Nightmare's Story - a mercenary's origin.

[Ced23Ric]

Prolog.

++++ Rememberance Log, Ijad engagement on Serene, Vauxhall colony.
++++ 112th Wardens, Garrison duty, commanding officer Lieutenant Patrick Decker.
++++ 13/03/0235-0700 local time; standard day: 26 earth hours.
++++ Recovered: 15/03/0235.

"Alright men, the shroom-heads are coming, and they're not happy, because we touched their next-of-kin in inappropriate places." Some of his men responded with chuckles. "Unless you feel like talk to God today, I suggest you all stay groovy, keep your eyes peeled and put down a hurtin' as soon as their scramblers are in optimal range." It wasn't like Decker to repeat instructions and brainwash his men like this, usually. Under normal circumstances, they knew what to do, waltzed in whenever some colonist decided to pick up his pitchfork and put the foot down. A multi-ton foot, but still. But those guys weren't just colonists with a bad day, those were Ijads. "Scott, Tomaz, I want their advance covered with frag shells, pushing them towards us. They won't break apart, they are like sheep. Always stuck together, like a herd. The rest, gun them down once they are past the trenches, so they cannot fall back with haste. Make your shots count, guys - I'd hate to recite shroomy psalms next week."

He was afraid of those things. They said they were still human, but part of a greater, better collective. As if. He had seen it in their eyes, that strange, eerie look of ... happiness. It reminded him of mindless drones, people high on fumes, or those crystal-snorting junkies of his hometown. Patrick was one of the few off-worlders. His colony had been sacked by the Ijad, and as he fought them before and survived, he made off the planet with the remaining SU personell. It wasn't so much that he hated the Ijad. After all, they were another group, going for a piece of the cake, spitting out propaganda, and yadda-yadda. It was the fact that they were not human. They occupied human bodies and stole their minds. No, Decker did not hate the Ijad - he found them to be disgusting, revolting.

With routine motions, to calm his mind, he went over his systems again. The TSM motivators were warmed up, ready to deliver a burst of speed when needed, the magazine of his main cannon was filled with mid-range incendiary rounds and the 3C link to his units was at full signal strength. All actuators responded fast and seamlessly, vision was good. The constant data stream from Cliff's surveillance 'Frame gave him full battlefield awareness. He was prepared as he could be, but regardless, fighting Ijad troops always made him feel uneasy. The creepy sensation of a segmented swarm, more abstract insect than human, ran down his spine, making him shiver and twitch with disgust. Only the feeling of his rough leather gloves on the controls gave him some consolation. At least he could shoot at the things he found so repulsive. Kill it, kill it with fire, he thought.

"Eyes on enemy, they're coming over the ridge." - Cliffs matter-of-factly voice was a beacon of stability. Since the first day his unit had picked up the calm Sensors-Operator, Patrick thoroughly enjoyed this idea of having someone watch over him. It was no wonder the men referred to Cliff as Daddy-C. Leveling his gun over the barricade, he waited. "Commencing shell-drop." And then, the orchestra of warfare began. With a sequenced cascade of thump-sounds, the mortars lobbed their payload up in the air, only to soar across the distance and impact behind the Scramblers. One found a straggler, impacted with the leg armor and drew the first blood of this engagement. Patrick smiled to himself. Then, the shroom-heads broke into sprint. Just as he planned for it, they came towards their entrenched position, where his six 'Frames where all primed to blast them in mid-range.

"Right flank, right flank, signatures powering up, right flank!" Cliff's voice burst through the comms, interrupting Patricks delight in the beauty of a plan coming together. A quick glance at the tactical display showed him three signatures, unmistakeably 'Frames, coming from a warehouse they thought to be civilian. "Kim, go with Cliff and investigate. Engage when necessary, make it quick! The rest, eyes front, fire when green!" One of his 'Frames came up from its kneeling position, fired the jumpjets and made towards the signatures. Meanwhile, the engagement started for real. The low and menacing thunder of their large-bore weaponry added to the thumping, as the other Frames fired upon the swarming half-a-dozen Scramblers ahead. Patrick took aim, and let lose a barrage of projectiles, using the barricade as support.

On the other side, plasma coils charged up and hurled blue lightning back at them, showering their cover with super-heated energy. A stray blast connected with a car, burning a man-sized hole through it. The Scramblers dispersed in unison, like a water running around a rock in the middle of their path. He could not fail to see the beauty in their movements, as they worked in cohesion only a hivemind generates. One of their quadrupped 'Frames climbed the barricade in front of him, and he greeted him with a volley of projectiles, chipping away leg armor. The burst of material secluded his target for a second, but then he saw the dust light up in blue plasma emissions, and cowered his Chub down.

Sizzling energy swooshed over his 'Frame's head, and he popped back up to return fire. Over the roar of his gun, he heard the radio. "... no- kzzckt- ...-lian 'Frames, they must've hid-... -'em before! I can't -..." the signal from Cliff broke off. In the distance, just three seconds later, a loud explosion bloomed, followed by the deep hum and thunder of a reactor going critical. "Daddy-C, come in." He waited. "Cliff, report in now." - "Kim here. Cliff is down. I am falling back, Uncle P." He heard the iron in her guts as Kim reported. With Cliff out, their surveillance was suddenly cut in half. The arty boys switched to semi-direct ballistic shelling, because they didn't receive trajectory updates anymore. And Decker cursed under his breath.

