Massive Disaster 4-25 (Patreon)

The first thing that hit wasn't the explosion.

Tommy wished he could say it was, but no, he’d barely even clocked it, far too locked in to the holo-vid playing in front of him. It could have been one of a million things and he couldn’t be expected to jump up just because his neighbor down the hall dropped something heavy.

No, it wasn’t the explosion.

It was the silence that came after.

One moment, Providence had hummed its usual tune; the power grid thrumming strong with that barely noticeable rhythm, sky-cars whispering overhead, the city just breathing the way cities do. 

Used to that, a dead-grid silence was just something that felt wrong down in your bones. He could almost ignore that but as soon as the shaking started, he knew shit had just gone sideways. Awwwww, come on.

On the rack sitting pretty as the most expensive thing in his dingy little apartment, the iron-gray VEST blinked VI-ERR 0x2F, the same message in a warning yellow across a torso and two orphaned pauldrons. The damn thing hummed unhappy diagnostics, the same way it had been for the last week or so. He probably needed Zedd to look at it but the guy had chosen today of all days to go off-world in his brand new ships and couldn’t even let him tag along. 

Man didn’t want me barfing in his custom ride. Tommy got that, he did. Still, didn’t help how he felt for not getting his help when he had the chance. 

"You gotta be fuckin k-," the words died in his throat, hard and fast, as the floor swayed beneath him. His palms screamed as he gripped the side of the workbench to keep from busting his ass, Tommy staring out the window at the exact right moment to see the central heart of Providence ripple blue as its shields fought against a barrage of missile fire, thousands of lights dying in cascading waves that meant someone was having a bad day.

Emergency comms shrieked to life, a garbled voice trying to issue instructions before static ate it alive. The screams hit louder than the static and the car alarms, high and sharp; the pure panic of a civilian that had never even seen a fistfight before.

Brown eyes darted to the right, before a silent hiss of a curse spat past his lips.

The VEST was toast; fifteen minutes to get combat-ready was far too damn long when he probably didn't even have fifteen seconds. 

It took him just that long to grab his service weapon, rushing into his bedroom to grab the heavy-duty pistol from the lockbox under his bed. Two thermal clips went into cargo pants pockets, and he was already moving. No armor, no plan, just muscle memory and the tingly feeling in his hands as adrenaline went everywhere at once.

What you trained for, Tommy. Arms and legs pumped as he darted out his apartment’s front door, gun in one hand. Let's get it done.

The streets were chaos, the people of Providence all pouring out of buildings; each one of them just ignoring every fucking safety and protection message Zedd had the Legion drill into them. Tommy pushed through panicked crowds, size and sheer will carving paths as he screamed commands. 

"Get inside! Stay away from the windows!" 

His voice came out raw, barely audible over the growing roar of gunship engines that sounded too close and too angry. Training said move to cover, assess threats, help who you could. Training didn't say what to do when your gear was broken and the world was ending.

Raw heat pushed through his veins as he did the only thing he could do, especially as weapons trained themselves down his street.

He moved.

The grocery store window buckled inward, body barreling through them in a forceful tackle as shards launched from a spinner cannon tore apart everything on the asphalt where he was with the sound of sheet-metal tearing out of the sky.

Tommy Hale didn’t stay still, already darting back out of the store before anyone could catch him on his ass and without so much as a fuckin’ hardsuit.

Without a moment to waste, he vaulted over a stalled ground-car (engine heat warming his hands, still running, probably abandoned seconds ago), and sprinted toward another collapsing storefront through smoke and dust that billowed out thick and choking.

Someone's in there. Gotta be someone in there.

Inside was nightmare territory. Aisles crushed, and shelves overturned, the air was thick with burned synth-food smell and something metallic and coppery splattered on the floor beneath shelves he wanted to pretend he didn’t see.

But he knew what it was. 

Of course he knew. Tommy Hale didn't grow up soft, even if he tried to talk professional these days. Blood smelled the same everywhere; Earth, colonies, probably even in space.

