I lower my M5 RPG. My hands are shaking. I’m covered in blood, and only some of it is my own. None of it is green. It’s all red- a deep, dark crimson, layers congealing and drying in between the slick rains that Hybrisa Prospera is known for. It’s dry in the FOB. I can smell iron.
“Good hits, SADAR! Gonna save one for me?”
I look at the PFC. No— past him. I can’t bear to look anyone else in the eye right now. He’s wearing a smug look right on his face, like he’s got one over me. Good hits. Hah.
His friend claps him on the shoulder, hard, and physically steers him away from me. I’m grateful, and he mutters something consoling, but I can hardly hear it. My ears are ringing, all the way through the blast-padding of the helmet. My ears are ringing. It feels like there’s a larva inside of my eardrum. It’s inside of me. It’s gnawing me. It’s going to get out. I lift my helmet, touch the lobe, scrape my ear— there’s no blood. I can hear just fine.
It’s still ringing.
Two Marines were living and breathing ten minutes ago. Fifteen minutes ago, we were laughing about some stupid joke. I killed them. I did. That was me. Not just stray shots— deliberately aimed, but dead-on trigger-pulls that hit both of them square in the chest because all I could do was tunnel vision on the ten-foot-tall monsters behind them. Down the street, a Ravager’s massive corpse lies still and motionless. Was it worth it? I can’t figure it out. My ears are ringing, and it’s driving me insane.
Even the street-lamps appear to taunt me, their previously refreshing glow now piercing my eyes, carving my optic nerves right out of my sockets. We’re pushing again. Solemnly, I load another green-tipped rocket-propelled grenade. My hands have started shaking again. I nearly fumble the shell as the rain begins anew, a spine-chilling downpour of rain that falls like hail.
I trip over the lamppost’s stump three times, dropping my laser designator each time. The street-lamps are taunting me. She’s here, too, now. The biggest, the baddest of them all. I know that none of what happened earlier matters now— that this is when they need me most. That this is when I can no longer afford to let my hands shake. I can’t fight my own nervous system. The first screech bellows out across the long streets, and I trip over the lamp-post again, in my haste. Fuck.
Shouldering my M5, I take aim. Careful aim. I hold my breath for good measure. I read once that you’re not actually supposed to do that— that the exhale is the important part, and keeping your breathing steady will make your aim better. I don’t care. My breathing is shaky, my lungs shuddering with the effort. A splint, banded across my chest, creaks precariously as my rib cage expands and contracts to the tune of my heartbeat.
I miss the shot. Thankfully, I’d made damn sure nobody was in my sights this time— but perhaps caution had sold this shot to the Devil. We’d lost men to Runners, to Sentinels, to the malingering tide of bugs that continued to pour through the podlocks. I needed to make the next shot.
You might have guessed, but I sold this one to Hell, too. The blast was so close, it knocked me off my feet. The Queen was so close, I could hear the ugly, nasty sounds of the so-called “perfect organism” slavering and fiending for the lives of my comrades. My consolation prize was a bloodcurdling scream over my earpiece, followed by another, and another.
I rip my headset off of my head. That’s another thing I know for certain you’re not supposed to do. I can hear the damn thing buzzing and rattling on the tile floor, but I ignore it. I need the quiet.
Finally, despite all odds, we push all the way to the tomb of many known soldiers— good men lost in a push that was sealed the moment the Queen came for her wicked work the very first time. A Boiler spews foul gas across the field, choking out men before my eyes. I step back, pushing my scarf out of the way to press my laser designator to my eyes, once again. I’m half the fucking block away from the push? The guilt gnaws at me.
Men are fighting, crying out, dying in front of me. The M5 is in my other hand, and I try to steady myself with its weight. It hardly works. This is not a tool for the righteous; it is an evil, untamed beast, and I am the cavewoman trying to contain fire.
I hear the stomps. She bellows her roar, as the cloud of neurotoxic gas dissipates into the stinging rain. This is it. One last chance, or we may well not have enough budget to authorize more of the green tips that could make this kill possible.
God, please…
I shoulder my M5 RPG and let out a cry, and then, as a sunflower blooms bright and gleaming from the end of the launcher…
Nothing.
[reposted from the acid goop thread]