My Fanfic Stash and Favorite online quests

Words: 49k+

Link:

https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/30670

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/current-objective-survive-halo-spartan-iii-noble-six-si.1210598/

(August 30th, 2552. The planet Reach has fallen.

Once the heart of the UNSC, home to the Spartan-II program, and humanity's second-largest colony, Reach is now a smoldering graveyard, the Covenant having razed it to the ground, Earth lies exposed, and hope is slipping through humanity's fingers.

As the Pillar of Autumn escapes into the void, carrying Spartan John-117 toward humanity's eventual salvation, Spartan-B312 Noble Six is left behind, destined to make a doomed last stand at Rally Point Omega. But this time, fate takes an unexpected turn.

Cole, an avid fan of the Halo franchise, reincarnates into Noble Six's body just as the Pillar of Autumn departs, his second life having begun just hours before its death. Armed with nothing but his inherited Spartan skills, Noble Six's memories, dwindling supplies, and his foreknowledge of the war's events and hidden secrets he refuses to die at Rally Point Omega.

His only chance of survival, and at delivering his critical meta-knowledge lies thousands of kilometres away at CASTLE Base. Beneath its ruins, Dr. Halsey and surviving SPARTAN II's are hidden in the mines. With the planet burning around him and the Covenant closing in, Cole now as Noble Six must put everything on the line to survive. He has knowledge that could tip the scales of the war, of the war, of humanity's future. Knowledge that must survive.)

Survive 1.1 - Decimation

Decimation

My take on exploring one of the Halo Franchises big what ifs:

What if Noble Six survived the Impossible?

August 30th, 2552.

Aszod Shipbreaking Yards

Lieutenant SPARTAN-B312 'Noble Six' (22 Years Old)

"This is the Pillar of Autumn. We are away. And the Package is with us."​

As he watched the Pillar of Autumn's external boosters plummet to the ground and the ship soar toward its fate upon Installation 04, Cole or rather, Noble Six now, came to a grim realization: he was going to die. The thought settled in him like a heavy stone, his heart sinking in disbelief. In the blink between one moment and the next he found himself inhabiting the body of the famous SPARTAN III Noble Six from a franchise he in his past life had known only to be fictional. He was not blessed with the chance to be reborn at the start of Reach's fall, or even before it, no he had arrived at the bitter end. Hours before he was fated to die.

As Cole stared at the ship's departing form, the reality of his situation settled over him like a thick, constricting fog. Either the SPARTAN Program was just that good at moulding children into soldiers or the original Noble Six must have had balls of iron to keep himself together and moving forward. With the Autumn gone there was no hope of escaping the planet, Reach had already fallen, and the Covenant forces were everywhere. The only other way off world would be to hijack a Covenant ship worthy of slipspace travel, a plan that would be so convoluted and impossible to pull off he didn't even bother thinking about it.

There was no escaping the truth: it was all going to be lost. Entire swathes of the planet were going to be glassed to ash. Rally Point Omega, only a couple hours away from his current location, was filled with UNSC troops and several Spartan teams, who would all be overrun as the Covenant sent wave after wave at them until they achieved total victory, until all signs of human resistance were annihilated. An overwhelming fear crept into Coal's chest, his pulse quickening as the full weight of his predicament pressed down on him, his armoured hands tightened instinctively on the M392 DMR he was holding. All that kept him together and upright was the ingrained physical and mental fortitude of Noble Six which he had fortunately inherited in his unwilling body-snatch. The weapon felt comfortable in his grip, almost unnaturally so. He somehow knew everything there was to know about the DMR, how it was reloaded, maintained, and best used in combat despite never having held a weapon in his previous life. Another gift to him from the original Noble Six, the man's memories. Bitter thoughts rose in his mind.

It was unfair, what cruel being or uncaring force of nature had decided this place and time was his designated reincarnation spot? Why couldn't he have been blessed with a more peaceful or fun Isekai adventure? Why couldn't he have been reincarnated as a spoiled dog or a malevolent cat? Where was his harem boob-filled anime adventure in the lands of DxD, Danmachi, or Naruto? Where was his op gamer-power that would allow him to seduce women, crack jokes, and meander his way into godhood? Out of all the fictional universes he had loved to explore throughout his life, Percy Jackson, Star Wars, Marvel, The Cosmere, why did he have to be reborn into one where Humanity was on the brink of extinction. Where he was now an orphaned Super-soldier whose primary purpose was to be cannon fodder to halt the Covenant's advance.

While Cole couldn't help but lament at a lack of superpowers or magical blessings that he might have hoped for in his previous life he hadn't come out of this ordeal empty handed. For the brief hours he might still be alive, he had inherited something extraordinary, a body pushed to the absolute peak of physical performance by Spartan-III augmentation and years of combat training and military experience. Where once he had been unhealthy and had constantly dealt with the shortness of breath brought on by lifelong asthma, he now felt like a god. His muscles coiled, heart pumping and his lungs free at last. At six feet nine inches, his new height alone was disorientating, every slight movement requiring adjustment as he grew accustomed to his larger frame. All Spartan's whether they be 2's, 3's, or 4's had augmentations, and Noble six after being discovered as an orphan in 2539 was recruited into the Spartan-III Program and placed in Beta Company. The enhancements Beta Company had undergone were similar to the gruelling augmentations of Alpha Company, but with crucial advancements. Nearly unbreakable bones, enhanced night vision, and superhuman strength coursed through his veins thanks to the advanced pharmacological cocktail that had ensured every Spartan-III survived the process, a stark contrast to the horrific 56% casualty rate of the Spartan-IIs.

Then there was the armour. The MJOLNIR Mk. V Power Assault armour enveloped him like a second skin. A cutting-edge marvel, it incorporated energy shielding technology, granting him an edge in combat compared to regular UNSC forces. Unlike the standard Mk. V model, the variant lacked compatibility with smart AIs, he himself would not be getting his own A.I Buddy Companion, the part of him that wanted his own Cortana cried out in despair, like the Master Chief unless he had his neural interface upgraded regardless, but overall the armour had been tailored specifically for Spartan-III use. For a fleeting moment, Cole—Noble Six—felt a strange sense of pride in the armour, even as it seemed like a futile advantage against the overwhelming Covenant forces across the planet. While the original Spartan-B312 had flourished as a solo operative, his actions as a member of the Noble team had taught him a valuable lesson. The best equipment in the world couldn't make up for a trusted Spartan at your side. He tried not to think about how all of his team outside of Jun and himself were dead. Jun having already evacuated from the planet.

His gaze shifted outward, across Reach's scarred and dying surface. In the far distance, he could see Covenant phantoms and banshees cutting through the sky like malevolent wraiths. Bursts of plasma illuminated the landscape, mingling with the occasional return fire of UNSC weapons. The horizon was a panorama of destruction and resistance, a world in its final throes, both horrific and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Deep within, Cole could feel something stirring, The original Noble Six's instincts. Now made his own. They weren't merely memories or thoughts, but a primal pull, a subconscious urge to head out on a several hour long trek toward Rally Point Omega, and to meet the same end that fate had intended for him. The temptation to simply let it happen was strong. What was the point of struggling against fate? The world would go on as they were meant to as he had seen in the books and games, his purpose in the grand story had come to an end. He had served his purpose and done his duty. John-117, the Master Chief, would carry the torch for all of them and rise as humanity's champion to save the day time and again. Did it really matter if Cole survived?

And yet… the knowledge he carried burned within him. This was no ordinary universe that he was ignorant of, it was one where the events he had once read about and played through were now real. He could see it all in his mind: the discovery of the Halo installations, the Gravemind and the Flood threatening to consume the galaxy, the Covenant's invasion of Earth, the lies and schemes of the Prophets, Tartarus and his Brutes. The Forerunners and the truth behind humanities origins. The Didact's return and the Prometheans, Cortana's fall into rampancy. The rise of the Banished under Atriox. The destruction of the UNSC Infinity and the events that took place on Installation 07. It was all real, and it was all coming.

Humanity and the UNSC didn't know the horrors and struggles that awaited them. The enemies that awaited them. Only he did.

His thoughts turned to Noble team, to the original Noble Six's sacrifice, to the countless Spartans and UNSC personnel who had fought and died for humanity's survival. To the countless who were yet to do so in the coming years and battles. Even now, five hundred years removed from the Earth he once knew, Cole still felt that connection to his home. He was human, and Earth was his home, one that desperately needed protecting.

How could he just lay down and die knowing what he did? How could he let humanity stumble into disaster, blind to the threats ahead, when he had the chance to change it? Even if only marginally? The responsibility was crushing, but it was his burden to bear. If he didn't act, if he didn't do everything in his power to warn and prepare humanity, then he would have no one to blame but himself. He would die here on Reach, a selfish coward.

Cole—no, Noble Six—gripped his rifle tightly, the weight of it grounding him in the present. His fear hadn't vanished, but it had been replaced by something stronger: resolve. If he was going to die on this waning planet, he would die knowing he had fought to make a difference. He had been given this chance for a reason, and he wasn't going to waste it.

With his resolve set, Cole turned his focus to the grim reality ahead. His situation was bleak, to put it mildly. He was alone, surrounded by a planet crawling with Covenant forces who would hunt and kill him on sight and his supplies were dwindling. But he at least had something most others didn't, his knowledge. There was one sliver of hope, distant and tenuous though it may be.

CASTLE Base, an underground facility of the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI).

It was almost 2000 kilometres away, deep within inhospitable remains of Reach. But it was a chance. His only chance. He recalled what he knew about it from the fragments of lore he had devoured in his past life. Castle Base had been the fallback position for Team Delta, where several Spartan-II's had ended up such as key members of Blue team, Frederic-104, Kelly-087 alongside a smattering of others. It was there they found Dr. Catherine Halsey, the brilliant yet morally questionable mind behind the Spartan-II program. Halsey had stayed behind to execute Operation: WHITE GLOVE, destroying the base and its advanced UNSC technology to prevent it from falling into Covenant hands.

