The Scarman Enigma

[|Scarecrow|]

Starwood Hotel, Landing Platform Terminal, Floor 75

Marcus came around in a thick cloud of dust and smoke. He instantly coughed as he inhaled a lungful of the harsh mixture. More dust billowed from his mouth and nostrils as he cleared his esophagus. He slowly sat up, looking down as fine plascrete powder and debris tumbled from his chest and shoulders. He ached everywhere; a constant, dull soreness that permeated every part of his body. The navy blues, greys, and blacks of his Freedom Fighters combat fatigues were covered in white and cream dust. He quickly patted himself down, checking for injuries, or any damage to his armour or equipment. He couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, aside from the mounds of dirt and powder that now covered every inch of him. He realised that he had lost his rifle. The SCAR was presumably buried somewhere in the debris.
No time to look for it, he thought to himself as he slowly pulled himself forward. He reached down to his waist and checked for his pistol. His faithful M9 Enforcer slugger was still there, seemingly intact. He thumbed the catch on the holster, releasing the weapon in readiness.

Marcus gingerly pulled himself up into a kneeling position, blinking as his eyes slowly came back to him. He shook his head, trying to shake the buzzing from his ears. His hearing was muted, covered by a dull and persistent ringing. At least the dazzling stars and vivid colours that danced across his vision were slowly dissipating, replaced by a loose picture of the smoky aftermath of the blast. He was surrounded by rubble and other penthouse detritus that had been destroyed in the explosion. A huge, cracked slab of granite lay next to him; part of the now destroyed kitchen worktop. Had it landed a couple of inches closer, it would have likely killed him. It seemed as if the entire floor beneath the living room and kitchen of the apartment had been mined and set off as they had set foot upon it. The leading members of the group had almost certainly been caught in the blast, although Marcus didn’t know how many of them had fallen through with him. Looking around, he could just make out the shape of a partially collapsed bar area, alongside what looked like a bookstore. When the floor had given way, he and Serov must have fallen into the landing platform terminal that made up the entirety of level seventy-five.
Serov!

Adrenaline surged through Marcus’ body as his heart started to pound. The General had been beside him when the mines had detonated. He turned and began searching through the rubble, pushing aside large chunks of plascrete and fractured breezeblocks.
“Tom!” He called as he dug, “Thomas! Can you hear me?”
After several seconds of frantic scrambling, Marcus felt movement beneath the debris. He dove in with his hands and grabbed whatever he could find. First, he felt an arm, and then a hand. The hand grabbed up at him, so Marcus clasped the palm and placed his left hand under the elbow. Then, he pulled with all his might. Thomas Serov emerged from the wreckage, coughing and spluttering.
“I’m here- I’m good-” Serov broke into a raw coughing fit as he tried to clear the particles from his lungs.
“You alright?” Marcus checked him over, “Those explosions- drill mines-”
“Yeah- Something like-,” Serov managed as his coughing fit died down. He wiped his face with his encrusted hands. “I’ll be alright. A bit bruised, and slightly over done. But I’ll be fine.”

With Scarman’s help, Serov got to his feet, looking around to take in their new surroundings. He looked up at the ruined ceiling and saw Robert Merlow and Jayce Wilder, peering down at them from the apartment mezzanine on the seventy-seventh floor, two stories above.
“We’re okay,” He called up, waving to them.
“Douglas and Kieslowski were with you,” Merlow replied, “Can you see them?”
“Shit,” Thomas turned his gaze downward to the pile of rubble. “Marcus, you hear that?”
He reached out to the side and grabbed Scarecrow by the arm. “Marcus? Douglas and- Hey?”
Marcus wasn’t responding. Serov turned to look at him. The Admiral’s attention had been taken over completely by something else. Something off in the distance. He was staring intently through the now rapidly dissipating cloud of smoke that surrounded them.
“What’s up?” Serov tried to look through the haze in the same direction. Slowly, forms were taking shape. Something was happening round a hundred metres away from them, toward the southern façade of the tower. Serov realised he could also hear shouting as the buzzing in his ears died down; sharp calls and shrieks that signified conflict.