"This is horseshit, ladies, and I am not liking it. Now we got a real reason to be pissed off; let them know how you feel. " Of course, this was war and people died. Of course, Cliff knew that. Nevertheless, Decker took that personal, and he was not going to have any of it. Anger brewed up in him, and he popped back over his cover, to fire at his target. And then, he saw a light blue coruscation in the distance, in the corner of his eye. A split-second later, the energy blast impacted with his left torso.

++++ Unexpected end of rememberance log. Following data fragmented. Connection to pilot lost.

[Ced23Ric]

Hokay. The more you know. I'll keep it in mind and will incorporate it as such. I'm just going off the tidbits we have.

_______________

Prolog, Part II.

A bit later.

He felt wind on his face. Dampened, dull, sounds tried to creep into his ears. Everything was in a haze, like a blanket pulled over his sense, as he slowly woke up. The sensation of air on his skin was but something was odd about this. His left hand hurt. As a matter of fact, it hurt quite a lot, and he slowly started to realize that he couldn't properly move it. Patrick blinked, and the world was there again. Like a brute, it took a swing at him, spitting at him with the smell of fire. Something burnt, and it smelt like ... rubber. Rubber and chemicals. The picture solidified, and so did his perception of the scene, as it unfolded with him as it's lonely observant.

The reason why the wind was blowing over his face was that the left torso had been ripped off his 'Frame, and took the better portion of his cockpit with it. His Chub had fallen backwards, as the gyroscope desperately attempted to stabilize the machine, but with the torso gone, several system critcally damaged and the pilot incapacitated from the impact, the attempt failed. Slumped back, against a flat building, his 'Frame sat there, legs stretched out, primary weapon fallen out of the manipulator. It looked like a drunkard - that had his chest and face ripped open. Patrick tasted metal. His face felt wet. He didn't even check.

If he would've still had a funtioning MFD to display a damage report, he would not have looked. This 'Frame was done, and he guessed he would be, too, if he wouldn't get a move on soon. As he sat up from the pilot's couch, pain flared up and through his left arm. For a second, the warm, comforting numbness of unconciousness reached out to him, offered him peace and rest. Patrick almost accepted. He felt like something had chewed him up and spat him out. But it was more than apparent, he couldn't just give in. So he fought the feeling down, and finally sat upright. His eyes blinked, and he looked at the scene with bewilderment. More and more of his hearing returned.

As if cotton was stuck in his ears, the fire of the remaining Chubs was like a rumbling in the distance, even though he could very well see the muzzle flashes of the massive guns, and he knew what they should sound like. With shaky fingers, he grabbed his ComLink, strapped it to his head and turned it on. Static, at first, then muffled voices. "...-down and not responsive. Mommy T, do you have a visual on Uncle P?" Patrick sighed with relief. His second in command, Kimberley, held together, just as expected. With raspy voice, he radioed them back. "Ugh. I'm up. Uncle-P reporting in. Chub is done. I have a headache and my left hand is probably broken." - "Calling a medevac right now, Pat." - "Shoot the 'shroomies, I'll lay low." - "Confirmed."

He felt like he just had aged about twenty years. Every movement was painful, every step was one too many and he just wanted to curl up and sleep. Patrick slid down the wreck of his 'Frame and reached for his service pistol. Pulling it out from the holster, he made sure it hadn't been damaged and put it back after it proved to be fine. Slowly, limping, he cleared the crashsite, looked for somewhat durable cover and formed the plan to wait for the assault to pass over. While he listened to his company dealing with the Ijad attackers, he administered some field dressing to his more obvious wounds, and realized, as he was looking over the broken-down 'Frame, how lucky he had been.

The Chub was a durable 'Frame, meant to shrug of all but the larger weaponry, and it also was a strong, agile powerhouse. But that energyblast took him out with one shot to the torso, and that realization was alarming. Patrick wanted to see the debriefing data when this was over. Then, the bleak thought of their possible defeat knocked on his mental door, but he just scoffed at that. They all underwent intensive TTM training, their equipment was at the peak of technology and they didn't have to deal with bugs in their heads, telling them what to do. Of course they wouldn't lose - they would just fend them off, like they always did.

But then, there was Clifford's undeniable fate. Patrick stood up, shaking off his fatigue. Kim had survived whatever killed Cliff, and he realized in succession to that thought, that he was entirely unaware of how the battle was going. As if his prior gloom thoughts smirked at him, he scowled back into the distance. "Auntie K, did you take care of the flankers?" - "Roger that, Pat. Two Conscripts, one Scrambler. Guess the shroomies are in bed with the rebels. When ..." He heard the pause and dreaded it. "... when Daddy C went critical, he took the Scrambler with him. I had the cousins plaster their position while I staged a fighting retreat. That gave 'em the rest. All down." - "I'll waltz over and invesitgate. Finish this fight, Kim."