Shit.

There was crying somewhere in the back, a thin terrified wail that cut right through all the other noise. Worst of all, if he could find whoever was making that noise, then any aliens on the ground definitely would too.

Gotta find 'em. Gotta get to 'em.

Tommy followed the sound, climbing over what used to be the dairy aisle but was now just a mountain of debris and busted cooler units. The ground nearly went out from under him, feet sliding on a puddle of water, only coming to a stop as he saw them. All of them huddled behind a dented coolant unit; two kids and an old man bleeding from a gash on his forehead that looked bad in a way that screamed brain damage.

It didn’t help that the guy was old old, too.

Okay, Tommy. The Legionnaire out of armor tried to convince himself, running off rescue training he’d only half-glanced at. He wasn’t in the Rescue Corps, that wasn’t his department. You got this. 

No, he didn’t. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he said, keeping his voice low as he could manage while his heart hammered against his ribs. One hand kept the pistol down firmly at his side, Tommy doing his best to keep it out of sight because waving guns around little kids wasn't professional. "I'm here to help. We gotta get out of here."

Should've said 'I'm security' or something. He fought down the urge to slap himself in the face, ‘cause this was not the fuckin’ time. Still should've identified myself proper.

“Hey, sir,” Tommy waved his fingers in front of the old guy’s face. …fuck.

The old man's eyes were glassy, probably concussed, but he was trying to shield the kids with his body anyway. Respect, old guy. Tommy helped him to his feet, then scooped the little girl up into one arm because she couldn't weigh more than thirty kilos and leaving her was out of the question.

"You," he said to the boy, who was staring at him with those wide panicked eyes that made Tommy's chest tight. "You stick right with me, you hear? Don't let go."

Don't let go. Christ… They rushed back out into the street to find it chewed and spit back out, shardfire stitched across pavement. With a hiss of air that was almost a sentence full of something kids should never hear, Tommy forced everyone to duck behind the smoking wreck of a delivery truck that still smelled like burned synthetics and worse things.

Med-point. Gotta get to a med-point.

One of Zedd's automated trauma stations was just three blocks east, the big guy clamping down Medigel-V dispensers anywhere he could find a reason to. Thing was though, just three blocks felt no different from a million miles with civilians in tow and hostile fire painting the air above their heads. Move smart. Cover to cover. Keep 'em safe.

Soon enough, they were halfway there, half of them stumbling from cover to cover, when Tommy saw him.

Up ahead, in the shadow of a half-smoking Victory administrative building, someone was frantically trying to pry open a sealed emergency access door. Shields were down, sure, but he could still see the blue battery lock on the side of the door that meant the thing wasn't opening for nobody.

Wait. That… I know that ain’t— Tommy’s eyes narrowed.

"Connor?" Relief cut through adrenaline like a knife. Connor was, at least, a friendly face and one Tommy was happy to see. Someone from the old days who knew what he was doing.

Connor froze, body going rigid all of a sudden. His old buddy didn’t turn around right away, just standing there with one hand still pushing on the door and the other clutching a heavy-looking duffel bag.

Why's he not turning around? Why's he— “Wait up, man!”

Something in his head rang wrong and he set the civilians into an alcove, glass to a window broken clean enough they could settle into the admin foyer, safe behind several feet of ferrocrete. Then, the big man stepped out alone and closed the distance. "Man, what are you doing out here?” 

He’d seen Connor around a couple times a month picking up extra janitor shifts at some of the VI buildings, doing the shit cleaning mechs couldn’t exactly handle. Not the dirtier stuff, but the kind you needed human hands for before a robot checked up on it. “Glad you’re around but I thought you were supposed to be at the Hub today?" 

Connor finally turned and Tommy nearly froze; the other man was pale, almost a walking ghost as he stood there with his eyes wide and his whole body shifty like a cornered animal. He knew it’d been a while since they hung out; hell, since they even talked, but Jesus Man, you been sleeping?