As Marcus squinted through the smoke, he could just make out a trio of figures locked together in an intense scramble. One of them seemed to swell over the other two, a mass of chaotic muscle and wrath. Scarecrow took several steps forward, clearing the worst of the smoldering debris. The larger figure had clattered into the two smaller figures, sending them sprawling. It looked like some sort of enraged creature, rather than a human being. Like an out-of-control ape or chimpanzee, escaped from a zoo. Of the two smaller figures, one was slowly coming into focus. Marcus’ suspicion grew into clarity, and the pit of his stomach seemed to fall the length of the entire hotel tower. Despite the distance and the smoke, he knew that he was looking at Victoria Wade, and he could instantly tell that she was fighting for her life.
“Victoria!” He called, breaking into a run.
“Marcus, wait!” Serov called after him, taking a couple of steps away from the ruins. His face a scowl of concern, he turned back to the wreckage. Captains Douglas and Kieslowski were nowhere to be seen, but they were in there, somewhere.
“Shit.” Serov cursed again and turned after Scarecrow. If they were still alive, the 1st Fleet Marines would have to wait.

Running across the open concourse compounded the aches and pains that coursed through Marcus’ body. The explosion and the fall had certainly taken their toll on him, but he had no time to collect himself. Victoria was in trouble, and he needed to get to her. He pushed his run into a sprint, accelerating to close the distance as quickly as possible. The screech of a laser weapon sounded somewhere off to his left. A crimson bolt of energy split the air in front of him, missing his head by an uncomfortably narrow margin. He skidded to a halt and ducked, taking cover behind a small pancake vendor’s wagon. Peering around the edge, he saw his attacker quickly duck back into cover, somewhere inside the perimeter of the terminal’s central market. The glimpse was quick enough for an identity. It was the Black Flag ‘Brawler’, Pete Connors, who had stowed away earlier aboard the Danaan and helped Tyrant Scarman wreak havoc. Marcus drew his M9 and waited for an opportunity. It came soon enough. Connors once again peered over his magazine rack, a blaster pistol in his hand. This time, it was the pirate who flinched as Marcus let off a couple of rounds in his direction.

“Targets left!” Serov called in warning as he caught up. He skidded in beside Scarecrow, the butt of his SCAR pressed deep into his shoulder. Marcus whipped his eyes in the direction the General was pointing. More Black Flag pirates were descending on them, presumably shifting position from some unseen weapons emplacement elsewhere on in the terminal floor.
“We’ll be surrounded if we don’t move!”
“Then, go, go!” Marcus broke out and fired his M9 at the approaching pirates, laying down covering fire for Serov to advance. Light arms fire from the pirates’ projectile rifles clattered through the pancake wagon, splintering the wood and kicking up paper plates and cups. The M9 growled in Scarecrow’s hand, every blast spitting a spike of flame as high caliber projectiles fired out toward the pirates. One of them took a hit squarely to the chest and went down hard. The others scattered quickly, and ceased their barrage, breaking into smaller targets.

Serov pushed past Scarecrow, firing his SCAR in the direction of Pete Connors. The Brawler was trying to change location and rotate through the supermarket, to renew his firing position. A little further along from the magazine stands, in a cooled section of the supermarket, stood some large refrigeration units. They were broad, tall, and thick. Much better cover. Connors fired from the hip as he ran, sending bolts of cherry red cracking through the air.
“Bandit on the move!” Thomas shouted as he made for a row of recycling bins, trying to counter Connors’ repositioning manoeuvre. He only made it halfway. One of Connors’ bolts struck him hard in the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the deck. White hot pain rocketed through his nervous system, like the waves of a boulder cast in water. He snarled as he fell to the ground, instinctively clutching at the wound with his free hand. The blast had struck just below the pauldron of his armour, just inside the ball joint of his shoulder. It had made short work of the fabric of his underlayer and bored into his flesh. Lying prone on the ground, Serov adjusted his position so that he was completely out of sight of the enemy. He delicately pushed his fingertips around the edge of the wound. To his stark horror, he realised that he could no longer feel the entirety of his right arm.

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| S C A R E C R O W |

"See you space cowboy..."