And so he marched on over, through the rubble of the industrial district they were defending. He thought about this whole war, how this triangle meant constant conflict for the Solar Union. The colonies that lose faith turn rogue, the ones that aren't properly controlled give in to pseudo-religious psalms of the Ijad. Sometimes, he felt like humanity loses it's sanity the farther away from home they go. As if the parents are gone, and the kid starts a party, rebellious, unable to see how it's for the benefit of all to just comply and do one's part. He smiled a grim smile, as he made his way over a crumbled smokestack, towards the black column of smoke that signified Clifford's grave. War never changes. As he stood on top of the smokestack, he felt wind on his face.

[Ced23Ric]

Thanks for the feedback, and my apologies for any fallacies or mistakes in my writing. While I'm more than able to lead a conversation and get my point across in writing, some finer elements of large-block writing elude me, as English isnt't my native tongue. I try and find myself a lector to work out the kinks as I go along.

Prolog, Part III.

When he jumped down from the smokestack, Patricks boots threw up dust and pebbles - and he was quickly reminded of his current state of health. Sharp pain taunted him, and for a split second he almost keeled over. One step, stumbling, a second step, firmer, a third step, stabilised. Shaking it off like a bad hangover, he trodded on, towards the smoke rising from the battlesite on the right flank. His mouth felt awfully dry, and the taste of his own blood made him nauseous. Patrick spat out and saw his saliva paint the light grey concrete rubble with a dark, brown tone. Fiddling around in his mouth with his tongue, he quickly tallied up what had transpired. One tooth was lose and he had bitten his inner left cheek. His tongue felt also a bit numb, probably squeezed it too hard when the beam impacted. He had worse.

Climbing over a pile of concrete smithereens, walking around burnt out cars, he made his way to the explosion site. As he navigated his way through the rubble, the concert of his unit and the Ijad trading fire became more dull, lower in frequency. From the sounds of it, and from the radio traffic he overheard, it was going well for them. Just as expected. They chose the site for that exact reason - lots of cover, open field in front, multiple lines to fall back to. Pretty much a perfect location to defend. He was pretty sure that the Ijad knew that, too. They might have lunatic visions and smoke alot of herbs, dance naked around fires when they weren't praying to their god, but they could fight - and those energy weapons of theirs packed a punch. Ijad weren't dumb. So why did they come here?

Thoughts like this normally did not cross his mind. Usually, he would simply get order to attack, defend, search, subdue or destroy something, concentrate on the fight, take the targets down and report back to HQ. But usually, he wouldn't walk around in his jumpsuit, all banged up, unable to take part in the fight that went on. Patrick detested this impression of being powerless. "Auntie K, status?" - "We got it, Pat. Will contact you when needed. Cousin T is out of shells, he is moving up to support midra- ... Howard, Lancer charging, aiming at you, head low!" He waited one eternal second, as Kimberley's replay was interrupted by her warning. The unmistakeable crack of a supersonic projectile piercig the air followed shortly after. "Pat, stay low, can't talk right now. Auntie K out." And she was right. Even though they felt powerful, invincible, they were not. And even though he always tried to play things cool, this was serious.

Alone with his thoughts again, scolding himself for breaking radio discipline, he walked around the corner. There it was - the crater of Cliffords blown-up 'Frame. Small fires guided him towards the spot, and thrown-over cars, 'Frame pieces, molten plastics told of the explosion. He also saw the two Conscript 'Frames, gone with the blastwave. Like puppets, thrown against a wall, the 'Frames leaned against two buildings, smoldering, their front armor pierced by shrapnel and the cockpits mangled. Those rebels were dead and down for sure. The Scrambler was visible, too. Blue arks of electricity popped up here and there, and one of its four legs was still moving, erratically. The image of a spider that he would smush as a child popped into his mind. Just like the spider, it would twitch and still appear to be alive, despite the tremendous structural damage.

Ijad 'Frames were alien to him; the way they moved, their weaponry, their striking black and white colour scheme in complete disregard of camouflage. Out of necessity for comfort, he drew his sidearm and marched towards the machine. Fascinated, appalled, afraid and curious at the same time. Patrick forgot about Clifford, not because he wasn't important, but because his mind couldn't process all these emotions at once. Cliff had been filtered out, put on the backburner. With his gun up and both hands at the grip, he approached the downed 'Frame, looking for any survivors. Those Scramblers were resilient, with redundant systems and a lot of stuff around the center torso, they usually broke down before one could just kill the pilot. Headshots were not the way to go with these. There was no head to go for, in a way.

As he came closer, the bottom hatch of the Scrambler popped open. A hiss, faint smoke emerging, pressure equalizing, and something - or someone - fell out of the machine. Instinctively, his hand rose, bringing the pistol to bear. It was another human, a woman in her mid-thirties, he would guess. Nevertheless, that was his enemy, right? He moved closer and raised his voice. "You there, no sudden movements, or a bullet it is!" He got closer, licked his lips. Maybe he could interrogate her. Find out what these attacks were all about, solve the puzzle. A tap on his radio, and the channel to his unit opened. But then, he hesitated. Patrick saw her curl up, her own jumpsuit cut in several places, blood flowing from the wounds. He closed the channel again, for no reason he could name. But he knew it would be better this way.

