In February of 2558, the UNSC Infinity was dispatched on a top-secret mission, carrying it’s largest ever compliment of Spartan Four supersoldiers. The objective: take control of the newly discovered Forerunner installation known as “Requiem”, eliminate any Covenant forces inside, and set up science outposts to further advance the cause of Humanity.
The engagement was expected to be an easy victory, but the UNSC received a rude awakening when heavily entrenched Remnant forces, bolstered by native Requiem Promethean, started up a spirited defense. Within days, the UNSC was catapulted into a small but bloody quagmire. The Infinity was easily able to maintain orbital control, but her compliment of ground forces struggled to secure the surface. The shortcomings of the new Spartan Fours came into sharp focus, as Spartan units took heavy casualties and failed to pacify the planet.
One notable exception, however, was Fireteam Crimson. Outperforming the other teams on Infinity, Crimson became the go-to-unit of Spartan Sarah Palmer, Spartan Contingent Commander for the campaign. When a tough job presented itself, Spartan threw Crimson at it.
There was more to Crimson, however, than met the eye. Unknown to everyone but the seemingly innocuous Ops controller Jared Miller---in reality a former Section Zero operative---Crimson was in fact a lone SPARTAN: Leonid-144. Hoping to hide Leonid from prying eyes, elements of Section Zero placed the SPARTAN-II aboard the Infinity, hiding him in plain site. For a few weeks, Leonid and Miller would strike a careful balance, skirting the edges of detection to remain incognito even as they drew attention.
Dramatis Personae[]
Horatio Fry
Nigel Een
Jonathan Dorian
Bethany Kossup
Leonid-144
Fireteam Crimson[]
February 2558
Forerunner Shield World “Requiem”
“The Refuge” Science Base
The slight distortion over the comm gave Miller‘s voice a high pitched, almost whiny quality. Or, perhaps that was simply his voice…or the absurdity of what he was saying. Sometimes it was hard to tell.
“Don’t relax yet Crimson. More hostiles heading your way.”
Damn, Leonid thought, And I was just about to relax, too.
With practiced ease the two ton SPARTAN-II supersoldier--one of the few left in the galaxy, even if Spartans seemed to be coming out of every nook and cranny these days--slid out of cover, M935 Designated Marksmen Rifle up and ready. Three quick trigger pulls later, a trio of Grunt fighters hit the ground, craniums blown to a bloody mess by the high caliber bullets. The weapon was precise, powerful, accurate--a stark contrast to his old favorite, the M7 Caseless Submachine Gun, but useful for the situation at hand. He might have still taken the SMG out of nostalgia, seeing as every situation here seemed well beneath his skills, but the Infinity didn’t have any in stock. Experimental ARC-920 railguns, hundreds of embarked Spartan soldiers, and not one damn SMG.
The squad mates of the three fallen Grunts--a pair of Jackals and an assortment of more Grunts--screeched in surprise at the shock of seeing the jet black figure emerge from the shadow, half hidden by a sputtering active camouflage unit. They were easy pickings for the veteran SPARTAN; weak, faltering combatants. Nothing at all like the veterans of the last war. Leonid remembered those Covenant well, even if he’d deployed against them far less than his conventional brethren. Those Covenant had been brutal, vicious, devious, intelligent warriors who pressed every advantage, whose ferocity had given him a run for his money on more than one occasion. These newcomers were just lambs for the slaughter, comparatively.
Killing them was a simple methodology. Toss a grenade, duck around the nearest cargo container, and wait for the deep resounding thump to reverberate through the floor. Come around the same corner, firing, switching targets, firing again. Five already down from the grenade, drop another three in less than a second, vault over the bodies of the fallen and land in the midst of the remainder. Smash the nearest jackal’s skull with the butt of the DMR, spin and catch a Grunt in the face with a pair of rounds, double tapped. Turn and watch the squad’s lone survivor running; catch up to him before he can escape, spin him around, and plant a combat knife deep into his skull.
Simple. Easy. Routine. Leonid was dead sure that these Covenant were nothing like those from the late Covenant army. These were new recruits, brought to the front with no training. Sacrificed suicidally against a UNSC that was now the bigger kid on the block, sacrificed by a Covenant remnant terrorist organization that had no real idea how to fight a superior enemy. The Covenant had always been the bigger power, the superior force. Now, inferior, their inability truly shone through.
He reloaded mechanically, scanning the area for more Jackals. Only a few months ago, he’d had a real fight: the fight of his life, facing off against four other SPARTANs. Not Spartan fours, the paltry copies of him and his brethren. Real SPARTANs. SPARTAN-IIs. Leonid had gone toe-to-toe with other members of his own class, and it had been a show. Jared had gone down a little too easy, but Indigo Team--Andrew, Jeremy, Laura--had more than made up for it in a challenge. It had been a real test of his close quarters abilities, fighting them. A good reassurance he wasn’t rusty, too. The fight had eventually landed him here, but it wasn’t exactly surprising nothing good could come from nearly killing SPARTAN-II supersoldiers.
Not that Leonid exactly cared that he’d almost killed one--maybe more--of his former classmates. Caring for other people was not part of his repertoire. He did care that he was still good enough to sink a knife into the chest plate of a SPARTAN-II from fifteen meters away, still fast enough to hold off two of the galaxy’s finest killing machines on his own in hand-to-hand. Two on one, and it still took them a sniper rifle round in his chest to soften him enough for them to beat him. There was certainly pride to be found in that.
More pride than he could take in executing these witless Covenant, without a doubt. Certainly more fun. Leonid’s already sour expression deepened as a line of Jackals came trotting in, shields held at their side. Could the stupid birds not hear gunfire? Grenade detonations? Yet the thick necked, avian looking aliens came in defenseless as if they were on patrol. Disgraceful. The effort it took to sight up on their exposed skulls and pull the trigger felt wasted. He could have been doing so much better things with his time.
Again reloading automatically, he displaced, moving to cover the opposite side of the chamber. He stepped over the body of one of the marines from Warbird Company---the green-armored Lieutenant who’d been so irksome on the radio---and scoped onto the opposite entrance, careful to keep tabs on his motion tracker. Whether or not these Covenant were pathetic, he was still one man doing the job of an entire four person fire team. The fact that he did it so well that Palmer had made “Crimson Team” her favorite squad was beside the point. He was one man covering two entrances. That required exceptional situational awareness.
Another squad of Jackals sauntered into view, shields again at their sides. Leonid sighted up on them, patiently waiting for the full group to come into view. It was slow, but he was tied to this area, protecting the Infinity Science officer, Doctor Boyd. Instead of advancing straight to the main antechamber, he had to clear the rear area first. On his own he could have used his active camouflage to slip behind Covenant lines and hit them from behind, or appear in their midst and wreak havoc. It would have been far more efficient---even if it was slightly more dangerous---than wasting time, waiting for Jackals to dutifully allow him to eliminate them.
“Shadow Leader to Spartan Miller.” The comm crackled, drawing Leonid’s attention even as he moved forward to clear the room. “Sorry for the delay sir, we’re meeting heavy resistance in the cruiser. Seems they don’t want their spaceship blown up.”
Leonid checked his radar, making sure Boyd was still alive. He didn’t care, but it was his objective. Completing the objective was what he was here to do, and he was going to do it. Nothing more, nothing less. If he had orders, he didn’t much care what they told him to do. Kill a corrupt official, infiltrate a rebel base, execute a traitor, it didn’t much matter. Section Zero had liked that about him, all those years ago. Had grabbed him from the class of graduating SPARTAN-IIs and faked his death to fool Halsey. Spent years honing him into the perfect assassin--the perfect tool for hunting down traitors, eliminating those who crossed the wrong people in ONI.
“Understood Shadow Leader, keep me informed.” Miller’s voice droned in Leonid’s helmet, grating as ever, as the black-armored SPARTAN moved forward.
His motion tracker was ballooning with movement, indicating the forward antechamber was likely filled to the brim with Covenant reinforcements. Leonid checked his ammo, confirming the HUD readouts in his new set of Wetwork variant armor were indeed correct. He would have preferred his old suit of MJOLNIR, but that was unfortunately now sitting in a holding area of the UNSC Sophocles, under watch by SHOGUN’s underlings. It would have been nice of the people who got him off the frigate to grab his gear, instead of forcing him to rely on the Generation Two suit Infinity had aboard. This suit might have been top-of-the-line, but he hadn’t undergone the same trials in it that he had in his old set. It was just different enough that it was putting him minutely off balance.
