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0950 Hours, March 1, 2532 (Military Calendar)/ Planet Tribute, The Blocks

Waimarie stood over the body of the woman, and kicked the pistol from her lifeless hand.

By the time she processed the sight of the woman’s blood seeping across the floor, several of her marine squadmates had already cleared the rooms ahead of her. Their Navy corpsman, Kovski, pushed her off to the side as they checked the girl for signs of life. Frozen, Waimarie, felt a pat on her shoulder, and she snapped her eyes from the body to Sergeant Windemyre.

“First is the hardest, Private. There will be more. C’mon, now.”

She played back the brief moment in her head again and again. She couldn’t help be feel she she had done something wrong. The woman was no younger than her; tan complexion—mediterranean descent, fitting the ethnic standard of most on Tribute. The girl was likely a local—a “homegrown rebel”. She had almost certainly grown up here if she was living in The Blocks. This might even be her building, or maybe even her apartment?

The girl was dead, though. What she was before, Waimarie could only speculate. The corpse wore a simple collared, white, synthweave t-shirt, with a tan pair of heavily used cargo-pants, marred by holes at their knees. Her shirt was wrinkled, slightly, as if pulled off the floor to be worn again—the insignia of a grocer over her silent heart. She was just a normal Tributian girl. But, Waimarie also recalled the look on her face. Shock, fear...hate.

Again. She played it back in her head: the door slammed opened, the flash-frag tossed in and popped. Waimarie entered on point, behind only the barrel of her sub-machine gun. The girl, screamed madly and blindly fired over Waimarie’s head, missing her by the smallest of margins. The snap of the girl’s gun burst Waimarie’s eardrum, and she ducked instictively before she sprayed the girl breast to forehead. The girl spasmed back in a series maroon, pink sprays. She fell sideways and onto her split face, dead long before she hit the ground.

Again, Waimarie studied it over and over. There was no glory, or elation. She did what she had to; the girl had tried to kill her. They had both made their decisions leading to that moment, and only Waimarie would walk away from it. She believed, or had to believe, she had chosen order over chaos, and honor over terror. The woman, tangled in something she understood or not, decided to fight against all that Humanity had over the Covenant: human will. In defense of something so important, Waimarie believed there was only one choice.

She quickly joined the squad at the end of the hallway, her mind numbed—she would never feel so conflicted about killing again.

Sergeant Windemyre followed in behind Waimarie, and when they stacked up behind the seven other Marine Recon, two of which were standing beside a door patiently.

“What’s the hold up, Pulaski?”

“Drone’s coming around now, Sir—directing to team’s feed now.”

As a live video feed of their observation drone buzzed the windows of the Apartment complex, Private Ellis turned back and gave Waimarie a massive, shit-eating grin.

“Nice job, Lucky! Saw those hockey moves back their! Ducked and dodged that shit—”

Ellis had always had difficulty with Waimarie’s Māori name—after she told him that Waimarie meant “Lucky”, the nickname stuck, and her squad also quickly adandomned her birth name for the snappier title.

“It was nothing.”

“A bit of luck then, eh?”

She frowned at Ellis, and he turned back chuckling to himself.

The drone feed finally steadied out, and she could now make out the IFF markings of her squad inside the complex. Beyond their building, was another extensive apartment block, also full of transponders: the second team. Pulaski piped up on their communications channel.

“Feed is up—drone is scanning now for explosives residue…” he paused waiting for the data to come in, “We’re clear, but some of these buildings are getting major feedback, sir. I can’t clear complex 14.”

Windemyre cursed under his breath, then brought his chin to his chest, breaking radio silence.

“4-1, 4-2.”

“4-1, over.”

“4-1, buzzer is getting major feedback from sensors. Recommend you switch to ETD’s.”

“Roger—go ahead and call it off for overwatch. I’m going to call for extraction; we’ll be done here soon, over.”

“Understood.” Windemyre looked back to his squad, and began giving orders. “Alright Marines, we’re gonna be moving topside for the Hornets once 4-1 has cleared their complex. The battalion is already GTG and waiting for our all-clear. Once we dust off—”

The squads radio’s crackled to life.