When the Covenant inevitably breached the base, which if his knowledge was accurate they had done so already, Halsey had been forced to activate WHITE GLOVE, wiping out Kalmiya, her AI assistant in the process, and burying herself and the Spartans in the hazardous titanium mines below. There, they would discover something extraordinary. A Forerunner crystal, a relic of ancient power. They would remain down there for nearly a month until the Master Chief returned to Reach looking for Spartan survivors. If Cole didn't make it to CASTLE Base in time, or at all then within that time-frame he could kiss any hope of getting off this desolate rock goodbye.

Cole shook off the thought and forced himself to focus. Before setting out, he needed supplies. The Aszod Shipbreaking Yards or what remained of them was not little more than a graveyard, strewn with the lifeless bodies of friends and alien foes alike. The air was permeated with the stench of scorched metal and plasma-charred flesh. The eerie silence was punctuated only by the distant sounds of battle, reminders that the Covenant were still out there, relentlessly advancing. The shipyards were void of life for now but they would not stay that way, he could not risk sticking around in one place for long.

He moved cautiously, his boots crunching over the debris. The place due to his and Emile's efforts was devoid of life, the Covenant forces who had stormed it either wiped out or moved on after believing no survivors had remained. Cole scavenged what he could, moving methodically through the wreckage. He found spare ammunition for his DMR, a functional sidearm, a handful of grenades, Plasma grenades from fallen Grunts and Elites included. He even found in a corner a battered medkit, it was all better than nothing.

Near the MAC gun that he had used to clear the way for the Pillar of Autumn's escape, Cole stopped, his gaze falling on a slumped figure leaning against a yellow railing. His breath caught as he approached. Emile. The last member of Noble team he had fought alongside. The Spartan's iconic skull-etched helmet was tilted downward, his Kukri knife still clutched loosely in his hand. Cole crouched and gently pried the blade from his grasp, his own combat knife damaged and barely usable. He held the kukri for a moment, feeling its weight, before sliding it into his belt with quiet respect. He reached up and with great care ripped the dog tag's from around his neck, he would carry them forward as already did with Jorge's. He said the only words that came to mind when he thought of Emile.

"You died like a total badass." he murmured.

With his scavenging complete, Cole stood amidst the carnage, turning his attention to the daunting task ahead doing the quick math in his head. In his MJOLNIR armour, he could sustain bursts of speed covering roughly 55 kilometres per hour when accounting for short rests it would take him roughly 36 hours to cover the 2,000 kilometres to CASTLE base, if it was a straight shot and he didn't encounter any trouble along the way. Which it was not and he most certainly would. The terrain between him and the base was a wasteland of battlefields, Covenant patrols, zealot hunting squads, and scattered UNSC resistance pockets. To survive and evade detection, he would have to rely on the very skills that had made Noble Six legendary: stealth, precision and ruthless efficiency.

Spartan-B312 had been a ghost long before Reach, one of humanity's best, a lone wolf assassin capable of eliminating entire insurgent cells overnight, and vanishing without a trace. Cole would need to embrace that legacy now, using every ounce of cunning and patience to outmaneuver the Covenant. He would become an ambush predator once more, striking from the shadows and retreating before the enemy could react.

There was one more danger he couldn't ignore: The glassing. The covenant were raining fiery death from orbit, and while CASTLE base remained untouched, protected, he believed, by its proximity to forerunner technology that the Covenant were not willing to risk, there was no guarantee the area between here and there would remain safe. A random plasma strike could vaporise him at any moment. Almost surprising himself he shrugged off the thought. It wasn't something he could control. He would handle what he could, and if the sky decided to kill him, so be it.

With a final look at the desolate shipyard, Cole turned and began his journey, leaving behind the corpses of the brave and the damned. His boots crunched against the scorched ground, each step carrying him further into the unknown. The ghosts of reach lingered in the air, a silent reminder of what was at stake,

This wasn't just survival, it was a mission. The greatest mission of his life. And a Spartan always completed the mission no matter the cost.

Sangheili Zealot Field Marshal Thuko 'Lotamee

Location Unknown

The screams of dying humans echoed through the air, mixing with the crackling of plasma weapons and the faint hum of energy shields. Field Marshal Thuko 'Lotamee strode through the battlefield with the feline gait of a predator, his violet and blue armour gleaming under the flickering light of distant fires. Around him, the Devoted sentries moved with deadly precision, their curved energy swords slicing through the air in arcs of shimmering blue.

A human warrior, his uniform indicating him to likely be an officer, stumbled back, firing wildly with a sidearm that clattered uselessly against the shields of a charging Zealot. Thuko's translation device picked up the dying man's last words.

"Come get some Split lip!" A futile roar of defiance. The Sangheili warrior growled low, a sound of disdain and triumph, before plunging his blade into the man's chest. The officer's scream was cut short, his body crumpling to the ground as the Sangheili retrieved the blade, flicking away the remnants of human blood that had splattered on his body as though it were an insult to his armour.

A squad of human warriors, one's they knew to be called 'UNSC marines', had tried to establish a perimeter around their improvised command post, a cluster of hastily erected barricades and sandbags littered with spent casings. As expected their efforts had been useless. Now, the ground was stained red, the smell of burned flesh and ozone heavy in the air. The humans had fought valiantly, but desperation had stripped them of any hope of victory. Their cries for reinforcements had gone unanswered, their retreat routes cut off by precision strikes from Covenant Banshees and Wraiths. There was no escaping the covenant, the sooner the human's accepted this the better.

Thuko paused near one of the fallen, a young human soldier barely out training by the looks of him. The human's helmet had been knocked askew, revealing wide, unseeing eyes and a face frozen in terror/ The Field Marshal tilted his head, studying the corpse with a detached curiosity. These humans were fragile, weak, and unworthy of the galaxy's inheritance, yet they fought with a ferocity that bordered on the admirable.

One of his Zealots approached, saluting with a fist to his chest. "Field Marshal, the human resistance in this sector has been eradicated. All survivors have fled or been neutralised."

Thuko's mandibles flared in mild approval as he surveyed the carnage. "They fought as vermin always do, clawing and biting even as the noose tightens." He turned his gaze sweeping the horizon. In the distance, the charred remains of a human shipbreaking yard, once a human stronghold, smouldered under the relentless advance of the Covenant's might.

The faint hum of energy shields and the cold, sterile glow of holograms illuminated the war chamber as Thuko entered, leaving the battlefield behind. His armour, polished to a dark sheen, still bore the faint traces of the blood and soot from the skirmish, a testament to his rightful place at the forefront of combat. The two spike-like protrusions on his helmet caught the light, casting long shadows over the map of the human world displayed before him, a world now burning under the Covenant's might.

Yet, this particular expanse of Reach had been spared the cleansing fires of plasma bombardment. For now.

A guttural growl resonated deep in his chest as he reviewed the reports. The Devoted Sentries, the elite unit of Zealots handpicked by Supreme Commander Rho 'Barutamee, had failed. Despite their vows of unwavering loyalty and their sacred duty to the Ministry of Fervent Intercession, they had allowed the heretics' ship to escape. The Pillar of Autumn, a vessel filled with verminous humans, had filed into the stars. Worse still, it was believed it potentially carried relics of Forerunner significance, sacred artifacts meant for the Covenant and Great Journey.

Thuko tightened his grip on the edge of the holotable, his claws leaving faint indentations in the ally. The failure was a personal affront, a stain on his honour. Supreme commander Thel 'Vadamee himself had entrusted them with continuing Rho 'Barutamee's operations after the commander's demise. Yet, the Devoted Sentries under Field Marshal Jyga 'Mogumee had fallen, slain by the relentless human demons, and thus unable to prevent the escape of their cursed warship. Thel would hear of this disgrace, and the repercussions would be severe.

"Nishum," Thuko muttered under his breath, the Sangheili insult dripping with venom. Worms. Parasites. That was all these humans were, yet they had proven themselves infuriatingly resilient.

The Field Marshal's mandibles clicked with agitation as he paced the room, his heavy footfalls echoing against the walls. The Chamber's other occupants, a pair of lesser Zealots, stood at attention, their bodies tense, their gazes fixed forward. None dared speak until addressed. Even the most devout of his warriors knew better than to interrupt the Field Marsha's brooding.

Finally, Thuko turned, his faze piercing through the holographic haze. "The heretics may have escaped this world, but they have not escaped retribution. Their vessel is being pursued, as dictated by Supreme Commander 'Vadamee. Yet, I remain unconvinced this infestation is truly eradicated."

He gestured toward the map of the planet humans named Reach, zooming in on the broken landscape. "This ground is fertile for the hunt. The vermin persist, scurrying like insects across the surface. And among them remains one of their Demons, a human warrior who has plagued our efforts since the beginning. The one our intelligence believes was responsible for the death of Supreme Commander 'Rho 'Barutamee. A mere beast, hiding among the ashes of their fallen civilisation. But not for long."

One of the Zealots dared to speak, his voice tinged with reverence and restraint. "Field Marshal, the fleet commander has suggested glassing this region. It would be a swift and decisive end to their resistance."

Thuko's mandibles flared in a display of restrained fury. "And deprive us of the hunt? No. This land will not burn, not yet. The Ministry of Fervent Intercession has decreed that all Forerunner sites must remain intact. I will not have our mission sabotaged by impatient commanders eager for fire and spectacle."