The closer he got, the more he could make out. She was in pain, and her muffled groans reached his ears, despite the ringing tone of his overtaxed eardrums he still heard. With a low sigh, Patrick holstered his pistol. It was so easy to shoot a 'Frame, but to heartlessly execute a wounded soldier, it took a certain amount of malice he just couldn't muster. Patrick was a soldier himself. He expected mercy when he surrendered, and he expected mercy when he was defenseless. Despite the years with the Terran Expeditionaries, he hadn't gotten addicted to the fighting. And it was never about killing the others. His ideal was there - defending what belongs to the Union, subdueing the rebels, drive away the fanatics. He was no agressor. He radioed Kim again. "Auntie K, ETA on that Medevac?" - "Control said T-10. Anything happen?" - "Nah, just curious. So T-3 left?" - "Roger that, Uncle P." - "Copy. Uncle P out." Just in case.

Patrick knelt down next to her, and took a quick glance. Her eyes were fluttering, her breathing was shallow, her body was obviously weak. "Hey, can you hear me? I am Lieutenant Decker, Terran Expeditionary Marines. You will be taken in for interrogation. A medevac is on its way." She looked up to him, through blooshot eyes, her left hand seeking his right. Dumbfounded, he almost jerked his hand out of her reach, but he fought his repulsion down. her slender fingers wrapped themselves around his hand. "Why do we have to die, Patrick Decker? Why can't we live in peace, be ..." Her voice broke, and she gasped for air. "... be free. Be one. Why do you hate us? Why do you offend, hurt and insult us?" Patrick blinked. Apparently, this shroomie was delusional. He blamed the shock for it. Clearly, this was all wrong, and it was the Ijad attacking them.

He cleared his throat, checked he body briefly for any major broken bones, then he shoved his arms underneath her and lifted her up. It hurt, but he needed to get her away from all these 'Frames and the former battle site. "Hang tight, lady, you best not die, because we have a lot of questions." He said to her, as he carried her back through the rubble. She was already passed out - but breathing.

[Ced23Ric]

Prolog, Part IV

As he carried her through the rubble, Patrick looked at her. No signs of mutations, no stuff coming out of her ears, normal, if fair complexion, shoulder-long brown hair, a few freckles ... nothing out of the ordinary, really. That was on a simplisitic and analytical point of view. On a totally different aspect, he would even find her somewhat attractive. She had a slim figure, defined muscles and her face was certainly appealing. Which confused him, because up until now, it had been so easy to simply imagine the shroomies as these weird, alien beings. But she was clearly human, clearly bleeding red blood and she clearly was not otherworldly. Which only made his prior justififactions for the hostilities harder to uphold. Right now, she appeared anything but hostile. Fragile, almost.

Patrick climbed over burst concrete, biting his lower lip to take his mind of the stinging pain of his left hand and pressed onwards, towads the wreck of hus own 'Frame. The medevac should arrive any second, and he wanted to leave the battlefield with his captive. When he arrived at the Chub, he laid her down in the shade and cover of a half-collapsed wall and opened his CommLink. "Auntie K, Medevac isn't here yet. I'll tend to the Ijad pilot myself. Let's hope she makes it. Any ETA update rom HQ?" - "Good god, Pat, did you find yourself a shroomie? Just put him down, he had no problems offing Daddy-C!" - "ETA of that medevac, Kim?" - "Oh, screw you, pseudo-humanitarian. ETA is +5 due to hostile flak, so T-4 now. Hope that asshole bleeds out before they come. Auntie K out." He sighed, as the channel was closed again. Could he really mind Kim's reaction?

After all, that woman there, in her black and white jumpsuit, killed Clifford without hesitation. The other soldiers of his unit sure shared Kimberleys resentments. There is no forgiving if you take one from the family. Those bonds had made them survive engagements other units cracked under. But he couldn't brin himself to shoot her. She was defenseless - and clearly, no source of harm for him right now. Another sigh left his mouth, and a craving for a cigarette rose up in him like a sudden realisation. Patting down his vest, he found a pack of nicotine gums, popped one into his mouth and grudgingly started chewing. It stopped the side-effects, but never the urge of manual and oral sensation. Today would be a good day to quit quitting smoking, Patrick thought to himself.

Before tending to her he felt her vital signs, weak pulse, shallow breathing, cold to the touch but she was more likely passed out than in a coma. Letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he grabbed the partially used field-dressing kit from before, cleaned her cuts up as good as possible, and began bandaging her wounds. -Why do you heal what you injured? - He blinked, took a look around, but could not find a source for the disembodied, reverberating voice. -Why do you hurt what could be a part of you?- Confused, and increasingly irate, Patrick stood up, instinctively reaching for his pistol. The voice subsided, no longer speaking in his head. Nevertheless, he was alarmed now. Back down on one knee, he proceeded to warily finish another bandage. -You do not seem to know or understand. Regretful.- "Okay, that is enough. Who are you? What do you want? Show yourself!" he snapped. This must be some kind of trickery that he didn't understand yet.

