Here's
Part 32. Suppose I could get detailed feedback at all? Don't be afraid
to criticise, if I'm doing something wrong or something you don't like,
please tell me.
Part 32 - Protectors of Earth
John
blinked in surprise as, out of the thick smoke, one of the Flood came
lumbering towards him; three energy swords held in the trio of deformed
arms the creature possessed. It seemed to smirk as it advanced towards
him, twirling the three blades in intricate motions through the air,
intending to intimidate.
The Flood form had obviously never
encountered a Spartan before. John didn't flinch, not even when the
three blades were but a few metres away from his throat. Instead, he
merely reached down to his belt, and drew out from a sheath a thick,
weighted combat knife. The Master Chief held it low for a few moments,
until the Flood form moved the energy swords so close that John could
feel the heat, even through his armour.
At the last possible
moment, the Spartan swerved out of the way of the swinging blades,
contorting his body in a way which even a trained gymnast would have
trouble replicating. The trio of swords flew harmlessly over John's sky
facing head, and the Spartan quickly retaliated, coming around full
circle and driving the combat knife deep into the Flood form's side.
The infected creature; a former Brute John noticed, screamed as it
beheld the long knife which entered one side of it's hip and emerged
out of the other. Before it could reassert control over its naturally
reacting body, John threw a heavy punch at the Flood's head, which flew
from its torso, landing several metres ahead. The headless body
collapsed to the ground, before laying motionless. Even the Flood
needed a brain to operate.
The swords the creature held tumbled
to the ground, and John swooped down, picking one up and deactivated
the self destruct mechanism. As he pressed another button, the energy
sword ignited; weightless and yet still far more powerful than the
heaviest of heavy steel broadsword.
Combat felt strange without
Cortana advising him. Since being fixed at the shield world, John had
forgotten what it was like not having her nattering to him in the midst
of battle. Still, she was needed a lot more up in space, the Spartan
reasoned. The UNSC had few smart AIs at its disposal, and Cortana was
one of the best.
Spartan blue team -- comprised of John, Kelly,
Linda and the higher ranked, yet subordinate Fred -- had decided to
divide themselves into lone units aiding different ODST Flood response
divisions. John was in temporary command of the 105th; the meanest, and
most 'bad ass' (As Sergeant Johnson quaintly put) division of
Helljumpers there was. He looked ahead to his right and saw Commander
Nigel shoot a Carrier form with a 12 gauge shotgun, diving away just
before the bulbous creature exploded. Another ODST soon came up and
torched the ground where the Carrier had been standing but moments
before, to prevent the infection forms spreading out.
John had
to admit that the new ODST Flood Response Divisions -- set up after the
Ark event in case the infection ever came back -- were very efficient.
They wore completely airtight suits, similar in appearance to ODST body
armour. The suits were clever in that they read the life signs of the
wearer; and if it detected no signals, meaning the wearer was dead, it
would release pockets of dangerous acid to burn up the corpse so badly
that even the Flood would be able to infect it.
The weapons they
used were rather standard, hand-held flame-throwers, plasma burners,
and other such weapons. Some of the ODSTs had opted to keep their
standard weapons, such as Commander Nigel and his shotgun, which he
claimed to be a family heirloom.
Amazing to think that only one
Flood ship had broken through the hastily thrown together Maginot-like
line -- crashing down at New London -- and yet still the entire city
was thrown into chaos. Practically every civilian was dead or infected,
bar the few lucky enough to be near a metro entrance; the underground
tunnels had sealed blast doors at their entrances created during the
Covenant war as a defence. John knew that beneath his feet now,
thousands of ordinary men, women and children cowered in relative
safety, hoping the 'Council' would be able to deal with the infection.
Their
hopes looked to be fruitful, the Chief mused as he drove the sword in
his hand through an infected human woman, not hesitating in the least.
The combined forces of the humans, Covenant and Separatists seemed to
be prevailing in this battle. The Flood were being forced into a corner
by the armies, and one by one the various districts were cleared.
Still, this was just a small inkling of the huge battle to come on
Sangheilios later.
And the naval battle still, John assumed,
raged above Earth's atmosphere. If that couldn't be won, then no amount
of Flood Response teams would be able to save Earth.
