Tethers: Brainstorm

War Zone City of Brussel, Apollo, 4th Month of Year 24

For a brief moment, I felt warm flesh pressed against my gloved knuckles, then a sickening groan and a cool breeze on my moist glove as I wrenched the knife out of the gut of a Bedlam officer. He was twice my height. Now he was gutted and dead on the ground. My heads-up display sensed movement on my six, so I turned, and, with a low kick, sent a tiny scrub warrior to the ground, my heavy boot compressing its stupid little chest. I put a bullet in its forehead. More movement at three and eleven o'clock; I somersaulted forward and rolled sideways, barely managing to come out in a crouch. I was dizzy and my muscles felt like gelatin, but I could make out the advancing forms of two more scrubs--I threw my knife as hard as I could at one, then I charged the other and impaled it on my bayonet.

I yanked my bloodied gun out of the oozing corpse and retrieved my knife, giving the area a brief survey as I placed the blade back in its gauntlet socket. I was shaking as I snapped a new magazine into my rifle, the--literally--dead silence surrounding me feeling more like a fleece blanket than a morbid ambiance. I clicked on my comlink.

"Sigma Two-Three checking in," I said. Calmly. Somehow, our number designations were our go-to names during battles like these.

"Somebody sounds smooth," Flare replied immediately. "For being in a hot zone, I mean."

"What hot zone?" I asked. "I killed them all."

"Bravo!" Flare said. His voice sounded jarbled as if he was running. "Wish I could say the same!"

"Cut the chatter," Storm said tersely.

Two seconds later, Tide said at a whisper: "Storm's proud of you. Really. He's being his usual compassionate self."

"Three-Seven," Storm chided, though gently. But when he used number designations for his own sister, we knew Squad Leader was still all business.

I could tell Tide was joking her brother, but I took it as a compliment. If anyone could translate Storm's brief sentiments, it was his sister. From her position on some nearby high skyscraper, I couldn't help but think that her whispers were like the voice of a guardian angel. Just as I was beginning to move on, my heads-up display's alarm went insane, and I was so startled that I barely had a moment to realize that another Bedlam officer had caught up with his buddy--then a distant shot in the silence, slightly delayed, sent the giant creature crumpling to the ground. I swallowed. "Thanks, Tide."

"I'm bored," she replied casually. She meant: "You're welcome."

She's saved my life more times than I can count. I only wish I could say the same.

"Shit! Son of a-- " Flare's transmission cut off. He must have forgotten his channel was open. Still, it made my stomach tighten; something was going wrong.

"Two-Three, rendezvous at the given coordinates. Now," Storm said through his teeth. Immediately a red dot appeared on my heads-up display, and a tiny arrow pointed me in the right direction. I was to travel directly over a pile of debris and pass two skyscrapers that appeared to have bites taken out of them like monolithic celery, then meet Storm on a street several blocks away. I started to run, my short marathon accompanied by the thunderous applause of Cross-X artillery fire to the west.

"Right," Storm said tersely as his introduction. I had barely stopped running and I was panting as he spoke. "Flare's under heavy fire. Tide's moving to cover him, and there's a VG Heavy Arms squadron en route to clear the area. We're both done here, so we're moving in too." As Storm finished, he finished loading his assault rifle and looked up at me. His eyes widened for a brief moment. "Goddamn, Puck."

I looked down at myself and gaped. I was covered in Bedlam blood and other such nonsense. "Uh..."

"Nice," Storm smirked. Only... it was sort of happy. Almost like a smile. My cheeks started to flush. Great, now I feel like a pre-teen girl! Well, who kills aliens. Lots of aliens.

"All right. We're off."

Having it in mind to run the whole way, both Storm and I were pleasantly surprised to come across an abandoned jeep. What made the discovery even better was, though battered, the jeep was still fully functional. Storm ordered me to take the wheel (which I was all too thrilled to do), and he took a seat beside me, looking uncharacteristically relaxed. I leaned around in the seat, started the engine, and I surveyed the dials and gauges. Low on gas, the check engine light was on... oh, and the passenger side door was missing. But otherwise it was fine. I gunned it, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Storm flinch, startled by the jarring jeep.

I just grinned and wheeled around a pile of rubble. Grey concrete was in crumbled piles and cracked walls--it was pretty damn easy to see that the poorly camouflaged green- and blue-skinned aliens were about ready to blow the brains out of the roaring jeep. The "brains" being Storm and I, of course. Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly realized that the passenger seat beside me was empty - then, as if to answer the question I was about to ask myself, the jeep's gun turret went off with an obvious rhythmic reply as to why Storm had vacated his seat.

I gunned it even harder. Nobody was going to stand between us and Flare, and certainly not while we had a set of wheels.

Whatever Bedlam didn't get mauled by the jeep's jagged tires were mowed down by Storm's expert gunning, and soon we found ourselves utterly surrounded by a forest of buildings. The battlefield was immediately different, and suddenly there were no sides to the battle--friend or foe could be anywhere and remain undetected by stories and stories of concrete. Loud mechanical noises filled our ears and then a roaring engine was above us as a mobile suit unit touched down on the city block right next to us. I braked and threw the jeep in reverse to meet it. Overhead, more mobile suits passed over us, moving in the direction of where Flare and other Cross-X forces had been pinned down.

