Massive Disaster 4-24

Impact debris rained down on Toni’s position and she tried not to think about how many pieces used to be people. Concrete chunks hammered her BASTION armor’s reactive plating as she stood center-plaza, modular systems adapting to incoming fire faster than conscious thought could track.

Although she wasn’t so sure if that applied to the man that built the suit for her. 

Dozens of dozens of rounds sparked off the shifting pink-white plates of the armor as her cybernetic spinal interface processed targeting data through pathways that bypassed her brain entirely. The suit knew what to do before she did, which was probably for the best. She’d always been better with tech than tactics.

That’s gonna have to change though. Her eyes flicked up as a missile streaked toward her from Blood Pack launchers positioned three blocks north. BASTION’s left arm unfolded into point-defense array (micro-rockets intercepting the incoming warhead in bursts of light that painted the smoke-filled air orange), and she wondered if anyone was keeping count of how many missiles she’d stopped versus how many she’d missed.

Don’t think about the ones you missed.

“Power at thirty-eight percent,” her suit’s VI warned through speakers that vibrated against her skull. “Recommend immediate withdrawal for recharge.“

“Negative.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended, but withdrawal meant people died and withdrawal meant failure and withdrawal meant… “They’re not getting through.”

They better not.

She kept firing because that’s all she could do in the chaos. Kinesis pulses and micro-missiles streamed from hardpoints that reconfigured themselves between volleys. It was what the BASTION was for, becoming whatever weapon the battlefield demanded. Let’s goooo! She couldn’t help but grin as her display marked another dozen signatures advancing through smoke that tasted of burned concrete and worse things.

Much worse things.

To her right, Beacon screamed. 

Not fear but with fury (at least she hoped it was fury), hand pressed against his psi-amp visor as purple lances tore from his eyes. The energy beams struck with force that liquefied armor plating, turned mercenaries into component atoms that scattered on wind carrying the smell of ozone and death.

His targeting data fed directly into her suit’s systems, shared battlefield awareness linking their attacks through fiber-optic coordination. Where his lances carved holes in enemy formations, her plasma fire followed; exploitation of gaps that lasted milliseconds.

If she was fast enough. If she didn’t screw it up.

Behind them both, forming a perfect triangular formation, Pyre floated three meters off broken pavement. Red hair hovered even higher than the rest of her, wreathed in flames that cast dancing shadows across plaza walls. Not to be left out, raw heat tinted a deep orange-red poured from her hands; not controlled bursts but torrents that filled entire streets, washing over advancing troops in waves that turned asphalt molten.

The plaza became an intersection of destruction. Toni’s technical precision (such as it was) eliminated individual threats before they could do much damage, while Beacon’s raw power carved through gunships, and Pyre’s elemental fury carved molten trenches; all of it combining into defensive fire that held the medical center’s perimeter.

Held it so far.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Pedro O’Hara swung through shattered residential canyons that once stood proud tall and bright, blue and white suit a flash against the smoke-filled sky. He could only be thankful the suit he wore came with an air filter; he knew if it didn’t, he’d be tasting air full of powdered ferrocrete, ash and worse things. His enhanced senses processed too much information as it was already; building tremors, civilian heartbeats, and weapon discharge patterns.

Don’t need Batarian blood and Krogan sweat mixed all up in that too.

The jokes helped.

When it felt like too much, at least.

Not just too much fighting or killing. 

Saving, too. 

Have to be saving or what’s even the point? He webbed a wounded civilian to rooftop safety, yanked an Iron Legionnaire clear seconds before a lobbed grenade turned his previous position into a hellscape of shrapnel and heat.

A split-second later, he flicked his wrist out and a glob of web-fluid disrupted drone targeting systems with precision that surprised him.

Still surprised him, anyway.

Even the ground shook through his senses, vibrations carrying from building foundations into his webs in ways that meant explosions three blocks east. Pedro clung to residential tower walls, web-lines anchored to window frames that cracked under strain as another shockwave rolled through concrete and steel.

At the very least, he wasn’t the only one having a bad day. 

Below, Batarian slave squad herded civilians toward transport pods, weapons trained on families too terrified to run. His spider-sense screamed that buzz of warning he still hadn’t gotten used to (probably never would), eyes tracking sniper laser painting his chest red.

Pedro dropped. Web-line snapping taut as he swung beneath targeting beam, feet connecting with Batarian torso hard enough to fold the alien around his boots. The slaver’s weapon discharged skyward as both bodies crashed through apartment window, glass raining down on civilians below.

Hope none of them got cut. Hope they were okay. Hope, hope, hope.

He rolled to his feet inside devastated apartment, enhanced reflexes tracking three heat signatures in the hallway. Web-shooters fired impact rounds that punched through armor plating, Batarians dropping before weapons could bear.

“Civilians clear on sector seven!” Voice carried over comms, but transmission fractured, no answer back. Never an answer when you needed one.

They were probably busy dying somewhere else.

Deep bleeding gash along his ribs from stray shard-fire burned with every breath, every movement. He didn’t think about it because thinking about wounds meant thinking about dying and thinking about dying meant—

Jumped back into the fight.

Three blocks east, the explosions Pedro felt originated from Hector Castiglione moving through back alleys near the reactor tower. A ghost with steel in his body rather than bone, the cyborg on the hunt.

It didn’t take long for him to find the prey; alien saboteurs in Eclipse armor placing charges on infrastructure that would kill many more than their weapons alone could.

Hector didn’t call for backup because he didn’t need it. He flowed from shadows, cybernetic limbs making no sound as they pulled silenced pistols free of their holsters magnetized to his body.

The executions were swift. Precise. Silent. 

And he was hunting again.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Half a mile away, Charles Bartlett lay prone on rooftop overwatch, omni-bow humming softly against enhanced muscle control that kept his hands steady despite everything falling apart below. He watched through scope as saboteurs fell to Hector’s methods, tracking Blood Pack commander directing troops in streets that connected all their separate battles.

“Targets eliminated,” he murmured into comm, words carrying to Pedro’s fractured transmission and Hector’s tactical network. His heavily modified omni-tool thrummed as it flash-forged another steel rod, calculations running through enhanced neural pathways that processed wind speed, target movement, structural penetration requirements.

Mathematics were easier than morality.

He exhaled, pulling back on the haptic field on his bow. Fired.

Kinetic emitters launched the rod at speeds that punched through the sound barrier. A half-second later, it did the same through metal, carbon fiber and an alien skull with force that painted the street below in patterns Charles had seen too many times to count.

He still counted, though. Always counting.

Forty minutes in and the initial shock was wearing off, which meant either they were winning or they’d gotten used to losing. The coordinated chaos of enhanced soldiers began overwhelming invaders, but coordination was fragile and chaos was permanent.

Pedro’s building shakes connected to Hector’s silent kills connected to Charles’s overwatch precision, three separate battles linked by shared destruction and communication static that meant too many people were already dead.

The battle was far from over but the initial push had been broken. Bloodied but unbroken, which sounded better than it felt.

Much better.

The cost was staggering. 

Smoke rising from burning buildings testified to damage that would take years to repair. Silence from entire city blocks spoke to losses that couldn’t be repaired at all. Over five thousand civilians dead, numbers that made Pedro’s head ache.

Should have been faster. Should have saved more. Should have, should have, should have.

Providence was scarred, bleeding, but standing. Which had to count for something.