I will do what is necessary. You may hate me. You may revile me. You may even seek to overthrow or murder me.
I care not.
I care only that you live to the next day. - Carved on the wall of the Overseers office of Vault 3.
The shelter was cramped, rated for 245,000 standard occupancy.
The shelter manager had looked at the max occupancy and crammed nearly 500,000 people into the shelter. He had ordered hot bunking for adults, bunk sharing for children 9 and below. He had gone on the shelter trivee and ordered interspecies bunking.
It was not uncommon to see a mound of pillows and cushions, look inside, and see infants of all races curled up together. Kra'at Descent Canines and Felines and Humans often made up the 'core' of the little floof of infants.
He ruthlessly went through the caloric consumptions. He ordered the industrial nanoforges, supposed to be used only to make non-repairable priority equipment, to build more nutriforges, rock grinders, mass tanks, and zero point reactors.
He was of the believe that in the three days since the sirens sounded, he had been able to make himself the most hated and reviled person on the planet.
But he didn't care.
The Mar-gite were here.
At best they would simply eat all of the foliage and fauna, drink up about half of the oceans, eat about half of the ice and soil, then leave.
At worst, it would be an airless dead rock above them and securing this shelter for years to come was the only option.
When he had been a rebellious youngster, he had defied his father and gone to work in the asteroid mines, working in harsh, unforgiving environments where those who survived were rich and those who died were turned into gruel.
Winners ate gruel, breathed air taken from the tanks of the dead, and jerked off to pictures of the dead's lovers.
Every civic 'leader' who entered his office saw a Pukan and smiled inside. Everyone knew Pukan just wanted to please people and make them happy.
He was a Kra'at Descent Pukan.
Their whims and desires meant nothing compared to their needs, and he only cared about their needs.
Which is why everyone was startled when the screens went from showing canned propaganda and reminders to live news casts from the surface.
Sire Kalm'ak'rik was sitting with a bunch of children, including his own, reading "Good Children Don't Lick Glowing Things" from the book he had been handed when his daughter interrupted, pointing at the big Tri-vee screen on the wall.
"DADDY! DADDY! LOOK LOOK LOOK!" she called out.
He looked up.
It was a scene from topside. A makeshift ring of sandbags. A battered looking ground truck, a burnt and damaged armored vehicle, stacks of boxes, camo netter, and the front of a skyraker.
That wasn't what held his attention.
The reporter was interviewing what at first Kalm'ak'rik thought was a war stallion of ancient legends.
The Lanaktallan stood with their upper back straight, with their flankspine rigid and so level that it could be used to measure construction. Their shoulders and arms bulged with hard earned muscle. Their uniform was battered and worn, stained with blood and worse, but looked servicable and impressive. Not that it was rag tag or torn to shreds, but that it had been worn through hardship and, like the wearer, had come out the other side. One side eye was white and blind, there was blood around the nostrils that had dried in the fur.
The Lanakatallan had two belts of ammunition hanging off their shoulders. A helmet with no visor. A heavy looking weapon with a belt of ammo falling off of it in all four hands.
He stared down at the Hamaroosan reporter.
"Keep them pushed back until repairs can be made to the shelter," the Terran in front of the Lanaktallan was saying. "The people have nothing to fear. Planetary Defense and Volunteer Defense will buy them the time to ensure their safety."
"Does that mean you believe you can't win?" the reporter asked, thrusting the mic forward.
"Did my Sergeant say such things, propagandist?" the Lanaktallan rumbled.
"Daddy, daddy!" his daughter blurted, pointing at the screen.
"Uh..."
"Easy, Vee," the Sergeant said.
"There are those who are saying all of you are just throwing your lives away. It's better to just let the Mar-gite get what they want and then leave," the reporter said.
Sire Kalm'ak'rik blinked.
"It's my life to throw away," the Lanaktallan rumbled.
"IT'S AZZY!" his daughter cried out in joy.
There was an atonal shriek that made everyone flinch.
"GET BACK ON THE LINE!" the Kra'at Descent Human Sergeant yelled.
The Lanaktallan didn't say anything, just bolted away.
The reporter turned and looked around. She looked at her escort.
"We're leaving, right?" she asked.
Her escort looked at her, then ran for the row of sandbags.
"Madame reporter," the other escort said.