Leonid stalked forward, checking the area ahead of him for any Elites that might have tried to ambush him with camouflage. The troops in the antechamber were holding their position, still getting organized, but it never hurt to be cautious. Earlier the facility had been overrun by special operations Elites running rampant with energy swords. The shotgun clinging to the magnetic panels on his back had been quite helpful, fighting them off. Still, he had no desire to have to use it again. Giving the enemy the advantage of surprise was anathema to his methods; he was the one supposed to be appearing from the shadows, not the Covenant.
The hallway to the chamber was clear, however. Leonid eased around the corner, engaging his active camouflage to stay hidden. Leisurely, he observed the Covenant from invisible silence. In the open space sloping down from him, Covenant troops swarmed over the angular metal, scurrying about as the Elite officers tried to organize them for an assault on Leonid’s old position. Above, Phantoms hovered, dropping off more troops. A few of the rounded, cylindrical drop pods hovered as well, dispensing their load of soldiers. Those were the most interesting to Leonid. He remembered them from early in the war, but also remembered seeing them phased out. Now they were back, popping up all over Requiem.
It was a reminder---as if the massive Infinity didn’t already show it---that humanity was no longer the underdog in the galaxy. Three decades of war---thirty years of defeats, losses, and constant retreat---and the galactic fortunes had finally flipped. Leonid himself had only seen a fraction of the amount of combat against the Covenant that his traditional brethren had, but the shift in power affected him nonetheless. The postwar universe was going to be a very different place, and even if his role stayed the same, he’d have to approach things differently nonetheless.
Of course, even if humanity was top dog now, that didn’t mean there weren’t threats. His role had never been to think about the big picture---in fact, in his job, thinking about the war at all wasn’t usually necessary---but he wasn’t blind to the reality of things, either. The Covenant remnant here on Requiem that ‘Mdama had marshalled might be outclassed in orbit and ineffective on the ground, but they had numbers on their side. Even if a full Fireteam had been deployed like Inifinity thought, they still would have outnumbered the Spartans twenty to one. Leonid hadn’t survived thirty five odd years as an assassin by underestimating his opponents.
A small group of Covenant troops---a gaggle of Grunts, a few Jackals, and a towering Elite---separated from the main force, trudging their way up the metal hill towards Leonid. With his active camouflage activated, they couldn’t see him, but that wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, the juice would run out and he’d be visible. The Av-Cam module mounted on the Generation 2 MJOLNIR was more convincing than his old suit’s photo-reactive panels had been, but drew much more power. Leonid wasn’t sure it was worth the trade off, but it was the gear on hand. No sense wasting time worrying about it if there was no other options.
The rest of the troops in the metal valley were scuttling about, spreading themselves over the whole area. A few small groups took to the sides, occupying all three levels, as another set of drop pods came down. This set spewed out specialists: lanky Jackal marksmen who landed on the elevated connecting platform, lumbering Hunters who stalked into the bottom of the valley, ready to draw fire. It was a small army, but it was spread out, disorganized. Leonid didn’t foresee any real trouble. It’d be easy enough to fight his way into the center, break apart their lines. If he ran into any real trouble, he could always slip away.
The patrol was nearly on top of him, still unaware of his presence. As they passed, he slid into place behind the Elite, mechanically snapping it’s neck. He very nearly felt himself daydreaming as the hulking creature dropped and it’s troops panicked, some running, others spraying plasma. It was like they were moving in slow motion, almost even standing still. Leonid barely even felt an adrenaline rush, much less any concern. He put a knife right in the forehead of the nearest Grunt, lifting it up as a human shield, firing his DMR one handed. Two of the diminutive runts dropped, toppling over backwards, and the one on Leonid’s knife sagged, skin tearing under the creature’s weight. Plasma fire scorched the fallen Unggoy, and Leonid kicked it forward, dislodging it from his knife. The methane tank detonated as it landed, consuming the rest of the patrol in a ball of blue fire.
A few stray plasma bolts scythed through the air, scorching tiny circles into the smooth Forerunner alloy. Tiny droplets of liquid metal arced through the air, splashing against the bodies and sizzling---Leonid made a point to track and avoid them, even as he slid into cover behind the curve of the passageway wall. The troops down in the gulley were restless, getting a little aggressive. Leonid reloaded automatically, glancing up at the sky. There was a light cruiser up there, hovering maybe a hundred meters above.
Glancing out from behind the wall, he snapped off a shot---dropping one of the Jackal marksmen on the upper platform---and gauged the tempo of the Covenant suppressive fire. He might as well get moving before the aliens decided to start dropping pulse laser fire on his position. This cult might have still revered the Forerunners, but they were practical. He wouldn’t have put it past them to damage a holy site a little if that meant vaporizing an enemy. The pace of the incoming fire slowed for a brief moment, probably as some of the aliens moved up or overheated their weapons, and Leonid slipped off the wall, into the maelstrom of superheated fire. Calmly ducking and weaving---armor still untouched---he fired, sent the enemy diving for cover, and dashed towards the Covenant flank.
Sometimes, Spartan Nigel Een decided, he really wasn’t a fan of his squad leader. Unflinchingly accepting a difficult assignment from a foreign Ops controller was bad enough. More annoying was just how insistent he was about the need to run straight into danger.
“Nigel, move the hell up already!” Between the muffled hiss and crackles of plasma fire, the low thumps of explosions, the blaring of his helmet’s shield alarm, and the subdued roar of his M739 SAW, it was a miracle Nigel could even hear Horatio Fry yelling at him. Well, a miracle and months of surgical enhancements, anyway. “We’re on the clock here.”
The impossibility of that order was annoying, to say the least. ‘Moving up’ meant charging headlong into a stream of Covenant fire down a narrow corridor. The hallways on Covenant ships were uniformly big, but they were still hallways. A hallway was a natural chokepoint, and any decent squad of soldiers could lay down enough suppressing fire to make moving forward a chore. These Covenant, holed up in the hallway junction up ahead, were certainly trying their hardest, filling the air with plasma bolt after plasma bolt. The ambient temperature was skyrocketing. Even in his climate controlled suit, Nigel was sweating.
“I’ll move up,” he retorted, “When one of you clowns hit’s something and put a dent in that incoming fire!”
As if on cue, Spartan Jonathan Dorian, their resident mute, slid out of cover and squeezed off a trio of rounds with his gold colored Covenant carbine. Sure enough, a pair of Grunts and a Jackal toppled to the ground, thick cylindrical holes still steaming. His ODST-variant MJOLNIR flared gold as his shields took fire, and he silently ducked back around the corner.
Shit. Nigel thought, So much for that excuse.
“Happy now?” Fry tossed a grenade backhanded, without easing out of cover. The echoing explosion punctuated his sentence nicely. “Or do you need us to hold your hand?”
“Still wondering when opposed boarding actions became standard operating procedure for taking down cruisers.” Nigel faked mock bitterness, watched his shield indicator jump to full, and sighed. “Cover me, assholes!”
Adrenaline surging and heart thumping like a drum in his chest, he ducked his head and charged down the hallway. Nigel didn’t have a firm enough grasp of alien body language to tell if the Covenant at the end of the hall were surprised, but he damn sure hoped so. He drained half the drum of his SAW, making the front group of Jackals turtle behind their shields, and managed to catch a Grunt in the shoulder as the ugly bastard stood up. He couldn’t afford to waste all his ammo spraying on their shields, though, and let up off the trigger. Heat washed over him almost immediately, as a trio of plasma shots smacked him in the chest. He stumbled, and it might have saved his life.
An Elite leapt out from behind the Jackal phalanx, roaring a curse and swiping at him with an Energy Sword. Nigel could swear he heard the air itself sizzle as the blade swiped by just over his head, a blue-white afterimage trailing behind in the dim purple light.
“Voetsek, poepol!” Nigel punched instinctively, smacking the Elite right in the mouth. It shook it’s head like it was dizzy and snarled. “Little help, guys?”