* * * * * * *
Thel
Vadam' ran a fond hand across the armrest of the chair he was seated
in. Everything was as he remembered, the gash in the headrest from the
time when his second had tried to assassinate him; the way the
customised seat catered to his large size.
Indeed, the Stylet class ship Seeker of Truth
had not changed one bit since Thel had been stripped of his position as
Supreme Commander of the Covenant, before being brought before the
Council, then condemned to the suicidal role of the Arbiter.
And yet now he was back in the very ship he had once piloted in the Fleet of Righteous Justice. It had been far too long.
The
stench of the Jiralhanae who had taken this ship after Thel's disgrace
was still present, although not too pungent. And Thel had been too
pleased that the Chieftain Daedalus had offered him the Seeker back to him to complain about the smell.
It
was odd, some had said back in the days of the Covenant, that a Supreme
Commander would take such a small ship as a Stylet. It was hardly
bigger than a Destroyer, and many times smaller than a standard CCS
Battlecruiser, never mind the Assault Carriers even Fleet-masters
usually commandeered.
But Thel disliked the grand, powerful
ships. There were many reasons for this. Chief among them was that he
had no desire to instruct a crew of pilots on how to fly his
ship, as he would were he on a standard Cruiser. No, Thel preferred to
take the helm of the bridge himself; he loved the exhilarating feeling
he experienced when flying. And so he had chosen a Stylet to be his
flagship. Odd indeed, but he loved it.
The Stylet class Covenant
ship was remarkable, really. Small, with two Pulse Laser Cannons
mounted, one underneath and one on top; as well as two small plasma
torpedo launchers on each side of the ship. It was designed so as to
need as few crew members as could be allowed, and in a pinch, could be
piloted by one. Usually, to be on the safe side, Thel would have two or
three fellow Sangheili assisting him. He had no need now however,
thanks to a very special addition to the crew.
"This feels kind
of weird, me helping you. Wasn't too long ago that I was hacking into
your battle net at the first Halo ring." Cortana mused as she appeared
on the holographic projector next to Thel, who glanced down at her
small human female form.
"Well, honoured construct, I feel
privileged that you chose to assist me in operating my ship." Thel
replied back carefully, not wanting to insult the AI who held his life
in her non-corporeal hands. Cortana laughed a warm laugh.
"It's nice to finally help someone with manners. The Chief is an amazing soldier, but he can sometimes be a little--"
"Blunt?" Thel cut in without thinking.
"That's
a nice way to put it." the AI joked, folding her arms. Thel allowed
himself a slight chuckle before becoming serious once again and lightly
touching a pad above, warming up the ship's plasma core engine.
"So what think you our chances of surviving this fray construct?" Thel queried, touching another pad which made the Seeker of Truth rise slowly and steadily off the floor of Placid Enrichment.
"Our chances, or everyone's?" Cortana asked, hands on hips.
"Both." Thel answered softly, preparing to move the Seeker of Truth out through the shield door and into space, where most of the fleets were already engaged with the Flood.
"I'd tell you Arbiter, but the odds would just depress you." Cortana told Thel solemnly, who suddenly grinned.
"Then
it is fortuitous that I care not for statistics." Thel breathed out
determinedly, punching the ship's ignition pad. The Stylet darted out
of Placid Enrichment, and vanished into the carnage.
* * * * * * *
John
heard the cry of a Brute to his left, and instinctively brought his
rifle out, aiming it down at the fallen Jiralhanae's head. He then
blinked, remembering he was working with the Covenant now, and lowered
the rifle, instead bending down to look at the Brute. It seemed to be
trapped under a semi-molten steel girder. The Brute was screaming in
agony as the girder seared its flesh. Only half its upper torso was
free.
"Can you hear me?" John questioned, laying a hand on the
Brute's shaggy shoulder. The Covenant soldier nodded, screams dying,
replaced by shock as it beheld first-hand a 'Demon.' John gave a sharp
nod back.
"Hold on, I'm going to lift this off you." the Spartan
assured the Brute, who remained dumbstruck, merely shaking its head
once.
John stood up, and placed a hand on the underbelly of
the collapsed girder. He saw shields flare around his hands as the heat
began to eat away at them. Grimacing, the Spartan diverted more power
to his hands, boosting the shields. He gripped the steel firmly, and
began to pull.