As he scanned his surroundings, he growled. "Not funny. Not at all." Then, a rational thought hit him. He opened his CommLink Channel again. "Auntie K, I hope the Medevac comes soon. I might be halucinating. Please advise them accordingly. Do you copy?" - "Copy that, will tell them. You alright, Pat? You are talking all kind of weird things since you got shot." - "ACK, don't worry." - "Almost done here, Ijad are retreating, it seems. The brothers want to chase them, but I'd rather preserve resources." - "Let 'em go." -"Alright. Falling back to defense positions, disengaging hostiles. Auntie K out." Just in case. In case he had bumped his head so hard that he was starting to imagine things.

Again, he tried to concentrate on bandaging his captive's wounds. She moved and a muffled groan indicated that she was between here and there, but alive. Again, he reached for her neck to feel her pulse. -Don't let go.- That was when he hesitated and started to connect the dots. "You are ... one of them. The mushroom inside her body. The parasite." is what he said to the seemingly absent-minded body in front of him. -You are her guardian now. We have failed her. We forgive you for your transgressions. Come and see, and you can receive absolution. There is no need to be alone.- Propaganda, lies, deceit, fabrications! His mind revolted at the realisation that the Ijad thing tried to convert him to their faith. He did let go of her, even got up and took a step back.

"Screw you. Screw your agenda." he scowled. But nevertheless, he felt guilty. A feeling that crept up from behind, scratching his back, itching his lower spine, troubling his stomach. He did not know why, but something made him regret these armed conflicts. He couldn't quite put the finger on it, but something was off, and he had just realized it for the first time. Standing at the crossway, between burying that feeling or pursuing it, he had to make a decision, as the Medevac VTOL appeared in the distance. Following gut judgement, he put his hand on hers again and thought to the entity somewhere in her body. -Can you hear me?- -In a haze. Distorted. Static. Chaotic. You are not One with us. But I can make out your words, from the storm that is in your mind.- He let go and muttered: "In that case, we're going to have a long conversation midflight." Then, he popped green smoke from his field kit and waited for the VTOL to land.

[Ced23Ric]

Prolog, Part V.

The heavy steps of six 'Frames announced the end of combat to Patrick. They came out from their foxholes, stood up behind scorched buildings and scanned their surroundings. All was quiet, except for the hissing of his smoke marker and the war machines, marching towards him. He felt small, vulnerable outside of his own 'Frame, but he raised his chin up. The sight of his machine put down like a rabbid dog irked him. Banning the picture past his periphery, he looked up to Kimberley's Chub. A few rays had grazed her armor, but the Chub was a sturdy design, meant to wheather harscher things. With hydraulic squealing, she lifted up her massive assault rifle and open a Comm Channel. "Got yourself a girlfriend now, eh? What do you think they're gonna do with her, Pat? Put her down now, if you feel merciful. That's what that grashing huram deserves anyway." - "No can do, Kim. I think I signed a charta on that matter."

Patrick lifted the frail body of his captive up on his arms and turned his back to Kim. For a split-second, he heard motivators wince, and before his mental eyes, she leveled the devastating rifle on the Ijad pilot. But then, the 'Frames moved out, in double file. The brothers grabbed his broken walker and dragged it with them, shouldering their weapons. They had been victorious, as he always expected. Patricks gaze fell down, into the face of the brunette Scrambler-pilot. "You need to accept that we don't like it when people steal from us." he murmured. His mind started to rationalise again, went back to using his knowledge to shield him from this nagging feeling of guilt deep inside his stomach. This was the enemy, and they were thieves and invaders. There was no need for compassion. He would just act according to code and rules of engagement.

Patrick was a good soldier. He knew that. And he held on to that thought, as the weight of the woman made him proud. He did not fight to destroy, he fought to protect, and he would not become an infamous butcher. Things like this were important to him, allowed him to operate properly in the field. When the VTOL showed itself in the distance, he took another deep breath, and steadied himself. He would assure that she received medical attention and then... he didn't know what came after that. The TEM would interrogate her and incarcerate her, after all, she was a hostile combattant. That was they way things went. Maybe she could drop her symbiont, and return to the Union. Maybe he had saved from being enslaved by these weird parasites. It was a thought that reassured him, that he was doing the right thing here.

The VTOL landed in a clearing of rubble, and Marines jumped out, establishing a perimeter. Two of them, one clearly a medic, jogged towards him, as he took his stroll for the flyer. "Lieutenant Decker, 112th Wardens, correct? I am Specialist Porter, 13th Medical Corps." - "Aye Porter, in the flesh. I have a few bruises, my 'Frame is down and is being dragged of by the rest of my company. And I have this. An Ijad pilot. She bailed as her Scrambler was toasted." - "Lower priority. Corporal, grab her. You're coming with me, Lieutenant." They wandered off, back into the VTOL. The Marines embarked their vessel again and the machine lifted off. Patrick showed and explained his wounds, and the medic applied first measures. A bandage here, peroxide there, synthflesh here. He would be off-duty for a while.