“I got you.” Horatio put on his best action hero cool guy voice. “Keep your head down.”
Easy for you to say. Nigel thought bitterly, rolling out of the way as the Elite brought it’s energy blade down. He scrambled to his feet, trying to lift his SAW. The Elite jabbed, and this time Nigel wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid it. The heavy machinegun clattered to the ground in two smoking pieces, ends glowing bright red. Oh. Terrific.
Combat instincts directed him as he tackled the Elite, yelling. The bastard managed to clip him with the sword, draining his shields and charring a section of his shoulder pad, but it kept him from getting in a killing blow. They tumbled, rolling across the deck like two rhino’s wrestling. They crashed into the curved bulge of the wall, denting the lavender metal in with their collective bulk. Nigel held his arms up to block a strike on his neck---MJOLNIR’s weakest spot in close quarters combat---and kneed the hinge head right where the human’s groin would be.
“Ok, seriously guys.” Nigel grunted as the Elite planted a punch in his stomach. It was a short blow, without much force---relatively. It still knocked the wind out of him. “Hurry the hell---”
The Elite reared up, howling in rare, spittle tumbling from it’s mass of toothy jaws. Nigel grunted in disgust, his visor blurry. Then a moment later, something slammed into the alien’s chest, bursting it open like a ripe grapefruit. Dark purple blood splashed across his armor, coating him like a thick, viscous layer of paint. Shrapnel and plenty of large body parts pattered against his body, as a light wave of overpressure pushed against him. Nigel swore in shock and scrambled out of the way as the squid chin slumped over, already dead. He only got partway clear, a heavy arm landing on his chest and pinning him momentarily in place.
With a grunt of exasperation, he swiped his visor clean with one gauntlet and shoved the body off with another. He glanced down with a look of disgust. The Elite’s chest was a torn and tattered mess of body parts and viscera. Otherwise, the alien was remarkably intact, aside from a blackened coating of charring that covered the thing’s armor. It’s jaw’s were still locked in it’s roar of anger and he could swear he saw malevolence in those blank, dead eyes.
“Jesus Fry, did you have to use a rocket? What’s wrong with a bullet, man? I’m covered in this shit now.” Nigel griped, rising to a crouch. Horatio jogged up, lowering to a crouch to cover behind one of the wall’s odd protrusions. A hiss of a nearby plasma bolt convinced Nigel to join him. “God, this is worse than Cleveland.”
“Shut up and stay down, chatty Cathy.” Horatio ducked out, and let off a round from the ARC-920 in his hand. His Jackal target mostly disintegrated. “It’s a rail gun anyway. Stop bitching.”
“Telling Nigel to stop bitching is like telling Terry Hedge to stop having a voice like a gravel road.” Bethany Kossup, Fireteam Shadow’s forth member, slid into cover behind a communications crate on the other side of the hallway. Her vibrant red and yellow Pioneer gear was glowing from her stint in the plasma storm that was starting up again. “It’s an innate character trait.”
“Do you see me?” Nigel feigned annoyance. It wasn’t hard. “I look like a damn splatter painting.”
“Oh boo hoo,” Kossup ducked out and emptied a burst into an Elite’s shields. Her magazine emptied just as they popped, but Dorian was there to put a single Carbine round into the alien’s skull. “When you’re covered head-to-toe in Flood mucus and goo, then you can talk. Until then Nigel? Shut it.”
“Everyone shut it.” Horatio shook his head, signaling them to be quiet. “Shadow Leader to Spartan Miller. Sorry for the delay sir, we’re meeting heavy resistance in the cruiser. Seems they don’t want their spaceship blown up.”
“Understood Shadow Leader,” Spartan Miller, their ad-hoc handler, didn’t sound like he minded. He’d contacted them over the head of their normal handler, Spartan Charles Carmichael, and handed them this mission with the shortest briefing in history. They obviously weren’t his top priority. “Keep me informed.”
“Oh, keep me informed” Nigel did his best to imitate the vaguely overwhelmed tone in Miller’s voice. “Doesn’t like he’s too concerned, does he? Not like we’re blowing up a Covenant cruiser or anything. Think he’d be more interested.”
“He’s just too busy babysitting Crimson is all.” For once, Kossup didn’t comment on his complaining. “Maybe that’s why Palmer keeps choosing them for the fun jobs.”
Their conversation was interrupted as Horatio signaled them to stand by to move up. The plasma fire was slowing down again, probably as some of the Grunts got nervous. Even just a tiny bit of a pause in the active action still gave enough time for a mind to start to overthinking and imagining worst case scenarios. Fry nodded, giving the signal that it was time. The rhythm of the plasma increased for a moment, then started to peter off again. Horatio’s raised fist dropped and Shadow scrambled into hallway, relying on their armor’s bulk to absorb the fire.
Nigel, weapon less, drew his combat knife, but it was mostly an empty gesture. Horatio blew apart a Needler toting Elite Commander while Bethany and Dorian battered down the shields of a Warrior and slotted him. Watching their leaders fall lifeless to the ground, half the Grunts predictably turned tail. The Jackals held firm, desperately spraying plasma pistol fire from behind their shields, but it wasn’t nearly enough fire to slow down four Spartans. Shadow charged into their midst, eager to get clear of the hallway. Bethany rolled behind the Jackals, coming up with assault rifle roaring, and Horatio clubbed the ones she missed with the stock of his railgun. An Elite stepped out from behind the central support pillar in the middle of the hallway junction, only for Dorian to shoulder ram him. The tall alien grunted and toppled over, and the former ODST tracked it as it fell, putting a round nicely between it’s eyes.
Nigel followed them in and trying his best to be useful, tackled the first target he got a shot at---a Jackal ranger squeezing off carbine shots from the back. Even with it’s face hidden behind the sealed atmospheric mask, it’s squawk of indignation was loud and clear. Nigel had an odd, disconnected moment as he brought the knife down where he guessed the buzzard’s eye would be, penetrating clear through the mask. He’d heard plenty of talk about how the Kig-Yar were little more than glorified mercenaries during the last war, and now just wanted to be left to their own devices. As he tugged the knife out, slick with blood and chunky with alien brain matter, he wondered distantly why the Jackal was even there.
He wiped the blood from his knife and looked around, making sure everything was going fine. For the most part, it was. An Elite brandishing a Storm rifle was rushing Dorian, but Jonathan just leaned into the stream of plasma bolts, feathering the trigger on his Carbine, and cleanly pounded down the charging hinge-head’s shields until he put a single round in it’s forehead. The charging beast’s momentum carried it forward as it fell, and the creature crashed to the ground at Dorian’s feet, limp. The loud thump attracted the attention of Bethany and Horatio, who themselves had just finished checking the bodies of the Jackals.
“Damn, Dorian.” Bethany gestured at the body. “What would it take to make you blink? A jumping Bravo Kilo? Charging Hunter?”
“A room with no beds, probably.” Nigel laughed, saving the quiet other Spartan the awkwardness of responding. “Any nice kit lying around guys? The knife is nice and all, I mean, but I’d like to be able to kill more than just the odd Jackal.”
Dorian didn’t respond, but he did scoop up the Storm Rifle from the dead Elite and toss it to Nigel. The weapon had an odd, open style, rounded stock and a weird angle to it’s bulbous front end, but was shorter than your average Covenant or Promethean weapon. All in all, it wasn’t much bigger than his normal SAW, and the barrel was longer. It’d make do.
The Jackal he’d killed with the knife had instinctively blocked his tackle with it’s carbine---the weapon predictably lay in pieces---but it’s plasma pistol sidearm was still usable, and Nigel bent over to scour it from the body. There were a few carbine ammunition canisters attached magnetically to the alien’s skinny hips, and he liberated those as well. It looked like a slightly different model than Dorian’s, but the ammunition appeared to be the same. Nigel offered it with a hand gesture and the other Spartan wandered over, palming the canisters and slipping them onto his armor.
