Chapter Text
Madness. Goddamn madness.
He knew it would be the second he got demoted and they put Warner in charge in his place. Warner, who damn near shit himself twice during basic. Warner, who used to let out those tiny little sobs in the darkness of the barracks when he thought no one could hear or see. Zaeed heard, and Zaeed saw. Always pays to be aware of who may have a gun at your back some day, no matter what team they’re presently on.
Warner, who had never known for one moment in his goddamn life what it was like to go hungry, or scared, or hating alone out into the night.
No secret that Warner was only here to prove to Admiral Daddy that one day he’d measure up.
Only he’d never measure. Zaeed had pegged that the first day.
Zaeed wished he’d cottoned to a hell of a lot more than that. He’d never have enlisted.
It sounded alright at first. A bit of adventure, a warm bed and reliable meals always do when you’re sixteen with no prospects and the wrong kind of enemies. And sixteen turns to eighteen easy enough. A quick cash grab from the local mysteria dealers landed him enough credits to buy the right identification. Documents that the dress blues on the recruitment corners weren’t too keen to scrutinize when they were fighting first contact with an alien race made up of nothing but talons and teeth.
He’s not under any illusions that they took him because they saw talent. They took him because they needed meat.
Still, he did have illusions. For one, he’d thought his skills and background would serve him just fine. He knew a good scrap. He didn’t scare easy. He knew his way around guns and knives of all make and model. He’d lasted through the Depression of ‘52, and he’d come out alright. A few scars, seen and unseen, but mostly alright. And at least from what he’d heard about them, the turians would give him a good straight up fight. He liked that idea just fine.
What he didn’t know was how little his skills meant when it came to actual military life.
He didn’t know, for example, how much goddamn ball-busting and politics he’d have to put up with. Blood and guts, he’d expected. Bootlicking was beyond him. And now he’d paid for that mistake. Goddamnit, they’d all paid.
Warner had the right connections, and Warner said “Sir, yes, sir,” to all the right people with no trace of resentment. Warner had a gentle, pretty boy face, and no permanent sneer. Warner had never spit at the feet of a commanding officer he disagreed with. And now they had airdropped on a scouting mission to Canto, a suspected dextro resource moon, and Warner was leading the bloody charge.
Leading. Sure. If that’s the official term for cowering behind a rock while your squad gets picked off piecemeal by land mines and turian snipers. Say what you will about them, but the birds can shoot.
Warner had made no plan for what to do if they encountered resistance straight out of the gate, no matter how many times Zaeed had asked. “No need. It’s routine reconnaissance, and the scanners confirm it’s abandoned.” Then he’d sniffed as if Zaeed were nothing more than lint at his shoulder. And Zaeed had seethed and shifted, but he’d done it quietly. Because that’s what soldiers do, isn’t it? Recognize authority? Hadn’t Zaeed’s open insolence been what put him under Warner’s heel in the first place? Maybe he was worked up for nothing. Maybe it would pay to play it quiet.
That was hours ago. A lifetime ago. In the safety of the ship. Long before the shuttles dropped them into this trap laden hell. The snipers had herded them like cattle, and with no leadership, the fresh-faced Alliance privates panicked just as all dumb animals do.
Now, Zaeed watches the bloody flower form as Vicker’s head blows right in front of him. Bright girl. Wanted to go career. He takes stock of the angle and dodges left behind the parts of what looks like an old mining vehicle. Too little cover here.
“Warner, pull your sorry arse together and flank right.” Zaeed’s the one yelling the orders now, has been for what seems like ages, and he gives fuck-all about proper protocol. All semblance of formality dropped the second they were set upon and Warner clammed up and ran. Zaeed glances back. Can’t see any sign of Warner, but he can see the gobs of vomit leaking from behind that boulder. So much for that plan.
Zaeed has never seen battle before, not against professionals, not like this. But he’s seen enough blood and death not to piss himself over it. So he lays cover for what’s left of his team as they dwindle and turns steely eyes out to evaluate. Should be at least seven turians left clumped by three upper windows of the main facility 70 meters on.