The wind blew through the cabin, as the VTOL crossed the land underneath. The town was deserted, as the SU had evacuated all personell and inhabitants other than the standing fighters. The TEM had everything under control, and soon, this Ijad insurgence would be history. Another victory for the rightful owners of Vauxhall. His mind calmed down, as the breeze of the wind ran through his hair and over his skin, cooling him down. Eventually, Patrick stopped paying attention to the medic how took care of his minor injuries and bandaged his hand up. The day had just begun, it must be around 0800 hours now, and he was already done with his job for the time being. Not too shabby, not too...-

"Incoming! We have Ijad drones on the right, man the MG! They're coming in fast! Holy hutch, it's a whole swarm! I have five, no, six bogeys!" The hectic screams of the copilot broke his trance, and out of reflex, he raised his right hand - only to realize that he was not sitting in his 'Frame, and didn't have any considerable weapon system available. Instead, he looked at his trophy, put his right hand on her wrist.-What is going on?- -You need to stay calm. You need to understand. You cannot take one from our midst, bleak warrior. There will be repercussions.- He let go, stared at her body, again appalled and repelled by the parasite. Of course - what illusions did he have?

"HQ, this is Medevac-13/7, we are being pursued by six hostile bogeys, requesting immediate air support! We cannot outrun them, do you copy HQ?" Patrick sighed. The desperation in the copilot's voice, barely audibly over the wind picking up as the craft accelerated, did not help to dissolve the knot in his stomach. And then, to underline the situation like a metaphorical I-told-you-so, an energy lance zinged by the VTOL. Another one followed quickly after, and the plane began to lean into the current, dodging the attack as best as it could. Patrick grabbed the Ijad woman and strapped her into the rigs of the seat next to him, doing the same for himself. "Just my luck.", he thought.

And then, one blast hit the right rotor, ripping through the propeller. Like a whipped beast, the metal screamed, tore and shredded itself, sending shrapnell in every direction. The starboard gunner was hit by pieces, and fell back in his belt. A gush of blood splattered the marine next to him and the craft bucked, threw itself to the side. The second engine roared, inefficiently attempting to keep the plane in the air. The copilot yelled, again. "We're hit HQ, we're going down, sending coordinates, get here hutchin' fast, or these shroomies will-" They crashed, and Patricks world went black, for the second time today.

[Ced23Ric]

Chapter I, Part I.

The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.
- Flannery O'Connor

Patrick's mind slowly crawled back into his body, and instantly, he realized that he was somewhere else. His head was droning, and every inch of his body ached. But, that was just him. Around him, people were talking quietly. Bright, white light bathed the room he was in. He could sense a different pressure, thick and recycled air, and as he blinked, trying to focus the image, he saw that they had gathered around his bed. He smelled medicine, the distinct odor of rubbing alcohol, and he also tasted iron on his tongue. Blood, for sure. With a smirk, he licked his lips and slowly sat up, which caused the murmuring to die down. The faces all turned towards him. In their middle, the Ijad pilot he had dragged from the wreck of her 'Frame.

"Yeah, right. Because that's totally ... totally what I want right now. Someone get me a coffee, then let the questioning begin." Sarcasm tainted his rough voice. His captors looked at each other, then the woman he had attempted to capture himself stepped forward. "There is no need for hostility anymore, Patrick Decker. You are now our guest. It is not us who will raise the questions. It is you who will. You saved me. I saved you. I repaid what you did, and am now bound to you, as the book tells me to. Please accept my apology that we did not ask you for your approval - you were comatose for about two days." She smiled an uneasy smile, and he could tell that she had genuine problems admitting these things.

Then, it hit him. These Ijadee had probably saved his life because he had tried to save hers, and now, due to some odd ritual or whatever, these lunatics thought he was somehow bound to her life. Because that made sense to them. But it made none to him. She should've felt lucky she got out, drop him then and there and get back to her shroomie friends, and not invite him to a teaparty of brainwashed bookmunchers. Groggily, he assumed a sitting position and yawned, regretting it right after. As his lungs stretched, he felt the sharp sting of a wound on his torso that was still healing, hidden under a bandage. His right hand slowly glided over the fabric, and his face contorted as he found the spot. Must've been a deep gash.

-Patrick.- "What? I am trying to get my stuff together here, alright?" -I know. Your pain is shared. I can feel it.- "Well, then you should know that it hutchin' blows, and I am not really in the mood for brain chats, alright?" -I understand. I will be here.- He shook his head, and looked around himself. He hasn't touched any of them, so it was a bit confusing where the disembodied voice had come from. Expecially since it sounded different than before. It was more of a warm and deep baritone, and less the velvet purr of her brain-bug voice. As his head turned left, something grazed his back. Out of instinct, he reached back to scratch the spot, only to make contact with some sort of cable.