"Tommy," the other man stammered, voice tight and raspy from all the running he’d probably been doing. "I... I was. At the Hub. I left to... to help. Here."

That's… 

There was only one word for that.

Bullshit. That's total bullshit. Nothing in that story sat right for even a second, a lie so obvious Tommy had to blink at the way Connor was fucking with him. The Hub was all the way in New Abraham Central and just getting here… in the middle of a fuckin’ invasion was… idiotic. Why's he lying?

"You... you got here that fast?" Tommy's voice dropped, the question tasting real sour in his mouth all of a sudden. "Through all this? What, you fuckin’ ran or somethin?"

Connor's eyes darted from Tommy to the bag in his hand, then back again. Once again, the balding guy didn’t answer, just licking his lips in that uncertain way that made Tommy feel like reaching for his gun.

Whatever was inside that bag, it was a standard-issue tech satchel, on the larger side but Tommy had been around to know it. The same kind engineers used for diagnostic tools and sensitive hardware. 

It wore Victory electric blue but it sagged wrong, heavy wrong, a dark greasy stain seeping through the canvas near the bottom.

"Connor... what's in the bag?" His tone came out quiet, a volume that Tommy had trouble with from every slap he’d gotten to the back of his head. His hand itched in the direction of his service weapon, something in his head screaming a warning.

"It's nothing," Connor said too quick, way too quick, taking a step back and pulling the bag closer to his body like it was precious cargo. "Just... supplies."

"Supplies for what?" Tommy's eyes narrowed as it all started clicking into place, the truth ugly and sharp because Tommy wasn't stupid even if people thought he was just muscle. Power grid going down first, that wasn't random.  

Before Connor could answer, the words fell right out of Tommy’s mouth as it hit him all at once, just two little syllables. "The Hub..."

He was there. If he was at the Hub when it starte— The pistol was already up before the thought finished and the crack landed first.

A punch to his gut, white hot, sent Tommy tipping and the world slipping, breath leaving his body in a wet gasp of pain. Something cracked and it wasn’t another gunshot as he hit the pavement hard, everything tilting sideways as his head slammed into the ground.

Sh-shit.

Dark eyes dropped down, widening as they saw the dark blossoming stain on his shirt that didn't feel real. The pain was still a distant roaring fire, like his body was happening to someone else.

Gotta get up. 

He tried to push himself up, but the world, gravity, everything was fighting against him, muscles screamed in protest, refusing to obey orders from a brain that was starting to fragment.

Can't. Can't … move.

The world was pain and shock and the taste of copper filling his throat. Explosions sounded so far away, they made as much noise as the raindrops, as Connor stepped towards him.

The Legionnaire stared at the man nearing him, looking up at a mask of tight-lipped anger that looked wrong on someone Tommy remembered laughing with back in dive bars after work.

The same man he’d bought drinks for.

The same man he’d tried to wingman for.

"You d-don't understand, Tommy," Connor said, only half-stuttering now, suddenly half-pleading and certain all at the same time, voice making Tommy’s skin crawl. "None of you do. What he's building... he’s a fucking monster. Your boss; he needs to go."

Boss? Zedd? This is about Zedd?

Words didn't make sense, bouncing off Tommy's blood-starved brain no matter how much he tried to hold on to anything. Zedd wasn't a monster, Zedd was... 

He rasped loud, tongue working uselessly in his throat.

Zedd was good people, took care of his crew, gave everyone a chance. Gotta stop him. Gotta—

Fingers found his pistol grip, hand slick and sticky with his own hot blood, metal feeling too cold in his hand.

The second shot was a whole sledgehammer to his chest; air exploded out of his lungs, strength vanished from everywhere else as his arm went limp, pistol clattering on red-stained ferrocrete.

He blinked, rain falling on his face as he tried and failed to breathe, and Connor appeared over him, the traitor pointing his pistol right down at him. 

Z… Zeee… “...Zedd…”

"He's a monster," Connor whispered, more to himself than to Tommy. "And you're on his side."

No. No, he's not. You don't understand. You don't—