It was heavy, solid and nearly twice as tall than
the straining Spartan. Yet John persevered, heaving and grunting until
finally, the girder shifted that critical inch, and the Spartan was
able to lift the huge steel bar up and toss it to the side. John
reached down and offered the Brute a helping hand. After a few
uncertain moments, the Covenant soldier grasped John's hand gratefully,
and the Spartan pulled to Brute to his feet. As he released his grip
however, the Brute began to fall to the ground again, and would have
had John not deftly caught him. The Brute was heavy, put John had
lifted heavier. He draped the large beast like person over his
shoulder, before gently lowering him down against a nearby wall.
"My--my
thanks, Demon," the Brute gasped out wearily, breathing deep. John
nodded. He took a look at the Brute. It wore the intricate armour of a
War Chieftain. How strange to see such a Brute and yet to not be fighting it, John thought.
"No
problem. What's your name Brute?" the Spartan questioned gently,
removing the Chieftain's Power Armour, which disconnected with a hiss.
John winced at the damage beneath, the Brute's entire torso was mangled
and bloody.
"Aeschylus," the Brute wheezed out, before doubling
over in a coughing fit. John grimaced, the Brute obviously had a
punctured lung. He reached down to his belt and drew out a biofoam
canister, injected the thick, musty smelling foam into the Brute's
chest area. Aeschylus began to breathe normally again.
"Am I to
die, Demon?" Aeschylus asked, and his voice was so uncaring that John
blinked, looking up into the empty eyes of the Brute.
"No,
you'll be fine. I'll call a medic in a few minutes. What happened?" the
Spartan asked, relieving his legs momentarily and sitting down next to
Aeschylus, resting his head against the wall.
"I was commanding
a lance of Jiralhanae. We were taking cover in a building when a huge
Parasite came by. Collapsed the structure, and the building. Killed my
pack. Only I survived." Aeschylus muttered out through newly shed tears.
"I
know all too well the pain of losing a 'pack' Aeschylus." John told the
Brute, thinking of all his brother and sister Spartans who had died at
Reach in the attack by the Covenant. The attack the Arbiter had
commanded. John liked the Elite, thought of him as a good friend, and
yet had trouble forgiving him for authorising the attack which had
destroyed everyone John had held dear.
"And how do you cope with
the loss Demon?" Aeschylus asked bluntly, stunning John for a second.
Cope? There was never a moment in his life where he didn't think about
his Spartans. Except...
"You have to do things. Fight. Talk.
Move on. It hurts, and will always hurt. But keeping busy is the best
painkiller of all." John told the Brute wisely, and began to stand up.
He didn't like how awkward the conversation had become.
"Come
on, I'll take you to a group of Elites nearby, they'll get you back to
base." John told the Brute, reaching down to pick Aeschylus up. 'Base'
was a reinforced Tower of London, the ancient structure built back in
medieval times by William the Conqueror in 1078. For centuries, it had
been a place of death and misery. Ironic that now it was a place of
refuge and safety.
As John's fingertips touched the Brute's
though, there was a crash through the wall further down the alley, and
a lone colossal Flood form stepped through. It was twice as tall as
John, and spotted both him and the Brute instantly. Aeschylus baulked.
"By
the Prophets, it's back!" the Brute cried out in fear, and John
realised this must be the creature which levelled the building
Aeschylus had been trapped under. Before the Spartan could lift up the
Brute and take him to safety, the colloidal Flood form reached out and
grabbed Aeschylus by the waist with one long, thick tentacle. The Brute
began to scream.
"No! No! Help, by the Journey, please hel--"
the Flood form doubled the thick tentacle holding the Brute over on
itself, and Aeschylus's body cracked in two. The Covenant War Chieftain
fell to the ground, bleeding, and very much dead.
The huge behemoth Flood form then turned its gaze upon John, who was standing still with his rifle ready. It began to advance.
"Crap."
John breathed, before spraying the monster with bullets. It shrugged
them off easily, still advancing slowly. The Spartan emptied magazine
after magazine into the Flood form, yet to no avail. A sudden clicking
noise told John that the Assault rifle was out of ammo. "Not good."
The
Flood form charged then, running towards John rather quickly. John
tossed the rifle aside, and looked behind him to the mouth of the
alleyway. There was no other option available.
And so John ran.
