his team. "They’re only about 300 meters ahead of us, let’s move it Deltas!"
Boss set his blaster to maximum power as he sprinted down the corridor, the rest of Delta Squad close behind.
Reaching an entry way into the Commando team’s last known position, Fixer and Sev took up positions on both sides of the doorway while Boss and Scorch readied themselves to clear the entrance, Boss taking point.
Boss held up his hand and counted down to zero before he shouldered his weapon and quickly entered the room, the rest of Delta following behind, their weapons searching for targets.
The room was the site of a fierce skirmish. The Commandos had their fears confirmed as they found the bodies of four Commandos, each of them lying in a pool of blood and entrails. Their plastoid armor lay dented, battered, cracked and punctured in dozens of places on the cold floor.
"Hell..." Sev murmured as he checked out the rest of the room.
Boss leaned over and examined the bodies.
"Hopefully our armor fairs better than these poor troopers." Scorch noted.
Sev snorted, "It damn well better.”
"It looks like they were ambushed.” Boss pointed out. He noted the positioning of the bodies, lying where they had made their final stand, each one facing a different direction.
“I thought that was rather obvious...” Scorch said.
"Stow it Six-" Fixer’s reprimand was cut off after Sev called out, "We got another body over here."
Exchanging a quick glance, the three went over to one of the far corners of the room near another corridor. Lying with its back to the wall was a large figure clad head to toe in unknown black armor with a rifle in its limp hands.
"That a UNSC Marine?" Scorch asked as he leaned to look at the dead Terran's silver visor that hid the man's face.
"No, we know what they look like. This must be one of their special forces soldiers." Sev replied.
Fixer scanned the enemy soldier's armor, which was burned, scorched and melted from what looked to be several concentrated bursts of blaster fire. The fact that it had taken that much to bring the enemy soldier down was disconcerting.
"You gonna take a souvenir psycho?” Scorch asked Sev as he was studying the enemy rifle in his hands before returning to pulling security.
"Just checking out the enemy gear. This thing is miles ahead of what those trandos had on the Prosecutor." He replied as he inspected the slugthrower.
"What’s this?" Boss asked as he noticed an insignia on the left shoulder pauldron of the body.
It was a flaming skull with the letters ODST etched below them.
Fixer came up with an answer after scrolling through a screen on his HUD.
"This is apparently an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper, supposed to be the best of the best in the UNSC Marines. Their specialty is some sort of crazy orbital insertion behind enemy lines." Fixer informed.
"Blast, no wonder they got slaughtered so quickly. But still..." Sev replied.
"Alright Deltas, let’s move up the hallway. Be extra cautious, there is no way that there was only one of them, we have to follow our general's ‘plan of attack’."
*z*z*z*
Gunnery Sergeant William Tafton checked his MA6 rifle. He and his two other squad mates Jarrod and Adnan did the same, the last firefight with a squad of Republic Commandos having been a reminder of the power of the enemy they faced.
His fourth squadmate, Jaxson, had taken three concentrated bursts of blaster fire from the dying Republic clones, tearing through his shields, melting through his flesh and armor.
Adnan, a new ODST fresh out of training, was clearly having a much harder time coping with the loss of a squadmate than he, a 20 year veteran of The Covenant War and one of the few lucky survivors of the Fall of Arcadia.
"The next enemy squad is coming up, looks like they found their buddies." Jarrod informed his team, peering through his connection to Jaxson’s helmet camera.
"Stack up, get ready to take these bastards out." William ordered.
*z*z*z*
Boss was leading the squad through yet another service corridor before he suddenly had that sinking feeling of walking into trouble.
Stopping mid step he assumed the firing position while the rest of the squad followed suit.
"We’re walking into a trap." He simply stated as Sev nodded in agreement.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Scorch announced.
Fixer alerted his squad, "I’ve got strange heat sigs on my-"
He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Boss saw a shimmer of air in one of the far corners in the corner of his eye and had what felt like a swoop bike slam into his shoulder plate, spinning him around to the floor face first.
"Kriff!" He screamed while he scrambled for cover as the rest of Delta Squad opened up on the shimmering air, which soon disappeared into the depths of the access corridor.
"Cloaking shields?" Fixer asked before a volley of Terran weapons’ fire answered his question.