He stepped closer to the warrior, hi imposing frame casting a shadow over the subordinate. "Besides, that demon is mine." He indicated with a claw and the holotable shifted to show a still image of the demon and its compatriots. Who the Devoted Sentries had hunted down across the planet with vigour, Thuko took personal delight in the memory of how, using a trusted needle rifle, he had killed one of the unsuspecting demons from above.

"We have killed the rest but this one still remains, I refuse to let it evade me for long. I will see the demon broken by my blade!" The other Zealot bowed his head, murmuring, "By your will, Field Marshal."

Satisfied, Thuko turned back to the holotable. The map shifted, displaying a series of faint heat signatures and movement patterns. Covenant patrols, deployed to sweep the area had already reported numerous skirmishes with lingering human forces. The presence of several demon's was noted at various areas of engagement, but the presence of the one he specifically hunted was unconfirmed or presumed killed. But Thuko knew better than to doubt his instincts. The humans were nothing if not tenacious, their demons most of all.

He leaned over the display, his tone colder. "Humanity and their demons believe they are cunning, but despite their strength they cannot escape their fate."

A faint vibration shook the chamber as a distant plasma bombardment lit up the far horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and red. The sound of it, audible even at such a great distance, was a reminder of the fleet's overwhelming power, a power Thuko could unleash at any moment. He tried to not let the power go to his head, to leave him unbalanced, unfocused.

"In the end," he said, his voice low and full of conviction, a lifelong duty finally being fulfilled. "Their kind will know the truth. Their so-called warriors are nothing before the might of our Covenant. The Great Journey will not be delayed by worms."

The Field Marshal turned to his warriors, his mandibles clicking once more as he issued his final orders. "Summon the remaining Devoted Sentries. Deploy them to the outline regions. I want patrols doubling their efforts. Engage and kill any demons you find, but if this one shows itself, contact me immediately." The Zealots saluted, slamming their fists against their chests in unison before departing to carry out his commands.

As the chamber grew silent once more, Thuko stared out at the desolate landscape. Even in its death throes, the planet had proven itself a worthy battlefield, a crucible for Sangheili warriors to prove their mettle.

Soon, the hunt would begin in earnest. And when it was over, Thuko' Lotamee would ensure that no demon, no infidel, and no worm lived to taint the glory of the Covenant.

For the Great Journey demanded nothing less.

Thanks for Reading!​

Obviously Noble Six died at the end of Halo Reach despite many people wishing that he had survived in a cave, I hadn't given it much thought and was busy writing my other fics until HaloFollower's Ghost of Reach fan-made trailer popped up on my youtube homepage recently. It kicked my interest and muse into gear and here we are, definitely check it out as it was a key inspiration. I feel like we can always do with more Halo Fics

What to expect from this story?

• Fights and struggles of survival on Reach

• ONI Politics, betrayals, espionage, and black ops.

• More on Six's former handler and exploring Noble Six's past, particularly through occasional flashback chapters.

• Noble Six interacting with characters from the books and other media.

If any of that appeals to you then stick around! Hope you enjoy it!

other option for this was Noble somehow ending up on the Autumn but that I felt would've just been Halo with Noble 6 as a ride along. Might end up doing a Spartan II fic down the line, probably need to make a snippets thread at some point.

While going forward he will refer to himself as Noble Six more often, to show a more solid merging of the two identities, the name Cole will be used when a more human name is useful.

Noble Six:

A Zealot Field Marshal:

Survive 1.2 - Evasion

Evasion​

"Noble Six. The team's most recent addition ... my, my. So much black ink ... Six has made entire militia groups disappear. Curious ... "hyper-lethal". There's only one other Spartan with that rating."— Dr. Catherine Halsey​

August 30th, 2552. (Several hours later)

Aszod region.

Lieutenant SPARTAN-B312 'Noble Six'

Cole slammed his back into the rock, biting out a curse. "This is bullshit!"

He peeked around the edge of the boulder, moving slowly to avoid detection. A Covenant pair trudged through the rubble ahead. The smaller one, a Grunt, waddled noisily, its methane tank hissing faintly. Beside it, a towering Elite in cobalt armour strode confidently, scanning the area.

Cole pressed his back against the rock again, forcing his breathing to slow. If he stayed quiet they would pass on unaware he was ever here. So far he'd made decent progress all things considered. For hours he'd cautiously navigated his way through Aszod each step bringing him closer to CASTLE base. Though progress was slower than he'd like. Covenant forces had spread themselves across the region like a suffocating net, forcing him to detour and double-back repeatedly. The sweeping patrols and the occasional banshee overhead had turned what should have been a direct route into a game of cat and mouse. So far his strategy of letting patrols pass him by unmolested had worked almost perfectly. Since leaving the shipyard's he'd gone almost four hours without being detected.

By now, Rally Point Omega was gone. The Spartans and UNSC troops stationed there were almost certainly dead. He told himself there was nothing he could have done to save them. That he would have died for nothing had he joined them. He wasn't sure he believed it.

He peeked once more. The two aliens moved steadily forward, their silhouettes beginning to blur against the smoke-choked horizon. Relief crept into Cole's—Noble's Six's chest. The Grunt froze mid-step, its bulbous head tilting as it sniffed the air. His relief evaporated in an instant. He had a feeling his luck had finally run out.

"Yip-yip-yap! Garap tir yotun!" it squealed, waving its stubby arms. Six's failing translation system crackled to life, distorting the alien speech into a mix of garbled syllables. It had become damaged during tense fighting at the shipyard. Rendered useless. What he would give for a working translation device!

He knew the UNSC had by this point already developed basic translation software. His own broken device was testament to that. Yet while it could handle literal translations it often missed the nuances behind Covenant speech. He wouldn't be getting the upgraded version anytime soon either. Cortana would only unlock a more accurate lexicon during the Halo Event on Installation 04. For now he had to rely on his instincts.

The Elite turned sharply and barked, "Wort wort wort." Its low, guttural tone was commanding, potentially irritated. Though Cole couldn't understand the words themselves he did smile at the iconic phrase. If he died today, hearing that line might have made it all worth it.

The Grunt jabbed at the ground with a clawed finger, chittering insistently. The Elite dismissed it with a wave of its massive hand but remained alert. Cole's gut tightened as the pair moved closer. The Grunt tapped its methane tank repeatedly as if checking for leaks. Then it plopped onto a chunk of rubble, grumbling in irritation. The Elite shifted its stance but didn't move. They were settling in, waiting. For what he didn't know but the longer he stayed here, the worse his odds became. The boulder he hid behind was the only form of cover within eyesight, any attempt to leave without being noticed was impossible. If he waited them out there was a chance that other patrols would eventually stumble across the pair and join them. Perhaps this was a Covenant rallying point? He had to act. Fast and clean. His thoughts sharpened, the original Noble's Six's instincts—no, His instincts rising to the surface. No hesitation. No second chances.

Emile's kukri came free of its sheath with a quiet rasp. The blade caught a faint gleam of light before disappearing into the shadow of his armoured hand. It felt natural there, an extension of himself, sharpened and deadly. His enhanced Spartan senses tuned in, every sound amplified, every detail stark against the haze of the battlefield. The Grunt was his first target. Its back was to him, the hiss of its methane tank masking his approach.

Three steps brought him within striking distance. The kukri flashed once. The blade sank into the Grunt's neck, severing its windpipe in a single precise stroke. It collapsed with a muted gurgle, its methane tank sputtering faintly. The Elite reacted immediately, spinning toward the sound. Upon spotting him it raised its plasma pistol. Cole lunged before it could fire, driving his shoulder into the Sangheili's chest. The impact dropped the Elite flat on its back, its plasma pistol scattering in the dirt. He didn't waste a moment. The Elite roared and struggled to its feet, mandibles flaring wide, but it was too late. Cole's blade plunged upward beneath its jaw, driving through cartilage and into its skull. The Sangheili's struggles ceased in an instant.

Cole eased the body down, letting it slump against the ground. His breaths came heavy but controlled, his heartbeat already slowing as the rush of combat faded. Unexpectedly a feeling of deep vengeful satisfaction rose from within him. Cole had no reason to personally hate the Covenant and take pleasure in their demise. But Noble Six did. And they were quickly becoming one and the same. He wasn't sure how to think about that. Cole wiped the kukri clean on the Elite's armour before sliding it back into its sheath. Emile would definitely haunt him if he mistreated it. His eyes scanned the area, searching for any signs of movement. None. For now, the coast was clear, but he knew better than to let down his guard.

He checked his HUD. The waypoint marker for Castle Base still blinked at the edge of the map. 1,860 kilometres to go. Through hostile terrain. Alone. Lucky him. He shifted his DMR into a comfortable position on his back and moved out, his steps deliberate and measured. The burning ruins of Reach stretched out before him, the air thick with days old smoke and ash. Within a few steps he broke out into a steady run, his MJOLNIR armour and augmentations allowing him to exceed what he had once deemed as humanly possible with ease.

Aszod had become a wasteland. Reach had once been a planet covered in plains of grass and beautiful cities. A bastion of human civilisation. Now all that remained as far as the eye could see was the charred remains of said civilisation, husks of human corpses, and fields of dust and sand. Just Dust and Echoes. Even as he passed by it all in a blur, signs of desolation caught his eye. A distant town, its buildings flattened and smoking. A crumbled Pelican, practically flattened, hanging precariously off a distinct canyon ledge. The occasional body that he had to weave around so as to not trample over them. All having long gone cold.

As he ran he kept an eye on his HUD. No signs of activity, from the UNSC or Covenant. The action felt natural and yet also strange. His ability to multitask while running at 55 kph was astounding. He was in full MJOLNIR armour which he knew weighed at least 450 kilograms or half a ton. He wasn't even breaking any speed records, Kelly-087 a Spartan-II from Blue Team was the fastest, able to run 65 kph in her armour. Spartans could nearly double it, John-117 had managed it but it had torn his achilles tendon and shredded his armour. Not worth the cost.