Hicks, Bauman, and Andreas slip to the right, squirming into place behind a fuel container that could blow any second and take them all with it. Hicks has a pistol low on ammo. By Zaeed’s count, Bauman still has five concussion grenades and knows how to use them. And Andreas is a decent shot with that sniper rifle.
But the turians still have the numbers and the high ground. He’ll be flanked eventually if he stays. Forward is the only way onward. Zaeed catches Hicks’ scared eyes across the field and gives the signal to move to a pylon fifty meters hence. He knows the snipers will clip Hicks before he makes it, but the body will give Andreas forward cover. Getting Bauman in close is the only shot they have. Hicks is all blond hair and blue eyes, nodding gratefully at him, just so damned relieved that Zaeed is taking bloody charge.
As soon as Hicks falls, Zaeed signals Andreas to move up. She runs fast as a rabbit and slides into place. Good girl. Together, they lay down fire from both sides now. He takes down one bird. Andreas has hers taking cover. It gives Bauman what he needs to move up and mark the roosts. Time slows a tic. Zaeed watches the glorious arcs as one after the other, three grenades slide home. Hell of an arm, Bauman.
Then time snaps back. The rumble, the noise and flash, it’s damn hard to get used to. No grenades in the gutters back home. But when the shock fades, a victory of silence greets them. Such as it is.
Once they’ve confirmed the facility is clear, Zaeed tells Andreas and Bauman to set up comms and an FOB at the largest building. He’ll go for Warner alone. Andreas catches his eyes as he reaches the door. As if she knows he might just walk out and keep walking. He doesn’t have much voice left, so he just nods a grimace in her direction and turns. Not sure if she takes his meaning. Not sure if he cares.
He finds the First Lieutenant, grey-faced and sweaty behind the same goddamned rock, mumbling how it was an ambush. No shit. How there was nothing they could have done to prepare. Zaeed begs to differ, but he waits to see where this goes. Warner takes to his feet, now, finally. He straightens his collar and straightens his back, and a thinking calm starts settling over his pretty boy face.
He nods, sagely, as if he didn’t have clumps of this morning’s breakfast slipping down his seams. He says he knew Zaeed could do it. Great test of leadership, all part of the plan. He says he’ll put Zaeed up for a promotion. The brass will hear all about it. They’ll give them both medals for this. All the survivors. But especially Zaeed. Zaeed, the first man forward. Zaeed, the hero. This is fine, Warner says. It’ll all work out just fine. Then Warner, with no balls to speak of previously, suddenly finds the knackers to reach out to try and shake Zaeed’s hand.
Warner, who had gone dead silent for the first twenty minutes while Zaeed scrambled over bodies and screamed himself hoarse to give orders over the sound of his own squad exploding. Warner, who would stair-step his career over the backs of all these dead kids and never look back. These, and how many more? If he succeeds, if he bows and scrapes and licks his way all the way up to the top, then how many more will die for it?
Four left. Four out of seventy.
For a chunk of rock no one needs or wants. Just a mark on an old man’s map.
Zaeed returns to the FOB.
“Warner?” Andreas asks, despite certainly hearing those last two shots, the ones that came far too late.
“Birds got him,” Zaeed answers.
Bauman drops his head a little lower, eyes on his fingers as they twitch at the comm. dials, but he doesn’t speak.
“Damn shame,” Andreas says. But there’s a grim smile in her throat when she says it.
Zaeed thinks he can count on them to cover, at least for a little while. They didn’t see anything, after all. Just guesses. But he’d be a fool to think he can avoid court martial forever. An admiral’s son draws attention.
And mostly, he thinks it’s time for a new goddamned plan. The collar of his uniform itches.
He knows a guy who can get him out. Just takes credits and a new name, that’s all. He’s got no problem sinking into a new skin if necessary.
He’ll be branded a deserter. But there’s worse things. And he imagines he’d probably get well acquainted with those worse things if he stayed. Even if they cleared him and promoted him. Hell, especially if they promoted him.
He also thinks quite contentedly that once he gets out, he’ll never take another fucking order or defer to anyone with rank for the rest of his hopefully very long life.
Every man for himself. Goddamn right.
At least in the free world, he’ll never have to pretend otherwise.