"Kilo Five-Four to Sigma Oh-Five," said the pilot with great effort. It sounded as though a clawed hand had clenched over his throat. I gazed up at the mobile suit, its humanoid robotic body painted purple and yellow and scratched with various battle wounds, but looking as healthy as ever, unlike the pilot inside. The suit's reflective "eyes" were flashing intermittently, its tiny cameras and sensors taking in the surroundings and undoubtedly picking up signals from others of the Kilo unit.

"Sigma Oh-Five responding," Storm said quickly, then immediately asked: "Are you hurt?"

I was taken aback by the pilot's alleged state until I saw that the mobile suit's "torso" had been bashed in and dented, practically undetectable with the dark purple paint. I squinted, wondering what could have dished out that sort of punishment without the result of explosion damage.

"Yeah," the pilot croaked. The mobile suit started shaking slightly as gears were unable to thrust open the cockpit. Storm and I were speechless, helpless - then the pilot must have found an emergency release, because the cockpit doors popped open.

And out came the pilot, who was not holding onto the proper lowering gear. He fell and hit the concrete with a sickening "crunch." Storm and I leapt from the jeep and sprinted to his aid. There was very little external trauma, but I didn't need to be the squad's medic to know that the fall hadn't done the pilot any service. Upon further inspection, it was apparent that the pilot had stopped breathing. No pulse.

Storm watched helplessly as I tried my hardest to perform CPR to revive the pilot (and then what?--no extraction here). Storm fidgeting as he stood and tried to stay still so I could concentrate. No luck.

I didn't have to tell Storm the obvious. I simply grabbed the ID tags from the pilot's belt and put them in a compartment on my own belt, the loss of precious life such an instant and inevitable thing in this world that it was as routine as brushing our teeth. My gut still felt it, though--the loss, that is. The pain. I stood up and looked at Storm, awaiting orders, deadpan.

He nodded, presumably out of approval, the subtly noticeable length of the nod differentiating the compliment from an acknowledgment. It meant I'd done a good job. I tried my hardest. "Get in the mobile suit, Puck. Let's get Flare out of there."

I wanted to ask where Storm would go from there, but I knew it would be to rescue Flare. It seemed unfair that I would be immersed in an armored suit, though the dead pilot was proof that even a mobile suit wasn't safe in this battle. "Yes, sir!"

The lift cable had lowered when the emergency hatch had opened. I stepped into the loop and held onto the cable, giving the corded wire several tugs until it began to lift. I situated myself awkwardly in the pilot's seat. The hatch closed with audible effort from the marred gears. I grimaced. The space under my thigh in between armor plates could feel the warmth left by the suit's old pilot.

I keyed up the mobile suit's systems and grabbed the controls.

"Everything look all right?" Storm asked.

"It's shiny, sir."

I gunned the engines and the mobile suit rose into the air. Everything sounded good, but as the suit's torso swiveled, I could hear some strange grinding noises that made me a little worried. The pull of gravity on my gut, however, made me quickly forget.

"I'll meet you there," Storm said, the roar of the jeep's engine in the background.

I was looking through two sets of heads-up displays, now, and it was beginning to overload my senses. I took in the flashing icons and images and gauges all at once, my brain processing the information that flowed into it like a tumultuous storm. It made me mildly dizzy. With a click of my back molars, I turned off my helmet's busy display, and I looked at the cockpit's screens alone as I had been taught in training.

I engaged in the Kilo squadron's channel and quickly introduced myself. "Kilo Squad Lead, this is Sigma Two-Three."

"Kilo One-Oh copying, Sigma Two-Three," a distracted woman answered.

"I've taken over the MS Unit of Four-Five and I'm moving to the RV location right now."

"Roger," Kilo One-Oh said, sounding somewhat exasperated. "Where did--" She seemed to hesitate, then said instead: "See you at the RV."

I maneuvered the mobile suit over the cityscape, watching all of the sensor screens diligently. Small Bedlam forces were moving across city blocks, and some even had the nerve to direct fire at me. What a waste. On top of the tough alloy armor, the suit had an energy shield, and really the only threat to its integrity besides anti-aircraft rounds was a mobile suit of the same (or better) caliber. So I deduced that they had no semblance of anti-aircraft guns, and ignored them. With a press of the foot pedals, I engaged the drives to get to the RV point and, subsequently, Flare.

I was dreading about the low chance of Flare's survival when the proximity alarm began to blare, and suddenly I found my own life in jeopardy. The view screen showed another mobile suit, one not of humanoid design, and therefore Bedlam. The mobile suit was grotesque in design to human standards, its "head" piece long and snout-like, arm attachments long, bulky, and ending in sharp, crab-like claws that were ostensible grappling apparatuses. Its variously-sized cannons were mounted on its shoulders and forearms, and I didn't quite have the observational skills to take in much else.

My heart rate spiked, knuckles whitening as my hands clamped tightly to the controls. I had never really fought against another mobile suit before.