Any serious injuries to his mobility would potentially damage his timeline for extraction beyond repair. The Master Chief would crash land on Halo on September 19th. Said halo would be destroyed on the 22nd. John and the survivors of the 04 Installation would enter slipspace on the 23 September heading back to the Epsilon Eridani system to look for any Reach survivors. So he would have to traverse 1860 km in 24 days… difficult, very difficult considering the circumstances. But doable. Except… his knowledge of Halo told him that timeline was wrong. It ignored the big elephant in the room.

The September Anomaly.

One of the Halo Universes' rare supernatural events. Simply put, it was confusing time travel paradox fuckery. Upon remembering it he had been forced to throw his original timeline out the window. Beneath CASTLE Base lied a Forerunner crystal with the ability to affect space-time. Halsey and the Spartans with her discover it in 8 days on September 7th while being pursued by the Covenant. The crystal affects Chief's slipspace travel on his way back to Reach, causing him and the 04 survivors to travel 2 weeks backwards in time, arriving instead on September 9th.

10 Days.

Dr Halsey and the Spartans would be rescued by Master Chief from CASTLE Base in 10 days.

If Cole wanted off this rock his only ticket would be leaving in 10 days. 1860 km in 10 days. Could he make it there in time? The answer was he didn't know, he would try his best and if it wasn't enough then he could at least die knowing he had given it his all. Not only was it his best choice for survival, it would also be his first chance at using his knowledge to change the immediate future. He had read Halo: First Strike and knew what was to come and there were events that he desperately wished to avoid. The deaths of Spartans Grace-093, Anton-044 and Li-008 for one, 3 Spartan II's whose fate he could change. And perhaps worst of all the infamous Brute Tartarus would recover fragments of the Forerunner crystal after its destruction. In 2559 it would be used, having by then fallen into the hands of the banished, to transport Atriox and his forces to the Milky Way Galaxy. From there setting off the events of Halo Infinite, which included the destruction of humanity's most advanced flagship, the UNSC Infinity and the likely death of the hundreds of Spartan IV's onboard.

He had become so lost in his thoughts that Cole barely noticed that he had unknowingly picked up speed. So much so that he could feel the strain of his armour on his joints. His racing mind had kicked him into overdrive. That was sloppy, he chastised himself. He was still getting a hang of things but he knew he was better than that. He slowed to a more steady pace, and checked his HUD and the surrounding area once more. Nothing. The voices of Noble Team rang in his ears unbidden, filling the silence.

"Tell 'em to make it count." Jorge

"Where does he get off calling a demolition of Priority One-" Cat

"You're on your own, Noble. Carter out." Carter

"I'm ready! How 'bout you?" Emile​

They'd all done their best to complete their mission and it had all cost them dearly. At least Jun was still alive, though he wasn't sure if he'd ever see the man again.

It wasn't more than an hour later before his HUD picked up new activity. The Covenant. He slowed down dramatically and made last minute weapon checks. All seemed to still be in order. He crested a hill of scorched rock and froze. Ahead, a Covenant Phantom descended, its grav-lifts shimmering in the dust-filled air as it deployed a search team. Two Elites leapt from the craft, their blue armour reflecting the glow of scattered fires. They barked guttural commands, their voices sharp and commanding, as a squad of four Grunts awkwardly tumbled out behind them. A Jackal sniper followed, its energy shield humming to life. It gleamed faintly in the dim light as the Jackal climbed onto a high perch of shattered debris. Cole's Spartan-enhanced senses picked up the faint hum of the sniper's beam rifle charging.

The Phantom didn't linger, roaring off to the east with unsettling speed, leaving the squad to its hunt.

Cole's instincts screamed for action, every fibre of his being urging him to engage. Noble Six had fought countless battles where striking first was the only path to survival. But Cole's meta-knowledge held him back. Direct confrontation without a plan would be suicide. These weren't AI-controlled enemies following predictable pathing patterns; they were living, breathing warriors and soldiers. One wrong move, one mistake, and it would all be over.

Slipping into the shadows, he crouched low, scanning for an escape route. A battered outpost loomed to his left, its crumbling walls offering potential cover. Moving cautiously, he slid into the ruins, keeping low as the oppressive silence of the place wrapped around him. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of charred metal. His augmentation led to every sound being amplified, from the distant Covenant chatter to the faint crackle of distant fires. There were no signs of life.

"This body is incredible," he muttered under his breath. His Spartan muscles moved with a precision and power that felt almost intoxicating, even as his survival instincts dampened the thrill. He was Noble Six now, hardened, unyielding but the clash between Cole's own inexperience and Six's battlefield instincts created a dissonance that gnawed at him. Memories that weren't his whispered strategies and warnings in the back of his mind, a constant presence.

Through a jagged gap in the wall, he saw the Elites gesturing to their subordinates. They weren't just searching, they were hunting. Had they somehow tracked him? Or were they searching for something else? Cole slowed his breathing, muscles coiled and ready. If they passed him by he could slip away.

Minutes ticked by like hours. The Grunts waddled erratically, prodding through debris with their stubby weapons. The Jackal sniper remained perched, its rifle scanning the area methodically. The Elites, however, were different, calculated, deliberate. One of them stopped suddenly. It tilted its armoured head as if it had caught or sensed something. It turned, locking its gaze on Cole's position.

"aaaawubadugh!"

Shit.

The Grunts tightened formation, the Jackal repositioned for a better angle, and the Elites advanced. Instantly reminding him that the Covenant was no joke when it came to combat. Plasma fire erupted, streaking past Six's cover and splashing against the wall behind him. He didn't wait to be pinned down. Rolling into deeper cover, he assessed the situation. Two Elites, a sniper, and half a dozen Grunts. Manageable, but only if he moved quickly. It was time to put this new body to the test.

The first Elite pressed forward, its plasma pistol spitting a steady stream of fire that ate away at his cover. The second began to flank, cutting off his retreat. The Grunts peppered the area with wild shots, their high-pitched chatter echoing off the ruins.

Six grabbed a grenade from his belt, primed it, and lobbed it into the cluster of Grunts. The explosion sent three flying, their bodies limp as rag dolls, while the last survivor scattered in panic. He was glad that his knowledge of the Grunts' cowardice had proven to be true. A subtle sign his knowledge wasn't inaccurate. The Grunt fired wildly and ran almost in circles in their panic to seek cover. Six dropped it with a clean shot to the back as it tried to dive behind a crumbling wooden crate.

"Elites first," he growled, stepping out of cover. His DMR barked as he fired a controlled burst at the closest Elite. He had to conserve what ammo he could. Its shields flared but held. The towering alien roared, returning fire. Plasma bolts seared the air, and Six ducked behind a pillar as his shields absorbed the worst of it.

A sniper shot streaked past his helmet, close enough to make his shields shimmer. He couldn't leave that Jackal unattended. He pivoted, firing upward. His first burst missed, but the second shattered the Jackal's shield, sending it tumbling from its perch.

The first Elite roared, charging with an energy sword crackling to life. Fuck. The weapon's glow lit the dim space as it slashed at him. Six dodged, the blade slicing a hair's breadth from his chest. He swung his rifle like a club, smashing it into the Elite's mandibles. The sickening crunch staggered the alien but didn't stop it. He whipped out his pistol and fired two shots at point blank range into the energy sword's hilt disabling it. It sputtered before shutting down, the blue blade fading to nothing.

The Sangheili now unarmed lunged again. Six sidestepped, driving forward with all his Spartan strength. He tackled the alien to the ground and holding it down. He brought his sidearm to bare. Two shots to the exposed throat silenced its growls for good.

Rolling away, he barely avoided a volley of plasma fire from the second Elite. Or not. the back of his armour felt hot, it had clipped him. His shields were dangerously low. It advanced slowly, precision bursts forcing him to retreat. It wasn't willing to risk CQC, not after he'd made a fool of his comrade.

He had to outthink it. Guerrilla tactics. Do what Noble Six did best.

His eyes caught a half-collapsed balcony overhead. Kicking off a broken console, he vaulted up, taking the high ground. He ran along the balcony, weaving between plasma fire. The sound of shattering glass and burned steel met his ears, destruction following in his wake. From the ledge, he targeted the advancing Elite's exposed flank. His rifle bursts initially missed. Much to his frustration he was still getting a hang of his firearms. Relearning Six's inherited skills. Fortunately his aim soon found its mark, and a burst of gunfire to its hide caused the Elite's shields to finally collapse.

Six didn't wait. He leapt down, landing behind the alien. A punch to its back sent it sprawling, and a follow-up burst from his rifle to the head ended it. Silence returned. Six stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving as adrenaline coursed through him. Survival now wasn't just a matter of skill, it was a matter of restraint. And as much as he wanted to deny it, this fight had felt disturbingly natural. Cole had never killed anyone before in his first life, let alone a bunch of aliens. He was quickly growing used to it.

The warehouse was silent. Settling into an oppressive stillness. Six stood motionless in the shadow of a shattered wall, his breathing steady despite adrenaline coursing through his veins. His Spartan body, a marvel of bioengineering, had already recovered from the skirmish's exertion, but his mind refused to relax. Every fibre of his being remained alert, scanning for threats.

He couldn't linger. Not here. Not with the Covenant no doubt closing in. Losing contact with a small Unggoy and Sangheili pair? That was easier to justify. Losing contact with an entire squad so soon after being dropped off? Less so. He just hoped he could make it a far enough distance before any reinforcements arrived.

Slipping out of the ruins, Six moved with practiced silence, his boots crunching faintly against scorched rubble as he descended a steep incline. The smell of the dead hung heavy in the air, swirling around him in unpleasant tendrils. Ominous swirls of ash and purple-grey clouds loomed overhead. The planet was entering it's death throes. His HUD flickered, overlaying a crude map of the area. Castle Base gleamed as a distant icon, tantalisingly out of reach.

