Hard Truths in Dying Mars City (D3/Hideous Destructor)

Denial.

More than the burning of adrenaline through his veins or the thunder of his heart, each trashing contraction in his chest threatening to burst the vessel in its cavity.

More than all of these things, denial.

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The trembling burn of cold steel against his arm, covered with a scrambled mix of blood-soaked bandages, grime, and gunpowder smears as he pressed it against the cold pipes  protruding from the wall, covered with a slushed mix of blood and icy condensation.

Owen’s trembling fingers pulled out another handful of shells from the pouch on his hip, squeezing two between his first two fingers and thumb, a few shells falling from his palm as a small voice in his mind mourned for the lack of time he spent practicing the action.

Pushing the two shells clumsily past the loading flap on the underside of his shotgun, Owen’s ear perked as the scratching, thumping report of flesh and claw against spartan steel floor panels drew closer and closer, followed by the hissing crackle that he had grown to dread - the sound of one of those multi-eyed fireball throwers spinning up a fireball.

Owen released the tension in his knees, buckling nearly a foot and a half as the clawed hand of the imp hooked around the corner and splashed a fireball against the wall where his head was only a split-second before. As he slid down the wall, his eyes fell to the leathery mass of the imp’s side only centimeters from his face. Fire pumped through his veins as his arms twisted the shotgun up towards the imp’s side and fired, blowing a football-sized hole out of the imp’s right side.

A hot splash of blood and bits of flesh soaked his head, and a vicious scream rattled his ears as the imp gracelessly fell over onto the floor. The dull throb in his arm flared again as Owen pushed against the wall and flexed his shoulder, pushing himself upright and off the wall. In the same motion, he stole a quick peek around the corner and down the hall: blood, bodies, but nothing moving. The burning drive in his legs relaxed as the tired man slumped back against the wall, putting his weight against the unyielding metal as he lowered his guard to try and breathe. He racked the shotgun pump back, the hollow ring of plastic and metal dancing against the wall and the floor as he peered into the breach - grime-smeared red plastic resting in the chamber, ready to be loaded. He couldn't remember how many he had fired, or how many he had left. Owen’s hand returned to the pouch on his hip, trembling fingers clutching another handful of shells as the mechanical ‘woosh’ of a door opening echoed from down the hall, a scrambled cadence of many boots jogging down the hall, guttural whispers flooding into his attentive ear.

[This can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening I must be dreaming this can’t be happening I’m sick and I’m seeing things this can’t be real life this can’t be happening why can’t I wake up this is a terrible nightmare I must be dreaming I can’t be]

As the footsteps grew closer, tears broke from his eyes. He was going to die.

“Cutting left!”

Human speech. Words.

Owen felt his body turn to ice in an instant, opening his fear-scored eyes to see the blurry image of a gore-streaked shotgun barrel cut around the corner and press into his cheek. In that small flash in time, knowing that he would die to his own, a wonderful flash of painless light delivered from a friendly face, Owen let go of his fears and accepted his own death. The tears ran down his cheeks as a heavy hand pulled him around the corner by his Kevlar neck guard.

Owen was jolted out of his grieving trance as his head slammed against the cold, spartan steel floor panels, a loud ‘clang’ echoing down the hall.  A chorus of muffled angels began  ringing behind his eyes.

Pain. The pain came back slowly and brought the rest of the world with it: a cold, filthy, bloody, paranoid flash of chaos in a cold vacuum almost a month’s travel from the nearest merciful soul. He tasted the imp’s blood in his mouth and he began to spit, spewing the dark red liquid that burned his lips as it left his mouth.

As the world stopped spinning, Owen rolled over to face the shotgun barrel once again, eyes traveling to meet the sweaty, mesmerized man behind the length of stained metal that held his judgement in check. The man seemed so familiar, his warm brown skinned stained with fear and blood. As his mouth moved, faint tremors rumbling through Owen’s still-ringing ears as the tired eyes in this man's skull narrowed and his face twisted into such a familiar mural of fear and hate. Why was this man so familiar?

Jackson. The man who showed him rugby on the many days of catatonic boredom in the barracks, the same man he held conversations about fresh fruits and meat from Earth with during lunch. This man was his friend, from what felt like a past life. His own mortality still vibrating somewhere deep in the pit of his heart, tears still crawling down his face, Owen looked up to Jackson, still yelling commands he could not hear as the world rumbled around his ears and eyes, leaving him in a strange ringing limbo waiting for death, and he relaxed. “Fuck you Jackson, you still owe me money for Poker night,” Owen scoffed absently, strange neurons firing in his fuzzy mind.

Jackson’s angry tremors ceased, his face falling slack in contusion. Looking around, Owen smiled as the other faces, once home to the eyes of wild killers, were now haunted by the same confusion plaguing Jackson.

Trying to pick himself up, he felt a stained glove grab his forehead and pull his gaze upward, throwing off his balance as bright LED ceiling lights stabbed into his eyes as a concerned face loomed over him, moving his head in strange patterns as the throbbing pain began to blossom in his skull. The voice from the concerned face came almost like an echo, a ghost of a voice coming from a deep, hollow cavern, “Christ Jackson, y’rung his fuggin’ bell…”

Jackson’s eye flashed with regret, before hardening, turning outward as he once more turned to steel, bringing the shotgun to bear on all strange shadows and threatening noises. The man, a combat medic from the designations on his armored chest piece, lightly slapping the side of Owen’s face, “Do you know where you are, Private?”

Owen groaned, wheezing as he spoke, “Hell, I think.”

The medic scoffed, “Ain’t wrong. Can you stand up?”

“If I say yes, do I have to?” Owen mumbled,  still trying to support himself with shaking arms.

The medic laughed at him, “No, we'll let the monsters check up on you if you want five more minutes. If you think you can stand,  we are on our way to EnPro. ”

Owen began to push himself upright, sitting against the wall. He felt the medic’s grimy gloves wipe across his face, a rudimentary action that only served to mix the grime on his gloves with the blood covering Owen’s face in a useless, brotherly gesture. Owen waved the medics hand away, using his own hand to try and wipe the coat of blood still covering his face. When he finished cleaning his face and wiping his hand against his trousers, he looked to see the medic holding a hand out for him.

Using the wall for support, Owen grabbed the hand and pulled himself up, leaning against the wall as his head began to spin and a wild  throbbing flashed through his skull. He felt a dull weight thud against his chest,  looking down to see Jackson pushing the shotgun Owen had dropped against his chest plate.

As the ringing in his skull faded lower and lower, as the world stopped spinning, as the cruel realization that the suffering wasn't over,  Owen clutched the shotgun. His eyes focused on the eyes of the man, the animal in front of him with eyes like a predator and the grin of a man free from the shadows of consequence, and he smiled with the same hateful grin.

He wasn't alone anymore. He had half a dozen scared, trigger happy soldiers just like him. And there was no politician, no command structure, no one to tell them how to fight, how to prevail. How to win.

A war against the perfect enemy.