Leaning back against the piece of shattered concrete I tried to catch my breath. We had been fighting in the ruins of Paris for almost two days straight now, it was only power naps and alchemical stimulants that were keeping most of us going. Fingering the dent in my chestguard I winced, realizing that, while the armor had stopped the attack, the underlying runic array that provided a kinetic barrier was damaged. A quick focus of my own internal energies and I confirmed my theory. While the armor would still function, it would max out at around sixty percent efficiency.

“Major, Sitrep,” came the gruff voice of Colonel Valerian, the officer in temporary command of my unit.

I stood with a quick salute, fist to chest, and said, “Two walking wounded, one non-fatal casualty that has been pulled back, and some minor injuries. Seven Phantoms ready to fight sir!”

The shaven headed Colonel glared at me with steel in his blue eyes and said quietly, “I thought your squad only had eight men Major?”

I grimaced, and replied equally quiet, “Nathan and Bart aren’t keen to give up at the last push. They are setting up a sniper’s nest that will give them overwatch on the corridor. If we live through this I’ll have to deal with their insubordination, but I remember that old adage: never give an order you know won’t be followed.”

He nodded and asked, “And you, that looks like it broke the array. I could have you sent back to join them due to being out of armor.”

I grimaced; my chestguard, greaves, and part of my right forearm guard were the only pieces of body armor I still had on. Hell I didn’t even have cloth over my left arm due to that damn pyromancer in the last fight. I answered though, “You could sir, but other than a few bruises and fatigue I’m fully functional. Tools don’t make a Magus.”

He nodded and clapped me on my armored shoulder, “Rest while you can then. St. John is going to be addressing the troops before the final push. Be ready to do your duty.”

I saluted and sat back down as he moved off. Commander Amalya St. John, the Wolf of Avalon, the Heroine of the Reach, three time recipient of the Medal of Stars, the one person who refused to give up on humanity and warned us time and again of the Old Ones return. She had a way of inspiring people, and bringing out the best in everyone. I had once commented to my sister that St. John was more like my namesake than I was. She had laughed and said that the Sheep Dog was the wrong gender and rank. I hit her with an old comic book that showed a female Captain Rogers and we ended up grappling for a solid hour before our father interrupted us with a belly laugh.

I still get laughed at sometimes about being named after a comic book hero, but at least I wasn’t about to run into this fight armed with only a shield. I reached over my shoulder and drew out the standard issue blade all M9 Phantom’s were issued. Thirty-eight inches long with a ten inch handle. It resembled a straight bladed sword from old Japan except for the double edge and thrusting diamond shaped thrusting point. The mithril and orihalcum alloy was nigh indestructible once forged, and the runic array inscribed during its forging meant the blade would outlive nations. Or at least it normally would, I saw that the runes on the blade, like my armor, were damaged by the blood of the Old Ones minions from the last battle. It would still serve as a blade, but I wouldn’t be able to use it as a focus in the next battle, not without risking it exploding in my hand. Well there was one trick I could do, but it took a lot of energy to pull off, and I was already on my third wind. I’d save it for an emergency.

I resheathed the blade and drew my side arm, my Knight IV heavy pistol, while not standard issue, it was on the approved list for military personnel to use in lieu of the standard Avenger VII pistol. It held less rounds per magazine than an Avenger, but had a higher penetration which was needed against some of the creatures we were facing. The gun checked out, and I had a load out of five more magazines along with a few more explosive surprises.

“I will never understand why most of you Phantom’s don’t carry long arms,” came the familiar voice of my sister Willow.

“Now Corporal Rogers, is that any way to speak to a superior officer?” I asked with a hint of sass in my voice.

“Blow it out your ass Steve, I’m too tired to care. Besides I wasn’t asking an officer, I was asking my brother,” she replied as she sat next to me and leaned up against the same chunk of rubble.

I snorted and said, “And that’s why you will never make Sergeant. Disrespect to everyone.”

She moved one of her blue dyed bangs out of her face and glared at me, obviously still wanting an answer. I shrugged, “I know some Phantom’s use long guns, or at least something with a bit more range than a pistol. However, most of our jobs aren’t usually open battles. When we are in a situation like this most of us have Talents that lean towards mobility or combat that is up close and personal rather than anything else. Honestly Sergeant Franklin is an oddity for Talent in the unit. It’s his natural skill at stealth that got him into selection. The fact that he can spot a weak point on a target a kilometer out is just a bonus. We also get a bit more latitude in our weapon choices than the regulars, it's how he was able to modify that shock staff of his.”

“Yeah, but you forget I’ve seen you train. You use that blade as if you didn’t have the ability to Shift,” she argued.

“Shifting takes energy, just like all Talents. While I am naturally gifted at it, I do get tired. Besides, what did dad always say about gear?” I asked.

“Don’t carry a weapon you don’t know how to use well,” she quoted back at me.

“We received training in how to use the blade with our Talents, but my squad all took it a bit further. After the last couple of days I’m glad we did, those Antimagus troops are a pain,” I replied, rubbing the spot on my armor that was damaged.

“I get it, it’s also the reason your squad is the last of the Phantom’s we have on the field today,” she said, and I caught a glimpse of the grief and pain of this war in her eyes before she said, “I don’t think I’m going to reup after this battle. I know I’m only one more tour away from retirement, but I stopped recognizing the person in the mirror months ago.”