"Still so far…" he muttered, his voice barely audible.

He needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene. His motion tracker flared. The pulse of a large red blip froze him in place. He turned toward the ruins just as the deep thrum of a Covenant Phantom broke the air. The massive ship descended rapidly, its bulbous purple silhouette backlit by the darkened sky. The ship's side hatches slid open, disgorging troops in a blur of blue, yellow, and silver. Elites barked out orders, their voices carrying on the wind. Grunts chattered nervously, their squat forms scattering across the area. The faint tremors beneath his boots heralded something worse. His eyes soon confirmed it.

Hunters.

Six didn't need his enhanced Spartan senses to recognise the moment they found the bodies. A sharp, guttural cry cut through the air, followed by the growing noise of plasma weapons charging.

"I should've kept my big mouth shut,"

He turned to leave, but the Phantom's spotlight swept over the terrain, its blinding beam cutting through the smoke. It passed over him once, then froze, locking onto his position.

They'd seen him. Again. He'd truly lost his edge.

Six cursed and bolted, his augmented legs eating up the distance as he sprinted toward the nearest cover he could find. Plasma bolts hissed past him, the air shimmering with heat as the Covenant opened fire. He leapt over a chunk of debris and hit the ground running, his boots skidding against the loose ash. Ahead, the ground fell away into a jagged ravine, its steep walls promising some measure of safety—or at least concealment. He didn't hesitate. With a burst of momentum, he dove forward, sliding down the incline as plasma bolts chased his heels.

The world spun in a blur of grey and black as he tumbled into the depths. His shields flared as he hit the bottom, absorbing the brunt of the impact. Dust and pebbles cascaded around him as he scrambled to his feet, pressing his back against the canyon wall. The sounds of the Covenant above grew distant. From over the top of the ravine only the muted hum of the Phantom and the barked orders of Elites in hot pursuit reached his ears. Six adjusted his grip on his DMR, his breath steadying as his Spartan reflexes took over. The ravine stretched out before him, winding and jagged—a natural maze. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. The open plains above would have left him exposed, an easy target for the Covenant's aerial patrols.

Plasma fire erupted from above, sizzling the ground around him as he bolted deeper into the canyon's embrace. The air shimmered with green light and heat as a Hunter's assault cannon blast detonated nearby, showering his armour with debris. He pushed forward, weaving through the labyrinthine passage, his HUD marking potential chokepoints. The narrow walls amplified every sound. The scrape of his MJOLNIR boots, the guttural cries of his pursuers, the ominous clatter of the Hunters' advance. Six pressed on, his mind racing. He couldn't outrun them forever.

The canyon opened into a wider chamber littered with jagged rocks and scorched boulder's. Perfect. Cole's new instincts, sharpened by Noble Six's memories, kicked in. He scavenged quickly, rigging traps with frag grenades and setting debris to collapse. Once he was finished, he moved to the back of the chamber and took a firing position.

The first wave soon arrived: Grunts, their glowing methane tanks bobbing as they scuttled into the kill zone. Six fired a single shot. The grenade detonated, the shockwave sending bodies tumbling like rag dolls. The survivors panicked, firing wildly in every direction. Plasma bolts ricocheted harmlessly off the canyon walls as he picked them off with methodical precision.

A squad of squawking Jackals appeared. Unfazed at the death of their Unggoy allies. In their right hands they each carried a Needler while their left was protected by their glowing-blue energy shields. A wall of blue marched steadily into the chamber. Confident in their safety. He turned his gaze upward to a grenade he had planted below an overhang. He didn't hesitate. His DMR roared as he fired a precise shot to activate the grenade. Before the Jackals could blink the overhang collapsed on top of them, their shields fizzling out as they were crushed beneath the descending rocks.

Then came the Elites. Unlike their predecessors they moved with brutal efficiency, their plasma fire striking Six on the armour of his right bicep. The force of the hit jostled his grip on his DMR, throwing off his aim. He was forced to quickly reposition himself. His shields flared under the onslaught, warning signals blaring. One Elite sensing weakness grew overconfident. It broke formation, charging with an energy sword blazing. Not wanting to waste time in CQC in Six unclipped one of the few Plasma grenades he was able to salvage and pitched it. A fastball. It stuck to Elite's chest with enough force to send the Sangheili sliding back. The Elite looked down at the plasma grenade in fear before looking back up at him, its mandibles flaring in anger.

"wAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH"

It only had a moment to curse him before the plasma grenade exploded, shredding the Sangheili in two. Seizing the moment, he pressed his advantage, his DMR spitting precise shots into the advancing Sangheili warriors.

The ground trembled.

Six turned, his breath catching as the Hunters entered the canyon. Their hulking forms loomed, their assault cannons glowing an ominous green. One raised its arm, and Cole dove just as a green blast struck the ground where he'd stood. The explosion sent him sprawling, his ears ringing. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting deeper into the canyon. The Hunters followed, their heavy steps shaking the earth. Six ducked behind a boulder as another cannon blast obliterated the ground nearby. Shards of rock pelted his armour, but he pushed on, searching for an opening. One Hunter fired again, the blast striking a rock face and dislodging a cascade of debris. Cole leapt aside, narrowly avoiding being crushed.

These things had been terrifying to deal with behind a screen. Their ferocity was all the more visible in person. His desperation birthed an idea. He led the Hunters toward a narrow choke point, baiting their rage. As the first lumbered into position, Six scrambled onto a ledge above it. The alien hesitated, its massive frame struggling to adjust quickly. Six pulled out his sidearm and fired a series of well-placed shots directly into the creature's exposed back. The other hunter in its eagerness fired a blast at Six's position missing him by mere inches. The explosion rocked the canyon, sending Six falling to the ground. The rocky ledge he'd been standing on fell and stabbed down into the wounded hunter's back, killing it. Its guilty partner roared in fury. Uncaring where it fired as it advanced in a charge.

Its assault cannon glowed like molten poison, spitting death with wild abandon, carving craters into the walls and filling the ravine with a choking haze of dust. Six darted between the blasts, the concussive waves slamming into his shields and forcing him to weave erratically to stay alive. His rifle was nearly out of ammo, and he had nothing left to lose.

"Alright," he muttered, shoving the weapon onto his back. "Let's fucking go."

The hunter roared in challenge, the noise an earth-shaking sound. Raising its massive assault cannon for another shot. This time, Six didn't dodge. He ran straight at it. Green light surged toward him, and his superhuman reaction time and reflexes kicked in. He slid low. The heat of the blast grazed his armour as the explosion travelled above him. An explosion erupted from behind him. Shard's of the canyon wall rained down, but he didn't stop. He sprinted through the haze, his focus narrowing on the behemoth in front of him.

The Hunter swung its enormous shield, trying to swat him like an insect. Six jumped, his enhanced reflexes propelling him onto the shield's surface. Using the momentum, he vaulted over its massive body, twisting midair as the alien tried to track him. He landed behind it, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. He ripped the last plasma grenade from his belt, primed it and slammed it into the exposed orange sinew on the Hunter's back. He leapt backward as the Hunter roared in fury.

The grenade detonated in a blinding flash of plasma, the explosion ripping through the massive Mgalekgolo in a spray of orange blood and burning shrapnel. The Hunter exploded into pieces.

He didn't have a moment to test. His ear's picked up the sound of rasp Covenant voices' echoing from the ravine entrance. His HUD displayed a number of hostiles closing on his position. The rest of the search party was closing in. Cole clenched his jaw, looking around for any form of escape. He quickly found it. The Hunter's final blast had slammed into the canyon wall. The impact had shattered the rock face, sending a cascade of rubble crashing down and tearing open an entrance into a naturally developed tunnel-space hiding within the canyon wall.

Six grabbed a nearby Needler as he sprinted for it and looked deep within. He wouldn't leave this fight empty handed at least. The tunnel was narrow, but relatively straight. It would be a tight fit with his MJOLNIR armour but a faint light glimmered at the far end. He estimated the tunnel to be at least a kilometre long. A potential escape waiting on the other side. Either he tried his luck or stayed here and tried to wade his way out through Covenant blood. The Zealot hunting squads were likely on their way.

Without a second's hesitation he entered into the narrow opening. His helmet awkwardly hit the cavern's ceiling. He still wasn't used to being so tall. Once inside, he pulled out a frag grenade from his belt and twisted the pin free. After this he would be down to his last one. Barely six hours had gone by and he was already cutting it close with his supplies. He tossed it at the tunnel's weakened entrance and made a run for it.

The explosion was deafening in the confined space. The force sent chunks of rock collapsing into the entrance. Dust clouded his vision as the tunnel sealed behind him, leaving only silence and a faint drip of water from the cavern walls. Cole stood there for a moment, catching his breath. His armour was scorched, his shields flickering, but he was alive. The faint light ahead pulled at him. He clipped his new Needler to his belt and pressed on.

As he moved, his comms crackled faintly in a familiar code. A distress signal. It was weak, almost indistinct, but unmistakable. The blinking icon on his HUD pulled at his conscience. The signal's origin lay ahead, directly centre of his planned path.

Another choice. Another risk.

Date: [REDACTED]

Location: [REDACTED]

Subject: [REDACTED]

Participants: [REDACTED]

Conversation Log #4: 13:05

Subject #1: You expressed reservations about Spartan B312's reassignment to NOBLE Team. Why?

Subject #2: Am I being interrogated?

Subject #1: If that's how you feel, I'm sorry to hear it. This is merely an informal discussion to satisfy certain… professional curiosities. Please, for both our sakes, answer the question.

Subject #2: I disagreed with B312's reassignment. Entirely. It was a waste of a highly specialised asset.