The cameraman fixed the camera on the Tukna'arn's face.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
"You may want to find shelter."
0-0-0-0-0
The Mar-gite were pushing forward, screaming, by the hundreds. They filled the streets, clogged the alleys, launched themselves off of the sides of buildings and curling up so they hit the ground and exploded, came spinning out of the upper atmosphere to adhere to the building before launching off and spinning to the street.
"GET SOME!" Yee yelled, leveling her rocket launcher and firing it almost straight up. It kicked her back slightly but she started swinging it around to help cool it off. The hose from the mass tank to her ammo forge swung back and forth.
Azzy raked the entire far end of the parkinglot with Uncle 240, who just chugged through his belt.
"RELOAD!" he called out. His head was pounding and his nose had started bleeding.
The Mar-gite screamed and he asnwered with bursts from Uncle M240.
He might bad touch you but he'll fucking gutter stomp the enemy.
He kept firing, his eyes watering.
Less than fifteen seconds later someone slapped the top of his flanks and yelled "RELOADED!"
He just nodded, keeping up the fire in tight bursts.
staying alive staying alive ah ah ah ah staying alive stayin alive he thought, timing his burst to the beat.
"GET SOME!" Yee yelled again.
The rocket shrieked out, the flame from the motor connecting the rocket launcher to the clump of advancing Mar-gite. The explosion was bluish-white snap that normally would have fuzzed his electronics and made a crackle of static.
But most of the electronics were dead and Clicker was prioritizing based on what was needed.
Like Yee's rocket launcher or Sergeant Breaker's left eye.
Which is why Clicker was hanging from Breaker's helmet and had the eye pulled out of the socket and was working while the NCO fired his pistol at any oncoming Mar-gite the squad wasn't picking up.
A dart snagged his rear right leg and he felt it go number.
"MEDIC!" Azzy yelled, firing his weapon. His head was pounding and he was losing sight in his other side eye.
Vee Digsona'an ran up, the medic bag bouncing on his hip. The Hesstlan knelt down, yanked out a book and paged through it. "I got it, I got it."
Azzy just nodded, raking the entire far side of the parking lot with one long burst.
staying alive staying alive ah ah ah ah staying alive stayed in his mind.
"OK, gel," there was an almost obscene sputtering sound and a chilled feeling that then spread around. "OK, now a quick wound closure device... oh, it's dead. Um, ok, stapler," there was a pause. "Uh, this might hurt."
"DO IT!" Azzy yelled, mostly deaf. His head was pounding with pain.
The Mar-gite screeched and charged.
There was a pinch as Diggy pinched the wound closed then a sharp bright spark of pain accompanied by a *snap* feeling.
Azzy fired the Uncle 240 in time with the snaps.
His head was starting to pound.
"Phasic protection injection," Diggy yelled.
"What?" Azzy yelled back.
"STICKER!" Diggy said.
Azzy felt the injection into his waist joint, right into the spine. It flowed up his spine with a burning sensation.
Azzy saw Yee take a dart in the head, sending her sprawling.
"MEDIC!" he yelled, pointing.
Diggy turned and ran to Yee, who was sitting up, the side of her too-large helmet dented in to the point the laminate was torn.
Azzy turned back to his own gun.
stayin alive staying alive ah ah ah
The burning reached his head and he blinked as his headache suddenly cleared up. His right sideeye felt crusty and he blinked. A thick viscous liquid dripped from it and he could suddenly see after it.
phasic counter: 61% appeared in his vision as his retinal link suddenly came back online.
There was a boom in the distance and Azzy looked up.
The burning skyraker twenty or thirty blocks to the north east quivered.
And began to fall.
The first few floors held for a second, but more and more floors pancaked onto the structure.
He started for a second as the collapse started gaining speed, flames, smoke, and debris spewing out.
The Mar-gite screamed and he turned his attention back to firing.
They were getting closer, climbing over their dead, screaming as the steadily advance.
"...two this is Victor Foxtrot November Six Six Tree Tree Actual, I need fire on my position. Danger close. Marking with magnetic flares..." Breaker was shouting, fingers pressed to his bare temple.
Yee ran up and Azzy realized she was wearing Breaker's helmet and holding it on with one hand. She threw a flickering flare out into the night.
"INCOMING!" Sergeant Graz yelled.
Azzy looked and saw what looked like a solid wall of fiery dust roaring toward them.