“There are postings outside of the Artillery Corps,” I tried to say.

She interrupted with an angry laugh, “Yeah, and how many Reavers do you know in any posting outside of Artillery or Infantry. I’m not an officer, I don’t have an M Rating, all I have is a brother who looks out for me and a Talent that rips molecules apart. Do you think the Legion will give up that kind of asset in the aftermath of this?”

I smirked and said, “At least you are certain we will make it through this.”

She threw her head back and laughed, eyes twinkling in amusement before saying, with gasping breaths as she fought to keep another bout of laughter contained, “Please, between you and the Sheep Dog I’m surprised the Old ones haven’t surrendered.”

I gave her a glare and she returned my earlier smirk, “Oh don’t look so surprised. Dad and I have seen the Chaplain at the door so many times over the past six years that we invite her in for coffee and catch up regularly now. You have been missing presumed dead more times from missions that should have killed you; last time she was there, she said we should wait a month before opening the letter. Dad put them into a frame after stamping them void in bright red. St. John found a way to stop them, and it’s sitting under the Eiffel Tower. So yeah, we are going to make it through this. Then I’m going to get drunk, find some other soldier who is thankful to be alive and spend a week in bed. Then I’ll retire.”

I barked out a laugh of my own and commented, “Did you know she hates that call sign?”

She giggled and nodded, “Yeah I was stationed on Avalon when it got changed. The Lieutenant that made that comment still hasn’t lived it down.”

“And I won’t let him if I have my way about it,” came an amused voice from the top of the rubble.

Both of us shot to our feet as we looked and saw Commander St. John crouched on the rubble we used to rest against. After a quick wave for us to sit back down she said, “In the midst of all this I heard honest laughter and had to find out the source. I shouldn’t be surprised to find the irrepressible Corporal Willow Rogers and the man who laughs at death Major Steven Rogers.”

I snorted and said, “Everyone dies, I bet death gets tired of people being all mopey about it.”

She gave me a wry look to which I arched an eyebrow. With a shake of her head she hopped down, “I wish I could be upset with the poor boy, but he wasn’t wrong. I just wish the damn name didn’t stick.”

“Most don’t think Shepard is an appropriate call sign, it makes all the people out to be sheep,” my sister said.

I swear to the heavens the woman blushed and stammered for a few moments before she collected herself and said, “It was actually in honor of my grandfather. He used to call me Little Bo Peep after that old children's story. We spent a lot of summers on his ranch and the animals always followed me around, especially the sheep.”

I nodded, “That makes a bit more sense. Of course then you go and keep an entire colony safe, up to and including twelve hours straight circling the bunker in a commandeered tank before a butterbar makes the comment that ‘you weren’t a shepard, you were the sheepdog.’”

She grinned and replied, “Yeah and now the most common insult I have to deal with being named after a female dog. Really sets a low bar for insults.”

The three of us laughed at that. Then the Commander got more serious and said, “Report back to your unit Corporal, we are about to move.”

Willow took off at a run as St. John, with her armor’s runes glowing slightly as she used them for a small boost, jumped back to stand on the rubble. Another set of runes around the collar of her suit shimmered slightly before her voice projected out across the camp.

“Alright everybody, this is what we are here for. Today we stand together like never before since the time of myth and legend. The Old Ones tried to break us, all they did was piss us off. They tried to corrupt us, instead they proved that we have the resolve to defy even the darkness within our own nature. Every one of us has a reason to live on, to grow. For over a thousand years we thought magic was a myth, that we were alone in the universe, and that we had to rely on ourselves to push forward alone. We were wrong, we have allies, friends, and loved ones. We were never alone, and these dumbasses made the mistake of coming after all of us. They see our diversity as a weakness, but it is our strength. The Sidhe left Earth when the Dark Ages started, believing we would not outgrow our own warlike tendencies, now they stand among us fighting side by side against an ancient foe. The Dvergar thought we were too young for the stars, but now they raise their hammers at our side. We have grown, we have learned, and the Old Ones are afraid! They are afraid of all of us, because united we stand and tell them that we will not submit, we will not go quietly, if we can’t destroy them we will at the very least throw them back to the void between the realms. We couldn’t prevent the destruction of worlds, but now we have a chance to claim our vengeance. Now we stand and throw off the chains of destiny. Now we choose our fate. In a few minutes I’m going to step forward and head for that portal and kill any Old One that gets in my way. Are you with me?!”

The roar of the gathered army was enough to cause some of the rubble to shift and crash down. I let the smile, the one that was usually the last thing an enemy saw before my blade cut them down, grow on my face as the troops from all over the universe stood and cheered the human that was prepared to charge a version of hell itself. William Ashbury, one of the Commander’s personal squad, tossed the Commander her battle rifle. The Commander raised it over her head and said in a solemn voice, “For those fallen, those yet to be born, and for each other. As a great writer once said, ‘Let slip the dogs of war.’”

With that she hopped down and began to march down the ruined streets of Paris, towards victory or death. Every man and woman still able to fight stood, grabbed their gear, and fell into step either following her or heading for assigned posts. I drew my blade and with a quick effort of will shifted to stand a step behind and to her right. Her goal was the portal, mine was making sure she got to it.