He fled from the insanely tall Flood form, as fast as he could. The
Spartan was painfully aware that despite the fact he was running his
fastest, the Flood form was still right behind him.
John tumbled
out of the alleyway, into the broad street beyond. The Elites at the
foot of the street cried out in shock, raising their rifles.
"Run!"
John screamed at them, waving his arms frantically. He didn't stop, and
continued to run down the street. John looked back and saw with horror
that the Elites hadn't moved yet, instead raising their rifles bravely,
wearing confident looks. *** their honour! John thought, even
as the behemoth crashed likewise out onto the street, careering into
the startled Elites. Plasma flew from the reptilian creatures for a few
moments, before stopping as the Flood form killed them all with mirth.
It then looked around the street, before spotting John once again. The
Spartan swore; he'd never in all his time fought something like this.
There
was no way John would be able to outrun it. No way in hell. He'd have
to stand his ground and fight. The Spartan reached down to his belt,
and drew out his energy sword. He spotted another discarded on the
street nearby. Two are better than one, John thought, lifting that hilt up and igniting it too, so he held a sword in each hand.
The
huge Flood lumbered towards him, covering the vast distance in less
than a few seconds. It lunged for John with one thick limb, which the
Spartan easily ducked under. As the tentacle passed over his head, he
brought up one blade, slicing the limb off. The Spartan chuckled with
success as he backed away. Now the creature only had one tentacle left!
His
victory was short-lived though, for as John watched in horror as
another limb began to grow, coming out of the Flood form's body. John
noticed that the torso of the creature, however, seemed to thin, as if
it were transferring biomass from one area to another.
"Like a
Hydra..." John muttered as he circled the enemy. The Spartan remembered
the old tale of the Hydra, the mythological monster which had grown two
heads for every one cut off. How had Hercules killed it again?
Before
he could remember though, the huge Flood launched an attack at him,
forcing John to execute a series of complex and intricate movements
which would have impressed even Kelly. Speaking of which, where were
his Spartans? He could use their help right now.
"This is
Spartan 117, I'm engaged with a powerful enemy, can anyone assist?"
John demanded over the priority channel. There was no response for a
few moments, and John backed away from the advancing Flood behemoth.
Then:
"Uh, Master Chief? We're a little pressed right now, we're
barely holding out as it is. Is it vital you need help?" a voice John
recognised as belonging to Colonel Miles inquired. John looked up at
the colossal Flood creature, standing twice as tall as him; the
physical embodiment of hell.
"I'll
survive somehow." the Spartan replied curtly, terminating the link.
John knew that if he told the Colonel what he was fighting, the scores
of troops would be sent to help him. And those defending the city
couldn't take the loss of those troops. John would have to find a way
to best this creature himself.
The Spartan weighted one the
energy swords, and tossed it, where it severed a tentacle if the
behemoth. The flesh where the Flood limb had been severed was raw, and
seemed to be bleeding. The sight reminded John of something he'd seen
as a child.
He'd been 9 years old, out on a training exercise in
a jungle on Reach. The marines they had been commanded to take out as
part of the exercise were armed with stun rounds. All of them were sick
bastards, they had no qualms with hurting children.
One of
John's Spartans, Richard, had taken a hit on the finger, which had, to
everyone's horror, flown off the hand it was attached to. The wound had
been bleeding, and didn't seem to be stopping. Sam had lost the small
amount of medical supplies they had been given by Mendez, and they had
nothing to treat the wound with.
Kelly had come up with the
idea. She had taken out a lighter, and had held the flame to the boy's
raw, fleshy stump of a finger. The bleeding had stopped, and despite
the pain of Richard, everyone had been able to complete the training
exercise.
John blinked then, staring at the Flood limb which was
already growing back. How different was it from a finger? The Spartan
then remembered how Hercules had dealt with the Hydra. Whenever
Hercules had cut off one of the monster's heads, he had a flame held to
it. The heads had not grown back.
That was the way to deal with
this Flood form. But where could he find a flame now? And where could
he find one large enough to cauterise a limb as thick as the one the
Flood form possessed?
The Spartan smiled. He didn't need a
flame, he lived in the 26th century, with access to alien technology.
Plasma would be far more efficient than fire.
