There are eight hundred Alliance marines scattered throughout London. It's not actually a big number, not even on paper - not during war and not during a last desperate push against a force that is by and large literally too big to fight from the ground. For those eight hundred marines they have maybe a handful of ground to air ships at their disposal, so a bulk of their force is basically useless as anything by covering fire - cannon fodder. While not exactly pleasant, there's no denying the necessity either. Hell, with the crapshoot of a plan they have rigged up to get to the beam, a few hundred grunts taking fire is as key as the whole damn turian fleet overhead.Not that it's comforting, but at this point she's not really counting. Right now, the most she can do is get her own shit together and hope for the best. Beyond that, it's a matter of hurry up and wait - the one universal constant in any combat situation. Which is more or less how they come to be at the same last line of defense outpost in the ruins of South London alongside the bulk of what remains of the Alliance's forces and a few hundred members of the Council race's men, women and other. There's a meeting with Anderson in twenty minutes. She has exactly enough time to go hunting for her husband - who, rumor has it, is commanding on the goddamn turret wall - before she makes her way through the gutted buildings to talk strategy.