He pulled it forward, only to realize that it was not a cable, but looked pretty much like the antennae the other Ijadee around him had hanging down from the back of their heads, too. And as he tugged on it, he felt that it was attached to the back of his head. He smiled, for a second. "You got to be kidding me." Patrick sighed deeply. -Alright, who are you?- -I am Lenera, and I want to be your companion, Patrick. While you were asleep, I watched over you. You are a brave warrior with a good heart.- -Yeah, yeah, all that jazz. What if I want you to go?- -Then I will. And it will take a few days.- -Okay, pack your things, Lenera.- Because the last thing he needed in his UMFL file was Ijadee infestation.

"You must still be tired, Patrick. The others will go. I will stay by your side and be your aide." He looked up, and his blue eyes met her green ones in a staring gaze. When he opened his mouth, it felt dry. He moved his lips, but they began to shiver. He tried to formulate words, but they became jumbled and messed up way before they reached his vocal chords. And then, as the last of the Ijads had left his room, as they shared this long stare, he felt his eyes water and his throat knot up. Patrick tried again to speak, but as the realisations of his situation finally broke through his wall of displayed coolness, and the horror and the fright branded over him, he finally collapsed.

It started with a muscle contraction in his stomach. Instinctively, the well-trained, built man wrapped his arms around his aching body and gasped for air. His eyes swelled up and the wetness increased. A first tear ran down his cheek. As it crossed his upper lip, he pressed his mouth shut, blinked and sent more tears on their way. Silently, he shook and sobbed, afraid of losing himself. Afraid of never seeing his friends again, of having his brain eaten by some disgusting alien parasite. Patrick closed his eyes and bent forward, pulled his legs up and curled up. The soldier was, for the first time in a long career of warfare on many planets, truly frightened. The sheer prospect of losing himself was petrifying.

Her hand gently brushed through his short hair. "I am sorry, Patrick. But we needed to join the two of you, to get you out of the coma. Your head ... was injured. Lenera volunteered to assist and patch it up. I told him what you did. Please don't be angry." She paused, and as he looked up throug his wet eyes, he saw her expression of uneasyness. "My name is Lucia. I owed you a life, so I gave one back." And then, she continued to awkwardly pat his head, obviously taxed with the task to calm him down. "I wish I could say thank you, Lucia." Patrick said, with raspy voice.

[Ced23Ric]

Chapter I, Part II.

"The greatest challenge to any thinker is stating the problem in a way that will allow a solution."
- Bertrand Russell

Patrick sighed and took a sip of water. His body still hurt, his mind still raced. The night so far had been nothing short of horrible, with nightmares chasing each other. He woke up every hour, wet with cold sweat and on the verge of ripping the Ijad symbionte off his head. A gentle voice, deep in the back of his thoughts whispered "Relax. Don't. Breathe." and he did. When he went back to his unrestful sleep, everything came back shortly. In the middle of the night, after another chaotic rendition of tendrils ripping his head apart, he made a decision. Patrick got up, went to bathroom, washed his face with cold water and sat back down on his drenched bed.

"Lenera, I ... guess we need to talk."
-I know what ails you. Your fears are understandable. Understand that I am truly apologetic for the visions my presence provokes.- The voice of his new companion reverberated gently in his mind.
"Why you?"
-Because I wanted to. And you needed help. Your brain is damaged and aches, with connections severed and lanes destroyed.-
"What do you mean, you wanted to? Was there a ... raffle?"
-No. We would not gamble a life like this. You have proven yourself to be of value, as a warrior and as a being.- an answer that startled Patrick.

"So, because I was good enough, you jumped in to patch up my brain?"
-Yes. I am what you would call a veteran. You are my fourth host. I had the most knowledge on how to assist your recovery.-
He stuttered. "What ... what is it that you ... you do right now?"
-I am a bypass for your damaged nerves. Your thoughts flow through me. Think of me like an external series of cables, bridging severed lanes.-
"So you know what I think and feel and want and such?"
-The things that I can grasp, yes. But I respect your will and don't listen to them much.- the symbiont explained, like a patient teacher.
-Surface thoughts are easier to listen to, your deeper thoughts are sealed unless I would invest a lot of energy or you open up willingly.-
"So you know how my night is going?"
-Yes and no. I feel your fright and terror.- Lenera paused. -I do not see what causes them.-

Patrick stopped there, drinking another sip of water. It tasted fresh and the cold liquid gave his raspy voice relief as it ran down his dried out throat. He realised how much water he had lost during that night and drank another gulp. Maybe Lenera was honest about his explanations, maybe the parasite was trying to give him a false sense of privacy. Things Patrick was no expert on: Aliens in his mind and brain. But he had no choice, it seemed. If the doctors, Lucia and the symbiont were right, his brain was shredded and he apparently needed the alien. The problem was that he had no clue, no concept of the longterm effects. Whether he would slowly or instantly lose himself. Whether this was betrayal. He felt weak and tired.