Boss looked up just in time to see projectiles ricocheting off the side of Scorch's helmet, who was laying down suppressive fire so the team could get into cover.
The side of his helmet exploded from the sheer force of the impact and Scorch went down with a scream as he brought his hands up to the side of his face, which was now covered in blood before he slouched, unconscious.
Time seemed to slow. Boss felt helpless against this new enemy while Sev dragged Scorch into cover behind a support beam.
He and Scorch had been through so much together, he didn’t even know what to feel while he struggled trying to ignore the possible fate of his Vod.
"Deltas, switch to infrared!" He screamed as his visor switched over to the predatory dull colors of his armor’s heat sensor array.
Noting Sev and Fixer had sustained injuries, and their armor was now compromised, he spun out of cover to see the outline of the Terran menace.
He fired a long burst, gritting his teeth so much he thought they would crack apart.
To his surprise, the shimmering air lowered to reveal a Terran ‘ODST’. The soldier’s black armor crackled with electricity. The two stared at each other for a second before they unloaded on each other.
Boss fired his blaster as fast as the full auto setting allowed him, sending two bursts of bolts into the man's chest armor, spinning the Terran around.
The ODST's own weapon’s fire struck him in the chest, kicking the breath right out of his lungs. His armor held, barely. The Katarn armor started to crack and flake apart. The duraplast did its job, Boss looked down to see a slug burrowed half way into his sternum, the other half sticking out, having been caught by his armor.
Boss gasped for air as the roar of fire between Sev and Fixer and the other assailants reached a fever pitch, his comlink was full of curses from Fixer and Sev.
He took aim at the Terran verd and let loose a torrent of fire, the Terran doing the same as the two combatants locked into combat. Knowing that they were both going to die, they simply stood and fired.
Boss felt his left leg shatter into splinters and blood spurted out as he fell to the deck. His helmet went back as yet another round hit him, cracking his visor and blurring his vision as his own fire stitched the ODST from his leg up to his face, dropping him like a stone, seemingly dead before he hit the floor.
Gasping for air, he ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the bulkhead to see Sev lying still with his hands on his belly clutching a bacta patch, blood leaking onto the floor under him as Fixer kept firing, filling the air with screams of Mandalorian curses. He took down another one of the ODST's with a stream of blue blaster fire before a trio of loud deep cracks cut him off.
Fixer groaned as he grasped at his right shoulder, before falling back and spasming on the ground.
Limping to them, he looked to see the apparently last ODST round the corner not ten feet away.
Without a second thought he charged, firing his rifle, catching the Terran in the shoulder and forcing him to drop his weapon. The ODST rolled backwards away from the next burst before landing with a sidearm drawn.
Cracks filled the air again as Boss jumped back into cover, but his rifle shattered in his hands as a bullet went through it.
Bullets slammed into his cover while Boss began to sing the Mandalorian battle song Walon Vau had taught him before he ejected his arm mounted vibroblade. He spun around the corner and charged with a scream, the wrath of Coruscant, Kamino, and Mandalore within him.
He caught the ODST off guard as he closed the distance and gave a vicious uppercut slash, cutting the pistol in two and putting a nice slash across the Terran's black helmet and visor while the ODST dove out of the way.
"Bring it on you hut’uun!" Boss roared, taking a defensive stance as the Terran reached up and ripped off his damaged helmet, tossing it away. To Boss’s surprise, it revealed the face of a tanned, yet still pale man about 40 years of age, with a shaved head and a large scar on the side of his cheek.
Moving his hands towards the left of his body, the man pulled a wicked looking ten inch blade out of a sheath on his chest.
The man spoke in a low, calm voice that was full of experience, and anger.
"Clone.” He sneered. “I feel sorry for you. You are nothing more than a slave soldier and you know it. The Republic you fight to protect is cowardly."
Boss glared at the Terran, his eyes squinted and his brows furrowed.
"I am no slave.” Boss spat. “I-”
“Enough talk,” the Terran interrupted, lowering into a fighting stance.
“-Choose to fight.” Boss finished, steeling himself likewise.
The Terran grimaced. "Then let’s fight."
Boss and the Terran stared at each other in silence for half a second before they charged...