"TAKE A KNEE!" Breaker yelled out.
Azzy shook his head.
If he did, the Mar-gite would be on them.
He kept shooting.
The wall hit. He could feel the heat, the cinders, the burning bits and coals.
Then it was past, leaving behind thick haze.
The Mar-gite had flopped down. They were pulsing and Azzy just raked their bodies.
The M240 jammed. He yanked on the charging handle, felt the grit, and pulled the feed tray up. He grabbed his canteen and poured it over the weapon, washing away the grit, then dumped CLP on it. He slapped it closed and started firing.
The Mar-gite were face down still.
Are they having problems breathing? he wondered. True, the air was hot, each breath tried to clog his nose and throat with thick cloying dust, but...
He could hear screeching off in the distance.
There was the high pitched shrieking again that Azzy had become familiar with. The parkinglot erupted in flame, close enough the explosive force made his jowls flap and pushed his skin back, making his eyeballs feel like they were going to pop out. Dirt, tarmac, and Mar-gite flesh showered into the grit filled air.
The streets erupted in spooky thermite enhanced plasma napalm.
For a long moment there was nothing but silence.
Then there was the rumbling sound of another skyraker collapsing.
Then the screeching of the Mar-gite.
Azzy fired even though he could see, throwing lead downrange into where he knew the streets were.
The screeching got louder.
"Get ready, men," Breaker said, standing up. He looked around and caught Sergeant Graz's eye and nodded.
The Tukna'rn nodded back.
Azzy held the trigger down.
Be with me now, Enraged Phillip, Azzy thought.
Breaker drew his pistol.
"GENTLEMEN!"
Azzy raked the weapon back and forth, the barrel starting to glow red.
Bestow upon me ever flowing Countess Crey Extreme Valley Berry Blast
The weapon ran dry, the belt rattling through his hands. He let go of Uncle 240, his hands dropping to his pistols.
Lay into my hands ever flowing dinosaur tendies
The Mar-gite broke through the dust and grit.
and bless me against overwhelming odds
They swarmed across the parking lot.
"PREPARE TO DEFEND YOURSELVES!"
amen
0-0-0-0-0
The camera focused on the Lanaktallan with the ammo belts hanging from his muscular shoulders and the audience watched with their mouths hanging open, stunned into silence by the sheer savagery they were being shown by a cameraman with more balls than brains.
The speed in which Az'zkykrmo'o drew the pistols took Sire Kalm'ak'rik's breath away. He could never imagine his somewhat lazy and lackadaisical son moving so fast. He brought the pistols into play so fast his arms were blurred, firing before the camera had even caught up.
In glorious 720p with a high redshift the audience watched as the Lantakallan with the pistols and the ammo belts got his rifle into play, firing full auto into the dust where the terrible star shaped creatures were rushing forward, giving screams that gave goosebumps and shivers.
Within seconds they were across the parking lot and climbing over the barriers. Bayonets gleamed in the flare lit darkness as the soldiers started stabbing and shooting.
Kalm'ak'rik gasped when his son's rifle snapped.
He watched as his son grabbed the machinegun off of the top of dented and pock marked dumpster, holding it by the barrel, and swinging it like a club. He kept crushing them down and shooting them point blank.
He gasped as a Welkret saved his son's life by firing an SMG point blank into a Mar-gite.
The machinegun snapped and came apart. One pistol ran dry.
The large Lanaktallan grabbed one of the ammo belts off his shoulders and started lashing around him with the heavy ammunition, smashing down the Mar-gite and shooting them point blank with the pistols.
He was swinging the looped belt, the points of the bullets slashing flesh, crushing the Mar-gite down.
His son kicked once, twice, three times, sending Mar-gite exploding away as purple flashes came from his feet. He spun in place and kicked, sending two Mar-gite flying away from a Puntimat with a rocket launcher.
He used the belt of ammunition to beat down the Mar-gite.
It was suddenly clear.
The Mar-gite were gone.
His son stood in the center view of the camera.
The cameraman suddenly made a noise like he was choking.
He fell to the side.
Other soldiers suddenly fell down.
The Kra'at Descent Human went down on one knee.
His son collapsed to his knees.
What floated out of the dust and darkness was a horror show.
"No, please, no," Kalm'ak'rik found himself whispering.