Bethany and Horatio were clumped together, Bethany watching the hallway ahead for a sign of targets, Fry checking the schematics of the ship to make sure they were still headed the right way. Even on the relatively small, three hundred meter long CRS-class light cruiser, moving around could be confusing. Everything from the high ceilings to the sloping architecture to the purple sheen of the walls were all obvious visual differences, but it went deeper than that. The Covenant might have been sentient, but they didn’t think like humans did. Even on a roughly equivalent medium, there were subtle nuances that were distracting. Nigel hadn’t even been aboard one before, although the rest of the squad had all spent at least a little time inside Covenant craft.
“Got a direction yet?” Bethany sounded more restless than anxious.
“Affirmative.” Horatio pointed down the hallway, reloading his ARC-920. “Reactor is one deck down and three blocks forward. We overload, then exfil.”
“Still by hijacked enemy craft?” Nigel had been watching the data feeds, and the Light Cruiser was using it’s entire supply of Phantoms---not to mention a half dozens drop pods---to get troops down to the surface, cycling them through and deploying them as quickly as they could be loaded. “What if there’s none in the bay?”
“Then we improvise.” Horatio didn’t sound like he thought it was all that likely to be a threat. “We’re Spartans, Shadow. Blowing up cruisers is just our standard operating procedure.”
Horatio motioned for them to move out, pre-empting any further attempts to poke holes in the plan. Nigel still had plenty of worries floating around in his head, but knew better than to bring them up now. He settled into place in the line---third, behind Horatio and in front of Dorian---and kept his step steady and eyes peeled. They paced down the hallway, very conscious of the absence of Covenant. After the slugging match to take the last junction, it was especially odd. CRS-class vessels were small, but there should have been more personnel just wandering around during normal running---and many, many more than that during a boarding action.
Horatio wondered about the implications of that. Based on the data feeds, at least a hundred troops had been dispatched to the surface to deal with Crimson---which apparently wasn’t enough, either. Kossup, he decided, had been wrong to take shots at Crimson earlier. If the four of them could stand up to an entire light cruiser for this long by themselves---and on foot---then their place as Palmer’s go-to team was well earned. Not that he didn’t understand it. Every Spartan on Infinity---besides the weirdoes like the Gammas---were fiercely competitive. They were all used to being the best, and that led to some natural friction. It was why Horatio had accepted the mission without question and why he was so eager to get it done quickly.
They passed through a second junction and surged through the door as a group with weapons ready, but it was empty as well. Nigel checked his motion sensors for any signs of movement, but it came up blank aside from the distant, bulky dots of vehicles shuttling in and out of the hangar bay. They moved forward at a slow trot, until the hallway curved into a T. It was another oddity that was uniquely Covenant in design; a human ship would have just T’ed. What purpose did the curve serve? Nigel couldn’t even begin to speculate. They stacked up along the wall, two to a door, then moved through each side simultaneously. Neither had any hostiles, although Dorian and Nigel’s door did slope down in a ramp. They smoothly slid back into line, and descended down a deck.
Just as they reached the bottom, Bethany froze and shot a hand up to signal them to halt. Nigel’s hands went tight around the grip of his rifle, his senses perking up. He strained his hearing---still shocked a bit by how much he could pick up with augmentations---and thought he caught the faint trace of pattering feet. This close to the reactor the ship hummed and whined noticeably, but a SPARTAN-II had once remarked that augmentations let them hear a pin drop during a sandstorm. Picking sounds out of the background noise was the chief advantage of augmentations. Even with augmentations, though, the sound was soft and almost indistinguishable. It must have been blocks away, though, if it was even on the same deck.
“Trouble?” Horatio whispered.
“Long range motion.” Bethany shook her head no. “Moving away from us.”
“Then let’s move, Spartans.” Horatio waved them forward, and they moved up.
The hallways were similarly abandoned, although they twice more picked up motion on their edge of their sensors. Time was an issue, though. However badass Crimson were, they no doubt were starting to feel the pressure on the ground. They needed to take the ship out, and fast.
Leonid had speculated that the Covenant in the gully would be easy to break apart, and as always, his judgment had been impeccable. Slipping through the blockade of fire the troops in the central had put up, he’d moved too quickly for them to track and swept across the top, into the heart of the Jackal sniper nest. The gaunt, feathered creatures were totally out of their element at close range, and dropping them had been easy work. The Phantoms that had descended from the cruiser to drop more troops had been a slight issue, but two bullets---one for the door gunner on the near side, one through the open troop bay for the gunner on the opposite---and each was reduced to it’s turreted concussion cannon, a slow and easily dodged weapon.
After that, it had all continued according to plan. The jump off the central bridge span was a tall one, but still short enough that his shields had barely flickered on landing. The Covenant hadn’t been expecting that---which of course was the whole point of the drop---and even completely surrounding him, were at a disadvantage. Leonid had contemplated activating his active camouflage generator and letting the slight distortion give him an additional slight edge, but had decided against it. The active camouflage wasn’t like a Covenant unit, effective while moving and firing; he wouldn’t be any more hidden with or without it. He was confident in his combat skills, and it would be far better to have the camouflage unit ready in reserve in case he ran into unexpected trouble. And so, alone in the center of some thirty odd Covenant soldiers, he started killing.
The Grunts went down first, thirteen of them crumpling to the ground with neat, whistling holes punched through their necks. Two he hit from the side while they ran, and they flopped to the side, their momentum twisting them awkwardly over. One heavy gunner, holding up a heavy fuel rod gun with stubby arms, fell on the trigger as he toppled, squeezing off a pair of rounds. One detonated in an ugly yellow green radioactive haze, consuming the creature and making the Elite next to it stumble to the ground sans energy shields. The other bounced, in that awkward way fuel round rounds sometimes did---ricocheting off the floor and whistling past Leonid.
It’s explosion was seen but not felt, as he cleanly switched to his sidearm, rolling and firing, dropping four Jackals as they sprayed fire seemingly in every direction but his. Two rounds apiece; one in the gawky gun hand, and then next squarely between their eyes as they flinched, clutching at their torn and useless digits. Three others made the mistake of clumping together, and one even overcharged it’s pistol; Leonid ducked the slower moving bolt, smoothly evaded the reduced overall fire, and bounced a fragmentation grenade beneath their feet. It tore them to bloody, stringy, feathery chunks.
With ammunition in rifle and pistol empty and reloading too slow, he transitioned into close quarters combat. The Elites were tough and strong, but also slow and predictable. To a normal human, dodging one of their blows would have been a matter of luck; for a SPARTAN-II with augmented reaction time, the creatures might as well have been moving in slow motion. Leonid danced around their heavy strikes, occasionally allowing them a glancing blow in order to advance his position, and cut with a surgeon’s precision. Some of the Sangheili fighters charged, roaring their trademark curses and fixing for a close, personal kill, while others hung back peppering the air with plasma fire. It didn’t matter, either way; Leonid killed those that charged, fought his way in close to those fighting from a distance, and killed them as well.
It was half time honed, experienced instinct and half cold, efficient logic. Each rifle shot, each pistol round, each grenade throw, each slice of the knife---they were all finely tuned, precise, automatic reactions. Each decision was made cool and logically. The Grunts died first because they were both quick to eliminate and more numerous; removing them from the equation was the quickest way to reduce the amount of incoming fire. The Jackals died in the same logical vein, the Elites sequentially following suit. It was efficient. Leonid’s mind picked out targets, decided objectively on actions, and they just…happened. It was an emotionless function. And by the time he drew his rifle, let near empty magazine drop to the ground, and reloaded both weapons, thirty odd Covenant lay dead.
Unfortunately, those thirty odd Covenant did not include the two Hunter pairs.
“Area’s not secure yet.” Miller’s voice was eager, earnest, and wholly sincere. He sounded like an idiot, oblivious to the absurd obviousness of his statements, fully convinced that he was doing an excellent job even as he proved himself to lack even basic competence or situational awareness. It was an act that verged on too much---but on meathead Infinity, it worked just fine. “Marking your last few targets.”
‘Last few targets’ was an understatement. Bellowing deep, thunderous, reverberating roars, the four hulking metal giants---now marked, oh so helpfully, with bright red arrows---attacked. The pair in the far back let loose glowing green fuel rod blobs, forcing Leonid to roll to avoid the staggered detonations. Static and distortion blurred his HUD for a moment anyway, as the intense heat and radiation battered his shields. Still, the glowing craters in the ground testified to how much worse a direct hit would have been.
