[VOICE LOG - 12072182]
Male voice — rough, weary, laced with dry humor. Background: static, distant boots clattering, faint metallic noises.
“Oi, don’t stand about — shift it! Move your bloody legs while you still can. Go on, get down that tunnel, sharpish.”
Pause. He exhales sharply, almost a sigh.
“No, don’t start, I’m not arguin’ this. Look at me, for Christ’s sake. I’m done. Spent. You drag me along, I’ll cock up the whole escape. I’ll just be a ball and chain ‘round your ankles. Best I stay, dig me heels in, make a racket, and buy you lot the time.”
A bitter chuckle. He spits, the sound sharp.
“Ha! Always said I’d go out in a brawl between em’ MP, not some damp soddin’ corridor with aliens screamin’ down me throat. But hey—life’s full of surprises, innit?”
He fiddles with his kit; magazine slams home, bolt pulled back. He grunts in pain.
“Bloody hell… knees are shot, ribs feel like they’ve been worked over with a cricket bat. Nah, I’m not makin’ it. Face it, mate, I’m proper knackered. Better you lot leg it while you still got breath.”
His tone softens, quieter, reflective.
“…Truth be told, I’d have liked one more Sunday roast. Bit of gravy, bit of Yorkshire pud. Tea after, proper strong brew. Simple things, eh? And here I am, talkin’ like an old codger instead of loadin’ me rifle. Pathetic.”
Short silence. Then, firmer, voice rising again.
“Right then. Enough chit-chat. You keep movin’—no stoppin’, no turnin’ back, you hear me? You see daylight, you don’t wait, you don’t look for me, you don’t bloody blink. You keep runnin’ till your legs give out. That’s your only chance.”
He laughs again, dry, almost a bark.
“And if anyone asks later—don’t you dare make me out a hero. I ain’t one. I’m just some poor sod who drew the short straw. Nothing noble in it, just necessary.”
Five minutes of silence follow. Only faint static, the distant hum of metal straining. Then—movement. The scrape of boots. Rifle cocked, safety off. His breathing steadies, then quickens.
Gunfire erupts, echoing loud. His voice bellows through the chaos, raw and venomous.
“COME ON THEN! YOU UGLY BUGGERS! COME HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YOU’RE HARD ENOUGH!”
Xeno shrieks rip across the comms, piercing, inhuman. He keeps firing, shouting between bursts.
“YEAH, THAT’S IT! DINNER’S CANCELLED! YOU’RE GETTIN’ NOTHING FROM ME, YOU BLOODY WANKERS!”
Another burst of shrieks, metal tearing. His voice grows ragged, but still defiant.
“NOT TODAY! NOT WHILE I’M BREATHIN’! I’LL TAKE THE LOT OF YOU WITH ME!”
Gunfire becomes frantic. Screams grow closer, overlapping. Then—silence for a beat. A single, desperate sidearm shot.
The shrieks peak—then collapse into nothing. Static remains, low and empty.