: New OrdersAuthor
: Jedi ButtercupRating
: PG-13/T, genDisclaimer
: The words are mine; the world is not.Summary
: Before the aliens had dropped out of the sky and torn up their world, Buffy would never have considered picking up a gun, but times had changed.
: Up to episode eight-ish for Falling Skies; post-Season 8 (very vaguely) for BuffyNotes
: Random fic is random. For the August Ficathon, Day 3.
Buffy and her small team of Slayers slowed to a walk as they approached the camp of resisters, careful not to leave any blatant tracks that might lead a Skitter to them. They'd been out foraging for two days with only a few sacks of canned food to show for it, but at least it was more than they'd picked up on the previous run. The Skitters in their area had started to get smarter over the last couple of weeks; they didn't split up any more, and they had more and more mechs with them every time they attacked.
Alien necks were easy for a Slayer to break. Two legged metal death machines? Not so much. And quick as her girls were, they weren't fast enough to outrun energy fire or bullets indefinitely. One of these days they'd walk into another ambush if they weren't careful, and the rest of the group would be easier pickings without them. Buffy'd lost too many people already; she wasn't about to let that happen.
"Summers!" their leader called, poking his head out of his tent to wave her over. "You're back! Good; Colonel Porter's got some updated orders for us."
She handed her bag to Kennedy with a nod, then hurried forward into the tent, brushing dirty strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. She hadn't had a shower in far too long, and clean clothes in longer than that-- unlike the lucky Second Mass, the Fifth didn't have any generators to heat water or run low tech equipment-- but they were all so grimy these days, she didn't think the major or the colonel would mind.
Buffy had heard of the guy who'd taken charge of all the survivors he could find on the East Coast; who hadn't, these days? She hadn't started out in one of his groups-- she'd brought Andrew, Kennedy, and a handful of baby Slayers out of the wreckage of Cleveland and joined a group in Ohio for a while-- but they'd been with the Fifth Massachusetts Militia Regiment for a couple of months now, ever since the Skitters had found that first camp and orphaned them all over again. Colonel Porter was like the Messiah to these people; when he told them to jump, they jumped, and it had kept them all alive so far.
"I saw you had some bags; how's the food situation?" the major greeted her as she entered.
"Enough to stretch things out a couple days longer," she shrugged. "The area's pretty picked over. But I saw a community garden another half a mile out; it's half gone to weeds, but there should be some ripe fruit at least in a few more days."
"Good; good," he nodded, then turned and gestured to the sharp-eyed, grey haired man with the military bearing standing next to him. "Now, Summers-- this is Colonel Porter; and Colonel, this is Summers, the leader of that group of scouts and warriors I was telling you about. I know she doesn't look it, but she can take down a Skitter bare-handed and shoot better than any two men in the rest of the unit, and the other girls are nearly as talented as she is."
The Colonel looked a little skeptical at that, but held a hand out nonetheless for a welcoming shake. "Ms. Summers, I'm pleased to meet you," he said.
"Likewise," she replied, gripping his fingers just tight enough to confirm Evan's praise, if he was paying attention.
He was; she saw his eyebrows raise a little, and he nodded thoughtfully. "If you're really all the major claims you are, I have an important task I'd like your group to take on," he said. "The Second Mass have a guest staying with them right now who's managed to figure out a way to take down mechs with one shot-- but no matter how quick they work, they won't have enough of the new bullets to equip everyone for the assault planned a couple of days from now. We need people with dead-on aim who can take care of themselves when the Skitters eventually notice just who's doing the most damage and start targeting the shooters. Do you think you can handle that assignment?"
"Mech killers? And you want to let us
use them?" Buffy perked up, feeling more alert than she had outside of a fight in days. "Definitely
count us in."
Before the aliens had dropped out of the sky and torn up their world, Buffy would never have considered picking up a gun, but times had changed. Magic was no use against the aliens, not after what had happened under the ruins of Sunnydale a few years back, so that left only muscle and reflex to fight the invaders with-- and whatever weapons they could get their hands on. She'd learned; all the surviving Slayers had, and found that their instinctive facility with weapons fortunately applied to guns as well as blades or bows.
"Glad to hear it," Porter replied, shaking her hand firmly. "I'll send you with a guide first thing in the morning. Don't let Weaver give you guff; I'll write him a letter to make sure you're provided with the new bullets. And in a few days, we'll strike."
"Sir, yes sir." Buffy shared a predatory smile with him, then took off to go tell her team the good news.