In the time between the back pair recharging their assault cannons and the front group reaching him, Leonid weighed his options. He still had time to retreat---head back up the slope, perhaps even into the rear section where Dr. Boyd was busy cowering. Doing so would risk the doctor’s life, but there were Energy Swords still up there from the fallen Covenant stealth commandoes. Alternatively, he could attack the behemoths head on. His current equipment was ill suited to bringing down the creatures from mid-range---or even up front at all, for that matter. He’d have to get in close, get behind them, and at that distance, things would get interesting. Chancy. The other Covenant soldiers might have mostly been religious nutjobs and poor soldiers, but the Mgalekgolo were always deadly. One misstep, and he’d be dead.
That only mattered if he misstepped, of course. Attacking them head on would be quicker, less likely to endanger Dr. Boyd. He’d be more likely to fulfill his objective quickly. The only risk was himself, and he was confident in his own abilities. Before the back pair even managed to finish charging their weapons, Leonid knew what options was the most efficient. And as always, efficiency was king.
In close quarters, even against Hunters, the single shot DMR and Magnum were of course less efficient than the knife. It was only natural to stow them and draw the blade. It was the most efficient option, after all.
For all their massive bulk and frightening strength, Hunters were still vulnerable to surprise like any other species. As the back pair fired, Leonid shot forward, combat knife ready and rifle stowed. The blasts impacted far behind him, of no concern, even as the foremost charging Mgalekgolo bellowed and began to raise it’s shield back for a sideswipe. Leonid ran straight forward, and without a hint of hesitation, jumped up and punched it in the face.
His armored gauntlet, power enhanced and biologically augmented, still scarcely made a dent in the giant’s metal faceplate. But the intent had not been to do damage, so much as shock. And shock it did. The Hunter roared, still swiping with it’s shield, but the blow was three feet below jumping Leonid and a completely blind, panicked move. Leonid kicked off it’s shoulder plate, twisted, and stabbed his knife into the Hunter’s neck. It roared, a shockingly loud sound that shook him to his super-hardened bones, and kept roaring---until with a snarling growl of effort, Leonid slashed and separated the giant’s head from it’s body.
The beheaded beast crashed to the ground in a heap of clacking battle plating, but by the time it hit the alloy floor, Leonid was already clear and again on the offensive. He wouldn’t be able to manage anything so showy again, but the point had been made. Leonid had never worked out whether Hunter’s felt fear, despite plenty of thought on the matter---after all, fear was just as effective a weapon as a knife or a gun. But he suspected they recognized strength, and that meant they could be made to act differently, even if they could not be scared.
Of course, if the anguished bellow by the second Hunter was any indication, they also felt sadness---and more relevantly, anger. Leonid back peddled then rolled, as the Hunter reared up, lunged forward, and brought it’s shield down with surprising speed. The hunk of metal clanged loudly off the alloy floor, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. Leonid came up from his roll, pistol in his off hand, and squeezed off a pair of rounds. The Hunter didn’t even bother to turtle, as the small caliber rounds harmlessly bounced off it’s armor. In fact, the impacts only seemed to enrage the grieving monster more. It lumbered forward, and lunged again---just as Leonid had expected.
This time, Leonid didn’t roll away---he pitched forward. Their massive size made them frighteningly strong and nearly impervious to damage, but also limited their minimum reach. Leonid darted in, tucked low, and slipped beneath the Hunter as it finished it’s smash. He slashed his knife across the creatures back, slicing the wriggling mass of orange worm into writhing chunks. The juggernaut roared, clearly not yet finished, yet in his peripheral vision, something caught Leonid’s eye. A slight whine stuck out amidst the resounding crash of the Hunter’s missed blow and it’s echoing roar. Mind racing and barely---just barely---keeping up with bodily instincts, he rolled.
An explosion engulfed the Hunter, as the fuel rod round slammed into it’s open back and blew it apart. A messy storm of flash cauterized worms and disconnected, singed armor chunks were all that came out the other side, as the creature’s blood boiled and organic tissue vaporized. Leonid’s roll turned into a tumble, as the overpressure wave rolled into him. A bonded Hunter pair would have never risked hitting or hurting it’s partner with the splash damage from it’s cannon, but these Hunters had no such reservations, apparently.
Leonid smashed into something hard and his tumble abruptly stopped, as his shields whined under the abuse and berated him with warning alarms. He glanced up, looking around for his weapons, but his rifle had come free from his back in the wake of the explosion. Dual expanding, glowing green balls of light let him know he didn’t have much time. He still had his knife, pistol, and a pair of grenades; it would have to do.
With a low whine and hiss of displaced air, the Hunters fired another salvo. This time, facing them, Leonid was ready. Running straight on towards the crackling, sparkling cylinders of energy, he emptied the magazine from his pistol into the small bits of exposed flesh at the right Hunter’s knees, then let the wasted weapon drop. Swerving in a serpentine pattern towards the giants, he dodged one blast and leapt over the second, propelled forward by the expanding shockwave. This time, ready for it, he rode the overpressure and greeted it like an old friend. Bathed in a golden haze of flashing energy shields, he bounced a grenade between the two Hunters, landed and rolled.
He was far enough forward now that the angle brought him clear of the left most Hunter’s line of fire, who deactivated it’s charging cannon now that it’s partner was blocking it’s way. More importantly, however, it also put the partnered Hunter between Leonid, and the grenade. The giant continued charging it’s cannon, only for it’s partner to grumble something---probably a warning---and stop. Both of the creatures turtled, hunkering down behind their shields, exposing as little of their vulnerable flesh as possible.
The tactic saved them from severe damage, as the grenade detonated and shrapnel bounced mostly harmlessly off their plating. But the expert placement of the grenade trapped the blast between them; both creatures stumbled sideways, as the expanding cloud of superheated gas and fire pushed them outwards. Leonid, shielded from any harm by the bulk of the armored brutes, took the opportunity to change course and move in close. By the time the two monsters had come out from behind their shields and brought their weapons to the ready, Leonid was already inside their minimum range.
As always, they led with their shields. Leonid slipped sideways as the lead Hunter brought it’s shield down like a sword, but he couldn’t get behind it. It’s partner was at the ready, roaring, and aimed a blow of it’s own at the SPARTAN-II. The close proximity to it’s partner hindered it’s range of motion, however. The blow came sideways---normally much harder to avoid---but it was slow, as the Hunter tried to be precise. Leonid was able to twist away, shields absorbing a glancing blow, and slip behind it.
This pair had learned from the first’s mistakes, unfortunately. Just as Leonid lunged to stab with his knife, the creature spun---twisting around with remarkable agility---and brought it’s shield down in a heavy, blind strike. Leonid saw it coming and avoided the hit, but lost his opportunity. Meanwhile, the second Hunter was sliding to the side, looking to box him in. If it succeeded, he would be dead. Not even a SPARTAN-II had the reflexes and concentration to dodge two Mgalekgolo simultaneously.
The threat brought an opportunity with it, however. If he timed it right…it would hurt, but probably work.
Leonid stalled for time, ducking in even closer to the Hunter already in his face. Boxing with a Hunter probably wasn’t the way new Spartan fours were taught to fight the beasts, but situationally, it was the best tactic. The shield was too big for use in such close quarters---not to mention he was practically closer to the Hunter than the shield itself---and the beast tried to swing at him with it’s cannon arm, a heavy blow aimed at his head that he ducked and countered. His return uppercut didn’t so much as move the creature’s jaw back, but that wasn’t the intent.
As the Hunter bellowed and punched at him with it’s cannon---this time, aimed squarely at his chest---Leonid turned profile. The heavy shot missed him by centimeters, passing by harmlessly in front of his chest plate. It was time to stop stalling, however; the partnered Hunter finished sliding into place, growled, and took a lumbering step forward. With the fluid grace of a dancer, Leonid struck. His left hand, knife clutched tightly in an armor gauntlet, shot to the Hunter’s neck and buried the knife deep into the writhing mass of eels. The other wrapped around the assault cannon, fumbling for the firing controls, and manually keyed the weapon.