He became a soldier because he was brave. "Lenera, make it stop."
-What would that be, Patrick?-
"The nightmares. The shivers. The panic attacks."
-I can do that for you. Do you want pleasant dreams instead?-
"No. No illusions, no fairy tales. I want my mind to go blank, so I can rest."
-Then it will be done. I will watch over you as you replenish your energy.-
"Stay away from my thoughts." the soldier insisted, much out of reflex.
-As it is said, so it will be.-

Patrick emptied the glass of water, laid back down and closed his eyes. He took another deep breath, and felt a wave of serenity slowly wash over his tumulting, raging brain. Like a dull blanket, he felt his heartrate go down, his breath flattened and his muscles lost tension. Just like that one day when he was out with Kimmy, and they smoked some of that mushroom stuff she grabbed from a dealer. Nothing he would repeat, because he puked his guts out a few hours later, but the feeling was identical. Peaceful. Restful. He fell asleep, and for the first time this night, he dreamt of nothing and finally found the rest he was looking for. As if he would dive into a deep, black body of lush water.

[Ced23Ric]

Chapter I, Part III.

"We have no eternal allies, and we have no perpetual enemies. Our interests are eternal and perpetual, and those interests it is our duty to follow."
- Henry John Temple Palmerston.

His rehabilitation went ... surprisingly well. Most likely due to Lenera's influence, but still.

"That is very good, Patrick. It appears as if you are almost back to normal."
"You mean, save for the bug in my brain."
The doctor cringed. "I wish you would have stopped being disrespectful to our joint allies."
"That's ironic, I wish I would've stopped being joined with them." He replied under his breath
-You shouldn't do that to him. He is trying to assist your well-being, Patrick-, his symbiont gently chimed in.
Patrick sighed. "My apologies, Doctor. Soldier's sarcasm."
"Ah, yes. Of course. Well, let's do the next test - short term memory."

Patrick's path to restoration was a lot rockier than he had hoped for. Nevertheless, with Leneras assistence and the medical staff's persistent work, most of his wounds were now sealed and his brain had some of it's own nerve paths back. They had told him that the connection with Lenera was still the only thing keeping him alive, and in long talks at night, the UMFL legionaire had come to terms with that. The symbiont was oddly understanding. The two accepted each other, even if Patrick was constantly reminded of a crook and his parole officer. Their connection couldn't be severed, they stood on opposing sides, but they had to walk together. Patrick, because he needed Lenera, the parasite because he had been more or less assigned to Patrick, albeit voluntarily. After the rehabilitation therapy, he returned to his room.

"When will I be able to live without you again?" he inquired, after a long moment of contemplative silence.
-I will formulate the answer bluntly, because you are a brave man. Never. The damage is irreversible.-
"So we are stuck with each other? That was a pretty big sacrifice, Lenera. You don't even know me."
-The truth of your words does not change the righteousness of my choice. Lucia was very adamant about your behaviour. Her word is of value to me and manifested my decision as it stands.-
"So, because I was nice to her, you are bonding yourself to me until one of us dies?"
-That would be a simplified, but correct conclusion. You underestimate the value of emotions, Patrick.- the symbionte replied.
"Alright then. If I am stuck with you, we might aswell try and make the best of it. How can I repay you?"
-Again, your judgment is based on concepts that are known, but alien to me. My service requires no returning favor. Being joined with you is a task, and I have decided to accept it. You are now my partner. Usually, there is a long ceremony and a phase of growing acquaintance to verify compability, but ... we didn't have that time.-
"It was a bet." Patrick judged, warily.
-Quite the opposite. It was a desperate move to save a valueable life. I would like to think that I succeeded and we can go even further.-
"Where do we start?"
-By getting back to full health, Patrick. Patience is a characteristic that I will attempt to impart to you.-

He leaned back, with a sigh. The information only confirmed some of his fears and assumptions, but the longer the thoughts had to sink in, the less bad they felt. He knew of other Ijad carriers im the UMFL or even, in the TEM. He also knew that while they were scrutinized, they did perform well enough to be fit for service. It still felt off to have this voice in his head and lead conversations with his external subconsciousness, but at least ... at least it made sense. The confusion was dampened by Lenera's calm demeanor, and as the parasite answered his every question with painstaking pedantery, Patrick felt more and more in the know - and thusly, comfortable. On the other hand, the alternative was death or coma at the very least, so considering his small amount of choices, Lenera wasn't too bad.

He was thirsty again, and so he emptied another cup of water. Irritatingly enough, his need for the restroom was less than he'd figured ot be normal, but maybe he was just sweating it all out and didn't really notice. After all, he was still laborating on his injuries, even if they got better fast. His hand was still all bandaged up, but the articulation returned. The scratches were just small scabby patches now, probably gone in a week. It appeared as if Patrick had a little bit of luck, ignoring the fact that was permanently bound to a parasite that he abhorred just a few days back. But in hindsight, it could have been way worse. Way, way worse. As he filled his cup again, with slow and controlled movements, he pondered his future, but couldn't find a step to start. Tired of his day and recovery, Patrick closed his eyes and dozed off.

Announced by laughter, the door to his room flew open after a courtesy knock. Still in a haze, his eyes didn't focus right away, but his ears picked up sharply what was being said. With growing excitement and confusion, two women and four men waltzed into his room like they were living there. Two of them, big and brawly guys, immediately occupied his couch, as the women rushed for his bed. He blinked, as he tried to focus on them.

"Hey guys, who wants to punch a shroomie?!" Kimberley exclaimed, with a cheerful smile, as she raised her hand.