Subject #1: Is this about how you utilised him prior to the reassignment? The assassinations? The espionage? The intimidation tactics? Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose certainly had opinions about B312 being used as your own personal Grim Reaper. If some of those operations were to come to light, there would be… repercussions. For both you and him.

Subject #2: Spare me the theatrics. Don't pretend ONI wasn't already pulling the strings. He was your tool, long before I honed him into something sharper. You're the one who buried his record. How much of his work has been sealed? How many of his missions have been erased?

Subject #1: His file is classified at the highest levels, as you well know.

Subject #2: And yet you signed off on reassigning one of ONI's most effective black operatives to that imbecile, Colonel Urban Holland. A man who couldn't comprehend the caliber of soldier he'd been handed. Predictably, it's ended in disaster.

Subject #1: [Pause.] B312 caught Holland's attention after his operation on Mamore, May 10. His handling of the insurgents, brutal and efficient, was exactly what Holland requested, what was required for his purposes. And ours. Holland wanted results, and Spartan B312 provided them.

Subject #2: Holland didn't understand what he had. And now look where we are. [Pause.] What a waste.

Subject #1: Did your use of B312 have anything to do with your complicated relationship with [The following information has been redacted]

Subject #2: I don't like what your implying. I'm done here.

Log End

File Addendum: August 2552

File locked and redacted by order of the Office of Naval Intelligence.​

Thanks for Reading​

First time trying to write an extended gunfight scene, hope it came out well!

That final kill is unabashedly inspired by this clip from the Halo Movie: Forward Unto Dawn

Survive 1.3 - Devotion

Devotion​

"We've been very lucky with β (Company) so far — very lucky — to get 312 out directly after training. An opportunity like that is not liable to happen ever again."

— Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose​

(9 Days till Extraction arrives / 1670 km to CASTLE Base)​

August 31st, 2552.

Aszod region.

Two infidel ships lay broken and smouldering. Their twisted frames carving deep scars into the cracked grassland. Desecrating one of the region's few remaining havens of nature, a pocket of calm bordered by unending destruction. Here and there, blackened tree trunks rose from the ash, hollowed-out reminders of a forest long gone. To the north what remained of the forest still burned. It had burned for days, colours of orange and red staining the clouded horizon.

Kyr' Mottinee, a proud Sangheili Major, stood on a raised outcrop of stone. His mandibles twitched in irritation. Below him his detachment of Sangheili, Kig-Yar and Unggoy worked to finish off a group of human stragglers. A pitiful handful of insects clinging to life amidst the twin wreckages. Fools. Barely worth the effort. The mere sight of them made feelings of boredom and resentment stir deep within his devout soul. His posting here was a clear insult. Solely done to damage his pride.

Field Marshal Thuko 'Lotamee had taken the bulk of the region's ground forces with him into the nearby canyons 190 leagues to the south-east. A demon had been sighted and confronted in the area. It had escaped. The Field Marshal had taken the embarrassing display personally, now leading the pursuit. Kyr felt his mandibles twitch unbidden in satisfaction. From the reports it appeared the Demon had evaded Thuko and his hunting parties. Completely. Thuko refusing to believe he could be outsmarted had doubled his efforts, by now the entire canyon was sure to be filled with Covenant search parties. The Zealots… overzealousness had left other sectors in the region exposed.

It wasn't long before a Kig-Yar scouting party reported two infidel transports trying to take advantage of the Marshal's narrow-mindedness. Headed westbound with haste. Thuko had been reinvigorated but upon learning that no Demons had been sighted had quickly lost interest. Irritated, he demanded that Kyr take his detachment to deal with it alone. He believed the two transports to be filled with nothing but insignificant insects. He was correct. Outside of a few Imps (ODSTs), the transports appeared to contain no warriors of interest. Despite his bitterness Kyr had done as he was ordered. He was a loyal soldier to the covenant to the end.

The telltale hum of Covenant fighter craft, turned his gaze skyward. They swept low strafing the ground in Plasma fire, sending infidel soldiers scrambling for cover. Not that there was any to find outside their broken ships. The open field was the perfect kill-zone, only the occasional shorn off pieces of their transports available to them as cover. After their run the two fighters zoomed off to the south-east, the Field Marshal had merely lent them to ensure the fleeing infidels' transports were forced to ground. They had done their job well. The transports had gone down quickly, crashing into the field with devastating force. He was confident that most within died on impact. The heretics were known for their weak flesh. The survivors' foolishly had put up a resistance. It wouldn't be long before they met their end. Though Kyr couldn't help but feel a pang of regret; had they not been heretical by their very nature, humans might have made worthy additions to the Covenant.

A sudden, sharp crack broke through the battle's cacophony. Gunshots. Behind him. Kyr's mandibles twitched as he turned toward the source. His two personal guards, Sangheili veterans who had fought alongside him for years, lay collapsed on the ground. Their indigo blood was sprayed across the rocks, dripping from their heads. Kyr moved instinctively but he wasn't fast enough. Before he could draw his plasma rifle, a pair of impossibly strong arms locked around his torso. He roared in fury as he was lifted off his feet and slammed into the ground with bone-jarring force. Shards of the outcrop chipped away and scattered around him.

A Demon. A Spartan.

One of humanity's infamous warriors loomed above him. Its visor reflected the hellish glow of the battlefield behind them. He could divine no source of life behind the cold visor. Kyr's twin hearts hammered in his chest, not from fear, but from exhilaration. A true challenge. Finally.

With a feral snarl, Kyr lashed out, his powerful foot catching the Demon's knee. The Demon stumbled, giving Kyr just enough room to wrench his arms free. He surged upward, their bodies colliding in a tangle of limbs and raw strength. The air shimmered as the Demon's shields flared under Kyr's relentless assault. Kyr roared and grabbed a jagged rock, its edges sharp enough to tear flesh. With both hands, he slammed it against the Demon's helmeted head. The force of the blow was devastating, the sound of impact echoing like a thunderclap. The Demon staggered, his shields flaring once again. Kyr pressed the advantage, swinging again, but the Demon's reflexes were uncanny. It ducked low, sweeping Kyr's legs out from under him with a forceful kick.

Kyr hit the ground hard, but even as he fell, his claws lashed out, raking against the Spartan's chest plate. Sparks flew, but the armour held. Still he'd left his mark. The Demon shifted, lightning-quick, and locked his arms around Kyr's neck. Kyr thrashed, his claws scraping at the Spartan's unyielding grip, but the Demon was relentless. To his surprise the Demon spoke, voice clearly strained. His translation device activated:

"For what it's worth you've put up more of a fight than the rest of your kind. But unlike your Zealot brethren you're not up to task to put me down."

With a surge of desperation, Kyr reached for the discarded rock again, his weapon, anything! His vision swam as the Spartan tightened the chokehold. Then he saw it, the glint of a weapon in the Demon's other hand. A needler. Its deadly implication was clear. Kyr snarled, twisting with every ounce of strength he could muster, but it was too late.

The Spartan jammed the needler into Kyr's open mandibles. The familiar weapon hummed to life, its crystalline ammunition vibrating with lethal energy. Kyr's eyes widened in disbelief as the Demon fired. A burst of pink shards filled his throat, and a half-choked roar escaped his lips. Pain. All consuming pain. Like nothing he had felt before erupted through his mouth in a hot flash. In an instant it took away his breath and focus. His vision dimmed. He could see the end of the pink needle sticking through one of his mandibles. Glowing ominously.

The Demon heaved, using Kyr's own weight against him. How had he lost? Why was he even here? It had all happened so very fast. Weightlessness. He was falling. No. Flying. His mouth was numb. A piercing sound erupted and ominous pink stole his vision away.

Fasze 'Travumee - The Sangheili

Fasze Travumee crouched low behind a jagged rock, the plasma rifle humming faintly in his hands. His chest rose and fell in shallow, anxious breaths, mandibles twitching as he peered over the scorched terrain. Smoke choked the air, curling from the two downed human transports lying broken in the dirt. The sound of gunfire and shouts echoed all around. Cries of fury, defiance, and pain. The moment felt surreal, yet electrifying.

This was his chance.

For years, Fasze had been the subject of whispered derision among his peers. He had been the runt of his clutch, a Sangheili whose grasp of the blade was judged inadequate for anything more than ceremonial practice. The other warriors had called him names that stung like plasma burns, shield-bearer, faltering claw, unworthy one. He wasn't the product of a distinguished swordsman line, nor had he been trained by the elite combat orders of his keep. To them, Fasze was an outlier, a body to fill the ranks, never destined to stand among the great.

But today would be different. Today, he would prove them wrong.

"Show them what you're made of," Fasze whispered to himself, his mandibles clicking as he tried to summon courage. His thoughts flickered to his keep, a sprawling, ancient stronghold built into the cliffs of Sanghelios. He had grown up among its communal halls, running alongside cousins and clutch mates under the watchful eyes of uncles and guardians. The most honourable of them had encouraged Fasze to take up the sword regardless of his deficiencies.

"The blade is your legacy, young one. Forge your place in the stars with it."

Yet, despite the honour of his heritage, he had been overlooked time and again for more distinguished roles. His dream of joining the Ascetics or being accepted into the Evocatiid was out of reach. Exalted orders of Sangheili warriors who shaped the fate of the Covenant. He yearned to join them.

"Not anymore," he thought, steeling himself. The insects were pinned, and the Major stood on the ridge, watching. Surely this was the moment to show his worth. His heart pounded as he glanced upward to where Kyr 'Mottinee should have been observing the battlefield, his commanding presence a reassurance. But the rocky outcrop was empty, the Major nowhere in sight.

"Why is he not there?" The thought struck Fasze like a physical blow, but he shook it off. No matter. He would not falter.