The next second was a moment of basic, animal panic. The Hunter bellowed at the unexpected trauma of the knife, for the moment unaware of it’s charging cannon. It’s partner rumbled a warning, trying to shuffle out of the way of the upcoming point blank energy round, but it was in the wrong stance and nowhere near fast enough. Leonid braced, clinging to the knife and cannon for dear life, distinctly aware of the nebulous odds of his shields withstanding the point blank blast. When the radio came alive with a transmission, it was only decades of training and experience that kept him focused enough to comprehend the words and still hold on.
“Miller, Shadow Leader!” The Hunter bucked, tearing his hand away from the knife. Leonid wrapped both arms around the cannon, checking out of the corner of his eye to see if the knife was still embedded. It was---barely. “Cruiser power core is hit, overload in progress! We're evac'ing now. Expect a light show within 30.”
Above, the sky flashed once, twice, three times: small secondary explosions as the cruiser’s reactor went critical; obviously, Shadow’s prediction hadn’t been the most accurate. The small flashes assaulted Leonid’s peripheral vision for a moment longer, then the light from the charging assault cannon round grew too bright, outshining everything else. The weapon was mere moments away from discharging. As his helmet’s visual filters kicked in to try and compensate for the near blinding light, Leonid braced. When the fuel rod finally fired, all he could do was wait. Either his shields would hold, or he’d be dead.
The reactor chamber on the ship was a magnitude smaller than anything found on a larger vessel, but was still one of the larger open spaces aboard. Nigel glanced in muted awe at the twenty foot high ceilings, trying to occupy his mind while Dorian prepped the system for an overload. He would have thought the tour aboard Infinity, with it’s cavernous decks and open floor plan, would have cured him of any lingering amazement at scale, but apparently it had not. He’d served on Stalwart and Charon-class frigates for his entire career before Infinity, small ships with tight corridors and cramped spaces. Infinity, with it’s cavernous decks and open floor plan, was too damn big to feel like a proper starship. His subconscious classified it as more of a space station, albeit one that could move. A ship as compact as this light cruiser felt like a real ship, yet had large open areas. It was a unique mixture.
It was only unique in his mind, thankfully. Despite being a sixth of the length of a CCS-class vessel, the CRS-class boasted an identical---albeit miniature---reactor interface. For that, Nigel was glad. Dorian was the only one in the squad with experience with Covenant shipboard systems, and that exposure had been limited to a CCS-class ship hijacked by Jackal nationalists a few years prior. Having the same system meant that he could initiate a power overload from memory without anyone having to call that Miller guy to ask for the manual. Nigel didn’t want to even think about how long that would have taken. Trying to parse out the proper methodology for a complex technical procedure over a comm link didn’t sound like fun.
“Dorian, how much longer?” Horatio, out in the hallway, sounded ready to go. Him and Bethany were outside watching the hallway to make sure no Covenant advanced and blocked their exit.
“Why? You see Covenant out there?” Nigel knew it broke radio protocols a bit to cut off Dorian before he could speak, but he didn’t like being blind. It was bad enough being stuck as Dorian’s extra hands. What was worse was the continued lack of Covenant attention. There was no way the aliens were unaware of their presence when they were literally inside their ship’s most critical system. “Cause if you start taking heat, I’m getting the hell out of this room. Reactor’s like a giant time bomb if it gets hit.”
“There’s no Covies out here.” Bethany linked her HUD feed to his to show him first hand. “We’re just bored, is all.”
Nigel glanced at Dorian, curious himself, but the former Helljumper shot him a silent glare that made it clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. He hastily returned to looking at the ceiling. You didn’t ever want to piss off someone that quiet and that badass.
“Well, uh, he says it’ll be a minute.” Nigel decided the mixture of green and purple lights was too interesting to leave time to ask Dorian himself. “Not much longer now.”
“Damn, I thought boarding an enemy ship would be more exciting than this.” Bethany bemoaned “I mean, no resistance on the outer hull and only three firefights inside. Only one of which even mattered. What a letdown.”
“Are you actually complaining about an opposed boarding action going well?” Nigel couldn’t hide his disbelief. “What do you want, a Flood outbreak? A Hunter reunion party? Would that make it interesting enough for you?”
“Nigel, don’t you know never to mention the Flood?” Horatio mock scolded him. “Once you do, she’ll never shut up about them.”
“Oh, screw you two.” Bethany quipped. “What if I was traumatized by them, or something? Maybe talking about that gives me nightmares, and you’re bringing up deep seated emotional scars. Ever think of that?”
Horatio and Nigel, for once, were on the same page. They kept quiet for a long moment, then laughed in union. “Nope.”
“Oh, you two are just dickheads.” Bethany muttered, her HUD feed shaking side to side as she shook her head no.
“That’s dickhead, sir.” Horatio’s laid back delivery gave the line a conflicting feel to it.
“Done.” Dorian cut in with his soft, quiet voice. “Ready to initiate.”
“Ok, stand by.” Horatio’s demeanor went from joking to serious in a blink. “Everyone ready. There’s hangar bay access sixty meters ahead. Looks like it empties onto the top of a three story deck, so we may end up jumping down a level or two. Be ready. The moment we kill that reactor, we start moving, understood?”
It wasn’t too in depth of a plan, but it was enough. Complicated plans tended to get thrown out the window at the first speed bump, anyway. That was where it came in handy to be a living tank. Their plan could go belly up and they could still charge right on in, straight through the enemy lines. Plasma fire was a lot less scary when you could soak it up with energy shields. They winked on acknowledgement lights, the world hovered on the edge of slowing, and on Horatio’s word, jumped off the abyss.
“Do it.”
Nigel waited just long enough watch Dorian hit the final button, and even then, worried he had waited too long. The effect was immediate: the engines low thrum transformed into a high pitched whining, the reactor bay grew brighter, and Nigel felt his skin tingle with ambient static electricity. Before he had a chance to see any more, him and Dorian were out the door, running into the hallway, sprinting to try and catch Horatio and Bethany. The whole deck seemed to be shaking, rumbling beneath his feet. It wasn’t enough to make running treacherous, but it was certainly enough to remind them that they needed to get out fast.
“Miller, Shadow Leader! Cruiser power core is hit, overload in progress!” Horatio was practically yelling into the comm, as the deck began to lurch more violently. “We're evac'ing now. Expect a light show within 30.”
“Hot damn!” Miller finally sounded excited. “Good work Shadow Leader!”
Nigel and the others pounded across the deck, two sections away from the hangar, then one. The ship felt like it was tearing itself apart. The deck was starting to tilt, the gravity generators failing and the cruiser listing. The power in a section abruptly shorted, plunging them into darkness. Distant thunder rolled through the ship, as secondary explosions rocked underpowered systems. Nigel knew these were all just side effects, preliminary effects. A few lights might run out of power and a few plasma stores might collapse, but they were nothing compared to the blast that was going to happen when the core finished overloading.
They were less than a full block away from the doorway to the shuttle bay, now. The darkened hallway was periodically lit by short, blue-white bursts of fire, and the ship was shuddering like a thing possessed. Crimson, on the ground, was probably getting one hell of a show. The thought of that gave Nigel a smile, as they reached the door to the hangar bay. The mission hadn’t been so bad after all. As long as there was still a transport inside the bay, they were going to be fine.
And sure enough, as they charged into the bay, there was a transport right there waiting. Point of fact, there were six of them. As Nigel took in the scene in front of him, he realized just what that really meant. In the split second before everything went to hell, he kicked himself. He’d spent so much time complaining about evac’ing via the shuttle bay and so much time worrying about the lack of Covenant, and he hadn’t seen this coming? What an idiot.
Everywhere---on every surface, as far as he could see---were Covenant. They’d found the hundred odd missing Covenant crew.
“Oh…” Nigel started.
“Shit!” Bethany finished, as the world exploded into plasma fire.
There was nowhere to go but straight ahead, because the dropships hovering in the hangar were still their only chance for escape. Even so, Nigel balked; there were more closely packed Covenant than he had ever seen in his life. On their floor alone, there had to be forty of them, standing immobile in line, waiting to board dropships for the surface. Dozens of Grunts, Elites, Jackals---even a trio of Hunters. A dim wondering about where the fourth one had gone was the last thought Nigel had, before momentum carried him into the room and he ran out of time to think about anything but staying alive.