Spotting an Elite
corpse in the distance, John began to run towards it, vaulting over a
pair of tentacles thrown in his direction. He heard the creature scream
behind him, and a few seconds later a lamppost was thrown in his
direction, narrowly missing him. John reached the dead Elite, and
quickly searched its body. The Spartan smiled when he found what he had
been seeking: a Plasma rifle, at 63% charge. Perfect. Before moving,
John closed the Elite's lifeless eyes.
Now he had a means to
stop this God *** creature. The Spartan turned to see the Flood
behemoth lumbering towards him, cracking the street with every step it
took. It screamed, before swinging at John with it's heavy, thick
setted limbs.
John skidded underneath a tentacle as it swung where
his head had previously been. A few droplets of biomass dripped onto
his armour.
The creature had its back exposed for a moment. John
took advantage of this, and brought his energy sword down on one of the
Flood form's limbs, which collapsed to the ground. This time though,
instead of allowing it to regrow, John raised his taken plasma rifle
and fired ten shots into the stump where the limb had once been. He
crowed with success when he saw the wound sealed, and didn't regenerate.
The
Flood form seemed to notice what the Spartan was doing to it, for it
suddenly cried out in frustration, bringing an unexpected tentacle
behind it, catching John by surprise. The limb crashed into John,
draining his shields and throwing him into the window of a nearby
building, caving in several bricks.
John gasped, unable to
breathe. He'd never felt such pain before, never. Several of his ribs
had to be cracked, and his vision was blurred. Still, the biofoam in
his suit soon began to patch him up, temporarily at least. John rose...
...And
charged the Flood form, determined not to lose. He never lost. The
Spartan crashed with his bulk into the Flood's, sending the vile
creature reeling backwards. Its disorientation was all John needed to
gain control of the fight, smashing the Flood form into the ground.
Before it could get back up, John seized the creature's head, as large
as the Spartans body, and sliced it with his energy sword. The head
toppled to the ground.
The Spartan had no idea if the Flood form
could regrow such a vital body part, but wasn't willing to take any
chances. He drew out his plasma rifle, and poured fire into the neck,
which was now a mere stump. The wound closed, and John finished off the
arduous ordeal by taking his energy sword, and plunging it into the
torso of the behemoth, where it stayed fast.
Finally, it was
dead. John collapsed to the ground in a pool of both his and the Flood
form's blood, exhausted and mortally wounded. Would he die after all of
this? It seemed too cruel. Yet it was happening. The Spartan began to
lose the feeling in his limbs, and knew he would soon pass out, perhaps
to never wake up. He lay in silence for what seemed like hours, knowing
he faced death.
Before John entered the void though, he heard
the roar of an engine behind him. He turned weakly to see a Pelican,
resting on the ground. The hatch lowered.
"He's down. Blackwell,
Callahan! See if you can't drag him onto this bird. Gently now.
Ramirez, get your med kit ready. This might well be the most important
operation of your life!" the voice sounded familiar, yet in his pain
drunken stupor, John failed to place it. He was only vaguely aware when
two marines grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him towards the
Pelican. With grunts, the two men threw him onto the drop ship. A
blurry, dark face bent over him.
"Don't worry Chief, you'll be
okay." the familiar marine said, although to John it sounded like a
faint whisper. He couldn't tell who was speaking, everything was so
confusing. The walls of the Pelican seemed to move.
"Who--where?" John mumbled out incoherently, trying to rise. A hand pushed him back down, showing just how weak he was.
"Don't
worry Chief, you're okay now. We'll patch you up, get you back onto
your feet in no time. And you know I'd never butter up the truth." the
voice assured John. As the Spartan's hearing came back slightly, he
knew why the voice sounded familiar.
"Sergeant Johnson?" John asked weakly, coughing. Johnson chuckled.
"You
know it. Your lucky we came Chief, we disobeyed a direct order coming
into this hot zone for you." the Sergeant informed the Spartan, sitting
down in a chair. Another marine came into view, speaking with a Spanish
accent.
"Right, I'm going to patch you up as best as I can.
Don't worry, I'm a trained medic. Now, you're going to pass out in a
few moments, but you'll be back with us in a few--"
John's vision faded to black.
"This one has forgotten whether it's heatsink is over capacity. It wonders whether the criminal scum considers itself fortunate" ~ Blasto, the only Hanar Spectre.