With a guttural war cry, Fasze burst from cover, plasma bolts spewing from his rifle as he charged the leftmost transport. Smoke and debris swirled around him as his strides tore across the battlefield. The heretics ducked behind the wreckage, their weapons barking in protest. His aim struck true, he watched satisfied as two heretics fell, unable to evade his righteous fury.

'They are weak, he thought, the adrenaline of battle surging through his veins. 'They never stood a chance against—'

The first shot struck his chest, and his shields flared dark blue. Before he could recover a barrage of fire erupted across his back, his shield flickering out with a hiss. A second shot from the front slammed into a gap in his armour, the impact like a hammer blow. Fasze stumbled, his legs buckling beneath him as pain lanced through his chest. The plasma rifle slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

He collapsed onto the dirt, the smell of charred earth filling his nostrils. The image of his old instructor flashed before his eyes. He reached for an energy sword. Fitfully trying to swing his sword in the correct form, but failed again. As was expected. He never managed to land a hit on the old Sangheili.

He just wiggled his empty hand around in the dirt. He felt cold. The sharp cracks of heretic rifles rang in his ears as he lay there, motionless. Uncomfortable and cold.

Ox - The ODST

"Boom! That's six," Ox called, his voice laced with amusement as he slapped a fresh magazine into his M392 DMR. He turned to his partner, who was scanning the battlefield. They were huddled together behind a chunk that had fallen off their Pelican in the crash. One of the few groupings of UNSC personnel still alive after their birds went down.

"Six confirmed, Axel. You're falling behind, pal."

Axel, lean and sharp-eyed, didn't bother looking at him. Sniffing out his next target like a weasel. "Yeah, sure, big guy. And I'm the UNSC's top ballerina. You keep making up numbers, but I've got better aim. You're just cleaning up the scraps I leave behind."

Ox barked a laugh. "Keep telling yourself that, asshole."

The two ODSTs couldn't have been more different in build and temperament. Ox was a walking slab of muscle, broad-shouldered and towering, with a grin that didn't seem to leave his face. His armour reflected that, bulky, clad in armaments. When things got messy he was at his happiest. War wasn't just a duty for him. It was where he felt alive. Violence was art, and he was the artist. He was having the time of his life.

Axel, on the other hand, was wiry and precise, a sniper who valued finesse over brute force. The top of his helmet featured a distinct O/I Optics device, a Snipers' best friend. He fought because it was necessary, not because he enjoyed it. Despite becoming quick friends Axel couldn't fathom Ox's enthusiasm for the carnage. They'd had arguments on numerous deployments about Ox getting too much of a kick out of the action. Despite his clear disagreement he tolerated it. They worked well together, after all. Made each other laugh. When you dropped feet first into hell it was vital to have someone there to make you chuckle on the way down.

"Fuck! We got more incoming." Axel muttered, levelling his sniper rifle. The sharp crack of his shot rang out, and a distant Grunt crumpled into a heap.

Ox let out a low whistle. "Not bad. Not me, but not bad."

Axel shook his head. "You're awfully cheeky for a man who's probably about to die, Ox." Ox shook his head in disbelief. No matter the situation Axel always found a way to be a cynic.

A faint sound reached Ox's ears, a soft, keening sob. He glanced to his right and spotted a marine huddled in a shallow trench. The impact of the two Pelicans crashing to earth had created deep rivets in the ground before they finally slid to a stop. The marine's knees were drawn to his chest, rifle forgotten in his lap. His shoulders shook as he cried, oblivious to the chaos around him. He cried like a baby, hands over his ears.

"What's his deal?" Ox muttered, nodding toward the marine.

Axel followed his gaze. "Shell-shock, probably. Poor guy he's seen too much. Looks young."

Ox scoffed. "Too much? We all see the same crap. The same blasted aliens and carbon-copy colonies getting wiped out again and again. Nothing's changed. Some of us just know how to enjoy it." As an ODST he'd seen it all. What was there to cry over? He'd always been a thrill seeker, his recruitment into the ODSTs had been a true eye opener. This was what life was truly about. Walking through hell with a smile on your face.

Axel gave him a sharp look. "Yeah, that's... not normal, Ox."

Before Ox could reply, a high-pitched beep made both mens heads snap toward the ground. A plasma grenade sat centimetres away, its glowing core pulsing ominously.

"MOVE!" Axel shouted.

The explosion came before Ox could react fully. He was flung backward, the world spinning in a blur of smoke and fire. He hit the ground hard, the air punched from his lungs. For a moment, he lay there, ears ringing, vision swimming. He tried to push himself up, but a sharp, burning pain in his leg stopped him cold. When he glanced down, his stomach turned. His right leg was gone, severed cleanly at the knee. How had that happened? Blood pooled beneath him, hot and sticky. His leg was sitting perched on a nearby rock, he reached for it. If he could just grab it he could put himself back together again. Finish the fight.

"Ax..." he murmured, his voice faint. Axel would help. He craned his neck to find his partner, but all he saw was the distorted haze of the battlefield. His eyes passed over a nearby ODST laying face down, armour scorched. He'd lost his arms. He didn't give the man a second thought. Axel had arms. A shadow loomed over him. Ox turned his head slowly, his vision narrowing as if he were looking down a tunnel. He had this awful crick in his neck. It was uncomfortably stiff. He tried to fix it but found his head now weighted more than his Drop-Pod. Immovable. A Grunt stood over him, its plasma pistol glowing green. It barked something in its guttural language, raising the weapon for a finishing shot.

Ox grinned, despite the agony. "Heh…" He went to continue but… he forgot what he wanted to say. It was on the tip of his tongue.

The world went black as the plasma pistol's hum rose to a crescendo.

Zizim - The Unggoy

Zizim ran away from the heretic's corpse. Its dark visor had reflected back his own quivering expression. He crouched behind a Kig-Yar's spherical shield, his stubby fingers clutching his plasma pistol tightly. The olfactory membrane was working overtime in his mask. The air reeked of burning wood and scorched metal, but beneath it all, Zizim thought he could still smell the faint scent of grass. He liked grass. Grass was alive. This place had once been alive too. Now it was dead, ash and smoke smothering everything green. The Heretics killed the grass by having their big ships fall onto it. He hated Heretics.

"Why do we do this?" Zizim muttered, glancing at the scorched remains of a tree. His gaze lingered on a patch of dirt where a tiny flower struggled against the odds, its petals curled but defiant.

"Shut up and fight, Zizim!" snapped the Kig-Yar standing over him. The creature snarled, its increasingly red shield shimmering with reflected sunlight. It seemed to know his name but Zizim didn't recognise him. Zizim was well known for his love of grass and all things green… perhaps this Kig-Yar shared that common interest? The Kig-Yar snarled at him before turning his focus back to the battlefield. Heretic fire smacked against the shield, causing its colour to flicker.

Zizim shrank back but couldn't resist peeking out from behind the shield. He looked to the western edge of the forest where a squad of Unggoy were supposed to be flanking the dirty humans. He saw no sign of them. A shadow flitted between the trees. Tall and fast. Odd. Was a Sangheili going to support his brothers and sisters? The shadow had moved faster than any elite Zizim had ever seen. In fact as he looked around he noticed that their forces were dwindling… not at the number they should be. They have the heretics surrounded on all sides, forces taking cover in the surrounding forests. Yet he saw no sign of any of them. Had the Major given new orders that Zizim hadn't heard? He hoped not, otherwise they might feed him to some hungry Kig-Yar.

There he saw it again! Movement flickered at the edge of the forest, quick and silent.

"What is that?" Zizim whispered.

The Kig-Yar growled in frustration, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him forward. "Go find out!" Zizim was powerless to resist the Kig-Yar's strength. He tumbled onto the dirt, landing face-first near the lone flower he'd spied earlier. For a moment, he forgot the Kig-Yar, the humans, the war. What was the Great Journey compared to such beauty? All he saw was the flower, a single spot of life in the endless destruction. His stubby hand reached out, trembling. The sounds of battle faded away, there was no war here.

A sharp crack echoed through the air. Zizim's body rolled with the impact. His vision tumbled and twisted as he was flung across the ground. He tried to see what had hit him but could only see partially out of his left eye. When his vision gained clarity the sight made him cringe. He'd gotten his blood all over the flower. It would take great care to clean it off, he was such a klutz! It was only right that he fixed his mistake… he tried to stand but found he couldn't. A crushing pressure suddenly began to build on his chest. It pulled him down, down into the earth he so loved.

"How silly it all is," Zizim whispered.

Hadrian Shone - The Marine

Hadrian leaned against the side of the downed Pelican, his DMR heavy in his hands. He watched through the scope as the Grunt collapsed, its small body twitching once before going still. Its Jackal ally had betrayed it. He hadn't expected that. He let out a slow breath. He felt nothing at the kill. No pride at doing his duty. No joy in increasing their chances for survival.

Not relief, not satisfaction. Just...nothing.

His mind flickered to New Alexandria, the city ablaze in his memory. His wife, Lora. His kids, Terry and Alice. He'd just bought them a house, a nice one, with a garden and enough space for the kids to play. He hadn't even seen it in person. Training had taken him away, and then the Covenant had taken everything else. He'd felt so guilty, enjoying life when humanity was on the brink, he had to enlist. He just had to. It didn't matter in the end.

He wondered why he was still here. He couldn't protect them. He hadn't even been there when it happened. What was the point? Humanity was doomed, nothing could save them now. Perhaps the Covenant was right to do what they did… to cleanse humanity of all its sins. The sharp crack of plasma fire startled him back to reality. Two Jackals rushed toward him, their shields glowing an ominous sky-blue, but he didn't bother to raise his weapon. He was just glad it was finally going to be over with.