Shadow had the miniscule advantage of surprise as they charged into the hangar; with most of the Covenant facing the opposite way towards the waiting dropships, they had a brief moment to fire into the alien mass without return fire. Nigel squeezed the trigger, the unfamiliar Storm rifle kicking against his shoulders and burning against his hands, and dropped a trio of Grunts before they could even turn. They fell, clawing at charbroiled skin, blood boiled to hissing steam. The rest of Shadow were already following suit, opening up with their eclectic array of weapons and wasting the first line in short order. Nigel hoped they had done enough damage with their surprise attack; the rest of the Covenant recovered, fired back, and things suddenly weren’t so easy.
“Fireteam Shadow, move up!” Horatio’s ARC-920 tossed a pair of Jackals skyward when it went off at their feet. “We’ve got twenty seconds to find a dropship!”
It was going to be easier said than done. The Phantom on their level noticed their intrusion, it’s hatches slamming shut. The craft rose and swung around, concussion cannon extending. At close range, that would be a problem---but there wasn’t time to worry about it yet. As the Covenant returned fire, plasma splashed against Shadow’s shields. Nigel grunted under the impact, struggling to remain upright and keep firing. A burst of plasma pistol rounds hit him straight on, and his shields blared and urgent warning. Elsewhere, the others were struggling as well. Horatio managed to drop an Elite with a rail gun round, tearing the creature in half at the hip junction, then had to roll into cover as two more Sangheili sprayed Needler fire in his direction. Bethany, in the lead as always, got in close, draining her magazine and sending three grunts to the ground in crumpled heaps. She was left high and dry, however, as one of the Hunters lumbered forward, assault cannon charging ominously.
Only Dorian seemed to be pulling ahead in the ensuing brawl. He dropped a pair of Jackals with quick double taps, dropped to a crouch as an over-charged plasma bolt sailed overhead, and smashed his Carbine’s stock into the jaws of an Elite that tried to take him from the side. As the Elite reeled back, shields overloaded and pride probably bruised, the former ODST finished it with a round that caught it right beneath the left eye. The phantom on their level fired a concussion round at him, only for Dorian to slide around the shot, prime a plasma grenade, and stick it expertly to the turret. Even he had to go diving, however, when a Grunt ripped off a trio of fuel rod rounds and enveloped the area around him in green-black clouds of radioactive haze.
A trio of Elites roared, igniting Energy Swords, only to stumble to the ground as another secondary explosion rocked the ship. Already unsteady on his feet, Nigel followed them down, tripping as the deck swayed and listed sharply right. One of the Elites actually fell on his own sword, slicing a deep gouge into it’s leg. The remaining two rose, only for one of them to lose an arm and the better part of it’s shoulder to a ARC-920 round, courtesy of Horatio. The last warrior managed to avoid a burst of plasma fire Nigel sent his way---from his position on the ground, his aim was off---and rushed forward, roaring. It inspired a suicidal rush among it’s Grunt subordinates, who ignited plasma grenades and sprinted forward.
Bethany, still dodging the Hunter’s attacks, was blindsided. Nigel yelled a warning and sprayed the rear Grunts with plasma fire, while Dorian snapped off precision headshots on the lead rank. The suicide troops were down, and Bethany started to turn, but wasn’t nearly quick enough. The Elite was too close; it swung, plasma blade burning a neon streak across the air in the darkened hangar, and Bethany twisted away, screaming. Her leg armor was engulfed in smoke, an angry red scar sliced straight through the shin sections of both legs.
The Elite reared up, roaring, and raised it’s sword for a finishing strike. Out of nowhere, Dorian appeared, lunging in and tackling the giant as it began it’s slash. Nigel was up and moving before he even realized it, running for the brawl, firing the Storm rifle on full automatic until it overheated and he had to toss it away. The blue-white bolts of superheated ionized gas scoured the flesh off a Grunt, stripped the shield from a Jackal, and managed to send it and a pair of comrades diving for cover. Dorian and the Elite were struggling, Dorian trying to jab his combat knife into it’s throat while the Elite pushed him back. The monster managed to get a lucky jab in, snapping Dorian’s head back, then roll away, coming up clear of the melee and far enough away to use it’s Energy Sword.
Nigel swore under his breath, knowing what he was about to do was a bad idea, but charged in anyway. The Elite saw him coming, and sliced at his chest, a flat and fast blow. Nigel ducked and twisted away, and by random chance, got lucky. The blade nicked off the side of his helmet, blowing out his shields on impact and cleaving off an outer layer of armor, replacing it with a wide, flat, melted red patch. The internal temperature in his suit shot up almost as once and a searing pain made fireworks explode behind his eyes, but his body, already committed, fell back on muscle memory and kept rolling.
The problem, of course, was stopping. Nigel’s roll turned ugly as he picked up a little too much speed, still without conscious control, and he crashed into a bulkhead with a moan of bending plates. For a moment, it was all he could do just to not pass out. His entire body felt impossibly heavy, not weighted down, but too thick to move, like a giant muscle cramp that left him immobilized. With a grunt, he fought through the pain and rose to a crouch, reaching for the Plasma Pistol on his hip even as his hands shook. He leveled it in the direction of the Elite, hoping that if he was going to go down, he could at least go down shooting.
As always however, Dorian had his back. Nigel looked up and leveled the pistol just in time to see the other Spartan clamber up it’s back, stepping up it’s backwards hinged legs like a foot ladder. The Sangheili hunched under the half-ton weight on it’s back, only to slump down abruptly as Dorian shoved his combat knife deep into it’s skull. The Spartan rode the collapsing body down, rolled when they hit the ground, and came up in a protective crouch, shielding Bethany with his body and firing Carbine rounds into the Covenant ranks.
“Shadow, we’ve got to move!” Horatio’s voice sounded over the comm, his usual cool demeanor slipping. Nigel wondered where he was for a moment, only to be roughly yanked upwards by the other Spartan. He was going to say something when he noticed the tell-tale blue light of a charging railgun, directly over his shoulder. Instead he just braced and squeezed his eyes shut, as the boom of the weapon discharging washed over him.
“Bethany is unconscious.” With his ears still ringing from the ARC-920 shot, Nigel had to strain to hear Dorian’s soft voice. “I need cover to move her.”
The Covenant directly in front of the door were mostly dead or keeping to cover, but there were more coming in from the left, running along the catwalk, ducking into cover behind the support pillars, and trying their best to suppress Shadow so their comrades could move up. Dorian, who’d been covering Bethany from the Covenant in front of the door dumb enough to duck out, spun and put a trio of carbine rounds into the three Grunts that tried to waddle forward. Everyone else besides the Elites dove for cover.
“Do it, we’ve got you.” Horatio tapped Nigel on the shoulder and motioned him backwards. “There’s a Phantom berthed on the deck below us. Nigel on me: we jump aboard and clear it.”
The world was still spinning, but Nigel could follow orders. He cradled the plasma pistol and checked the charge. His HUD readout was glitching and displaying the charge at six hundred percent. On physical inspection, it was at sixty eight. Plenty of power, he hoped. He glanced to his left, and watched the Covenant coming back out, firing again. Dorian put a round in one of the Grunts, but this time it did not deter them. The plasma fire kept up, singing the air, hissing and crackling, and the Covenant started moving up.
“Goddamn hinge-heads---Dorian, get her to cover!” Horatio put a round downrange, scattering the advancing aliens, and drew his pistol. Nigel gritted his teeth, sighted up through blurred vision, and splashed a handful of plasma bolts into the chest of one of the advancing Jackals; it screeched and fell to the ground, writhing. “Nigel, go go go.”
Horatio and him took off, running for the edge, Dorian firing past them into the advancing horde even as he dragged Bethany backwards by the collar of her armor. Half a meter from the edge, however, another explosion rocked the floor---and this one was close.
And big.
As he stumbled towards the edge, readying himself for that leap of faith onto the dropship hopefully waiting below, time seemed to slow. And midway through the stumble, his head tilted just right to look down the hallway towards the reactor---and spot the billowing cloud of blue fire rolling their way.
“Horatio!” He had a moment of panic, and then he was on the edge and jumping. “We’ve got to go right now.”
“Dorian, jump!” It might have just been the blast, but for once Horatio didn’t argue. “Grab Bethany and jump!”
Nigel didn’t have the opportunity to check to see if Dorian would be able to follow the order. He dropped onto the rounded, notched upper hull of the Phantom, rolled to lessen the impact, and ran for the side. The gunner platform was extended, although empty; he dropped onto it, bracing on the side of the mounted plasma cannon, and sauntered into the bay, plasma pistol held up and ready. The crew---a trio of Grunts, a Jackal, and an Elite in a ranger’s harness---weren’t even, oddly enough, the most pressing concern. Even inside the dropship, he could feel the cruiser shaking from the detonations, could hear it tearing itself to pieces. They had at most seconds.
Horatio came crashing down on the opposite side, lunging into the room with pistol at the ready. He and Nigel started firing simultaneously; the Grunts dropped, whistling holes in their head, and the Jackal crumpled, legs melted and burnt. The Elite snarled, muffled behind it’s mask.
“Nigel, get the pilot!” Horatio lunged at the Elite “I’ll get this guy!”
Nigel ran past the struggling pair, even as his comm lit up again. Them onboard the ship weren’t the only ones noticing that they were still inside during the cruiser’s death throes.
“Shadow Leader!” Miller’s voice was definitely worried now. Nigel tried not to let it distract him as he burst into the cockpit firing. The unshielded Jackal pilot screamed as half it’s face burned away, then went quiet as he shoved past, snapping it’s neck. He slid into the pilot’s chair just as Miller was finishing his sentence. “Was your team clear?”
Nigel glanced back, even as his hands went to the ship controls. He was ready to lift the craft up to Dorian’s deck to grab him and Bethany, only to do a double-take as the near-mute landed on the gunnery platform, Bethany on his shoulders. He smoothly drew an M6C/SOCCOM, put a round in the head of Horatio’s struggling Elite, and dumped Bethany onto the deck. Another explosion---much closer this time---snapped him from his reverie, and he slammed the accelerator down.
Just off their starboard side, a jet of blue white flame exploded out of the hangar bay hull. A tongue of fire forced it’s way inside the Phantom, making Shadow’s shields explode into golden flashes, incinerating the bodies. Nigel screamed, near blind, shoving the accelerator forward, praying. The entire ship shook, they wobbled, sweat beaded and seemed to instantly evaporate off his forehead. Punctuating the madness was Spartan Miller’s shrill voice. “Shadow Leader!?”
And a moment later, it was over. They blew out of the hangar, pushing aside a billowing cloud of fire, leaving the dying cruiser behind. The transition was almost like going into shock. Nigel exhaled explosively, set the dropship into a general upward trajectory, and sagged back into the seat, exhausted. Dorian ambled into the cockpit, gesturing to the controls inquiringly, and Nigel gladly stood to let him take the controls. He didn’t want to think about flying---hell, he didn’t want to have to think about anything.
He trudged into the troop bay, sagging to sit against the wall. Bethany was waking up, moaning softly while pawing at her scorched and blackened leg armor sections. Nigel watched blankly while Horatio removed a few particularly damaged sections, prying them off with the brute strength of his armor’s powered joints. In spite of all the injuries spread out among their team, he looked pleased.
“We’re here, Infinity.” Horatio answered Miller’s hanging question sounding relieved and in control. “And all in one piece.”
Glancing about at their battered armor, the blackened remains of the Covenant crew, the scorch marks inside their Phantom’s troop bay, and the assortment of injuries, all Nigel could do was shake his head. As Dorian sealed the dropship’s side doors and signaled they were airtight, Nigel popped the seal off his helmet and examined it. The flat, melted section where the sword had nicked him had cooled to dull black, but it didn’t look any better. One member badly hurt, another alive by only a few inches of luck, the whole team just barely escaping, and Horatio was still more concerned with looking good for the other teams. He couldn’t blame himself for not liking his squad leader too much, he decided. The guy was just kind of a dick.
Spartan Miller complimented them on their work, sounding very pleased, but Nigel realized he could care less. Brushing a bit of carbon scoring off the helmet’s scar, he slid it back on, leaned back against the dropship, and closed his eyes. They were headed back to Infinity safe and sound, and that was all that mattered. After a mission like that, a little relaxation sounded like the greatest thing in the world.
Leonid blinked, his head hammering like a grenade had gone off inside his skull. Lying on his back, staring up at the detonating Covenant cruiser, he savored the feeling of it. Chief Mendez had been a formative influence on every SPARTAN-II---even the anti-social sociopathic ones---and had beaten it into their heads, through years of drills, the value of pain’s ability to keep you sharp and remind you you were alive. Hellish augmentation procedures and more than a few unpleasant experiences killing for a living had cemented the wisdom of that advice. Pain was an old friend, a harsh but kindly reminder that you were still alive and definitely still able to fight back.
With a grunt, he leapt to his feet, throwing his feet back behind his head and vaulting up. He glanced around, surveying the battlefield. A small army’s worth of alien corpses were scattered across the alloy floor, their already dried blood staining the silver grey metal a variety of exotic colors. He patted his armor to check it manually, and found no real damage of note. He’d been thrown from the Hunters by the blast when the fuel rod gun discharged and lost his bearings in the mad tumble. His shields had held after all.
He glanced around, looking for the Hunter pair he’d taken on, and found them twenty meters away, looking very beaten. The one that had taken the point blank fuel rod shot was flat on it’s back, a nasty looking hole burned clean through it’s midsection. A few of it’s worms were still alive, wriggling around on the ground, but the creature definitely wasn’t getting back up. It’s partner was lying ten meters away, on the ground but apparently still alive. It groaned, a deep, rumbling, pained sound, but didn’t seem like it was ready to get back up. With a hint of satisfaction, Leonid noticed his combat knife still lodged deep in it’s neck.
Leonid paced forward, meandering his way to the struggling giant. He wasn’t walking leisurely---he was looking around for his weapons. His pistol was still where he had dropped it during the fight with the Hunters, but the rifle was trickier to locate. The flashes of plasma detonations from the cruiser above were coming more often, periodically shocking the night with stark, blue light. The night wasn’t dark, but the glare off all the blood was minutely distracting.
“Shadow leader, was your team clear?” Miller droned over the comm, excited as usual, just as Leonid spotted his rifle lying in a pool of Jackal viscera. He walked over to grab it, as a particularly bright explosion lit up the sky above. Leonid craned his neck, watching the cruiser list and slowly begin to fall, chunks of it’s superstructure coming free as it’s structural integrity collapsed. “Shadow leader!”
A moment ticked by, and Leonid shook his head and stooped to collect his DMR. He glanced back at the struggling Hunter---just in time to see a long, curved piece of the ventral beam’s assembly land on the giant, squishing it to chunks of metal and orange paste. Well, that took care of that.
“We’re here Infinity.” As Leonid walked over to the crushed behemoth to collect his knife, the Shadow Team leader came over the radio. He sounded pleased with himself. “And all in one piece.”
Leonid retrieved his pistol while Miller congratulated them all, checking on his HUD to make sure Boyd was still inside the safe room and alive. It obviously wouldn’t do for the doctor to wander out and get hit by falling debris. By the time he confirmed the scientist’s position on his map and squared his gear away, Roland, the ship’s AI, was broadcasting over the comm.
“Spartan Miller, distress call from Forward Base Magma.” Leonid stretched and looked to the sky, already anticipating the Pelican’s arrival. “They’ve been under attack for some time and would appreciate backup.”
Miller was quick and as eager as always. The illusion of the indefatigable four man team had to be protected, after all. “Crimson, you’re the closest to them; hope you weren’t planning on catching your breath. Dalton, I need a quick ride for Crimson to Magama’s position.”
“Pelican’s on station.” Spartan Dalton, their sections ordnance officer replied without hesitation, and indeed, the Pelican was already coming down. Leonid idly wiped some bone fragments and sticky unidentified tissue from his armor, and clambered aboard as the dropship hovered just above the ground. Someone had once remarked that a SPARTAN’s fight was never over. It was as true then as ever. The mission, as always, never truly ended. Not for Leonid; not for true SPARTANs.