A distant shot dropped them both before they could get close. They fell to the floor in ugly heaps, staining the grass. Hadrian frowned, scanning the tree line for the source. A glint of light flickered in the distance, but he couldn't place it. Was that Covenant or a friendly? After seeing the Jackal throw a grunt as bait he wouldn't be surprised. Nothing surprised him anymore. He looked up at the dying sky, it couldn't have been friendly either. Everyone else was dead, they were all that was left. Reach was now nothing more than a scorched tomb.

Before he could think more on the matter, and why should he even bother, his attention was stolen. Another marine ran past him, shouting orders.

"Get back on your feet! This isn't over yet you bunch of fuckups! The Colonel orders that we—" The man's voice faded into the white noise of combat.

Gunfire drowned him out. The man was desperately trying to keep them all together, the few of them that remained. Most of them had died on impact, the lucky bastards. The marine didn't make it far before he was peppered with a spray of pink needles. One ricocheted and struck Hadrian in the chest. Dead centre. The force of it threw him back into the Pelican's damaged hull. He staggered, dropping to his knees as his breath left him. Fuck! The piercing sensation it created hurt more than anything he'd ever felt. His hand instinctively reached for the shard embedded in his armour, that was a mistake. The brief snap of pain it caused made him audibly hiss and clench his teeth. Like pulling out a thorn, only worse in every possible way.

His thoughts drifted, the pain fading. He saw his wife's face, her warm smile. Terry chasing Alice through the yard, their laughter carrying in the breeze. He watched blankly as a shadow emerged from the tree line, it moved faster than a mongoose. He noted with disinterest how it carved its way through the Covenant with an efficiency he'd never seen before. It made his cheap shot look pathetic. A true king of the jungle. Whatever it was it was no concern of his. He closed his eyes and thought of his wife. Lora, sun kissed hair and a pale complexion so beautiful is outshone the moon. God what he would do to have dinner with her one more time. He dearly missed her cooking. As he closed his eyes he could almost taste it. It tasted like blood.

Thab Zhan - The Kig-Yar.

Thab Zhan screeched in triumph to the sky. It seemed he'd managed to kill two humans in one go! What a glorious day to be alive! He bared his jagged teeth as he sniffed the air. The scent on the air made his mouth water. He licked his lips. Nothing tasted better than burnt heretic flesh right off the bone. He stalked forward, zoning in on his prey. A human he'd wounded scrambled away, her steps faltering as she fell to the scorched dirt. His golden eyes gleamed with predatory hunger. Another kill, another meal. He'd lost count of how many he'd cut down, but the hunt always thrilled him. The cries of his prey? Delicious.

He towered over the human heretic with glee. A young female if his knowledge of their pathetic species was correct. Her face was smeared with grime, eyes wide in terror. He raised his needler, in a familiar motion. This wouldn't be the first human he'd killed like this, he found it more enjoyable when got to watch the light leave their eyes. Face to Face.

Thab Zhan paused, head tilting as the fallen human's expression shifted. The delicious terror was gone. Shifting into something else. Her lips parted, her breath slowing as her muscles relaxed. She wasn't trying to crawl away anymore. Instead, she looked… relieved. Awe flickered in her eyes, and her shoulders eased as if a great weight had been lifted. He had never seen a human look so safe in his presence before…

Why had she accepted her death so easily? Had she become blinded by his majesty? Was she hallucinating her heretical gods?

Confusion rippled through him. Thab growled low, the sound rumbling in his throat, and his talons flexed. Humans weren't like this. They squirmed, they begged. They didn't face their end with a smile. Was she mocking him? The Great Thab Zhan! How dare this human think it could take away his victory! How dare it think he could be mocked!

Then he felt it. The ground beneath his feet faintly trembled. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

A shadow passed over him. Likely one of those bastard Sangheili! He began to turn to make his claim on the prey clear, but he did so too late. A blade erupted from his chest, piercing through him from back to front. Thab's vision blurred and his body was assaulted with sensations. He tried to look down and get a sense of what had just happened. His blood pooled and dripped from the glinting edge of the blade. Before he knew it his feet had left the earth, his feet dangling, talons scraping at the air. He had lost his needler. Had dropped it like a fool. How embarrassing. Pain radiated through him in pulsing waves, only giving him brief moments of reprieve before his senses were overwhelmed. Again and again. He lost all sense of time, the repeated sensations felt like they had been going on for eternity.

He tilted his head to see, he had to know what had wounded him. His reflection stared back at him in the mirrored visor of a Demon. Oh that explains it… he was in hell. He'd been left behind and abandoned for his failure to prove himself worthy. To aid the Great Journey. His beak parted in a final, rasping breath. Fear, raw and cold, flooded him as the world went dark. His own frightened bloodshot eyes were the last thing he ever saw.

Noble Six – The Demon

Six lowered the Kig-Yar's lifeless body to the ground, pulling his kukri free. Where once he would've cringed at the chunks of Alien flesh that stuck to the blade he now felt nothing. Combat and its consequences had grown on him quickly. With a flick he cleaned it of excess Jackal pieces and sheathed it. He turned his attention to the marine he just saved.

She lay sprawled in the dirt at his feet, staring up at him with wide, astonished eyes. She was covered in grime and clearly exhausted. She looked like a breeze would blow her over. Yet… he spied her left hand, angled to be hidden from the Jackal. In it she held a small stone, not likely to do any damage to the Jackal's shield but she clearly hadn't given up. He'd always admired the UNSC marines in Halo, tenacious and hard headed to the end. Heroes in ways the Spartans never could be. Six extended a gloved hand to her, and she hesitated only a moment before gripping it. He pulled her to her feet with ease. He could've done it with a finger.

"You hurt marine?"

"N-no, sir," she replied. She put on a brave face but her voice trembled. "Just... shook up is all."

Six nodded once, then scanned the area, "Squad designation?"

She hesitated for a moment. She looked disorientated, blinking like she was trying to catch up to the situation. "Uh. Echo-Two, sir. Corporal Diana Wright," she finally said, snapping to attention. He committed the name to memory. As he scanned the scattered marines around him she appeared to be one of the few who had held their composure. The rest of them stumbled or sat in the dirt, looking every which way or directly at him. Looks of confusion, fear, and suspicion, came his way. He needed to put them at ease. He checked and found his comm still functioned. Good.

He sent out a local narrow beam transmission on the UNSC Global frequency. He watched in real time as the marines reacted to their earpieces crackling to life. His voice, composed and calm, came through audible to every surviving marine in the vicinity.

"This is Lieutenant Spartan-B312, Noble Six from Spartan Noble Team, Special Warfare Group Three. I'm operating under the direct command of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Who's your commanding officer?"

Corporal Diana blinked, stammering for a moment before straightening up. She raised a hand and pointed to the rightmost Pelican, which lay on its side with smoke rising from its engines. "Colonel Holland, sir. He's inside, but... he's injured. It's bad."

Due to his helmet she couldn't see the surprise that he knew showed on his face. Holland had been Noble Team's handler. The man who had requested he be assigned to the team in the first place. One man he'd honestly never expected to hear from again. He'd never actually met Holland in person either. Urban Holland's ultimate fate was unknown. He'd never been seen again after Halo: Reach and his death had never been confirmed.

Six gave a single nod. "We may have little time, I need you to secure the perimeter. Look after the wounded. If you see movement from the southeast, call it out immediately."

The marine hesitated, then nodded sharply. "Yes, sir!" she barked, her tone firmer. She turned to the men around her, a look of frustration crossing her face. "What? You think because the Spartan saved your asses you get to slack off? You heard him! Get eyes on the South-East on the double!"

She briefly followed after him as Six marched toward the downed transport. "Thank you for saving me," she said quietly, glancing nervously at him.

"Just doing my job," Six replied without looking back.

His focus was on the Pelican ahead. As he approached he assessed the battlefield. The battle had dwindled down. Plasma fire had fallen silent, and the open field was littered with Covenant corpses. Many of them had been too engaged with the UNSC survivors to notice their comrades being eliminated one by one. Once their leader had been killed off the rest had been practically child's play. Compared to the Zealot and Ultra Elites that hunted and killed the original Noble Six? This batch had hardly put up any serious fight. The fact they failed to prevent the UNSC forces from mounting any form of defence said enough.

Fortunately it appeared to be a mere single detachment. He'd given the main bulk of Covenant forces the slip in the canyons. His skills in infiltrating into and escaping from insurgency groups had come in handy. He'd run all through the night to put distance between him and his hunters. He was blessed with the abilities of his legs to carry him across vast differences rather quickly when he wanted them to.

He was also bone tired. He hadn't rested properly since.... he didn't know. It had been days. He was starting to really feel the strain even with his augmentations. He passed numerous marines, bloodied but alive. They peered out from their cover among the wreckage. Many stared at him, their expressions a mix of disbelief and cautious hope. Beaming smiles broke out on grime smeared faces.

"Well, I'll be, A Spartan. Didn't think they were real."

"Did you see how he moved! He cut through em like a knife through steak!"

"Now he's a sight for sore eyes!"

As he stepped into the Pelican's interior he pulled out the medkit he'd taken from the shipyards. Colonel Urban Holland lay slumped against the bulkhead, his UNSC army uniform stained with blood. His wrinkled face was pale and slick with sweat, his short buzz cut clinging to his forehead. A jagged chunk of debris protruded from his abdomen.

Six crouched beside him, his sharp eyes assessing the injury. In an instant he knew the medkit wouldn't be enough. Holland coughed wetly, blood flecking his lips, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I knew... you were a good pick, Noble Six," he rasped. "Your timing is... impeccable."

Thanks for Reading!​

• This chapter is blatantly inspired by Joe Abercrombie's The Heroes. Not sure how well I captured all the differing POV's but felt like trying something new. Hope you all enjoyed it!

Urban Holand