There were very few acts he cherished of his estranged parents. One was them being kind enough to leave him in the home of a more loving family. Another was the fact that they abandoned him on the side of the road wrapped up in blanket and placed snugly, if not messily in a basket. He also appreciated the pacifier they allowed him to suckle on long before they decided he was too much trouble, the pacifier bearing his name, scribbled on hastily.
Name. He let out a chuckle from the word. The laugh was deep, and raspy, but the trueness was evident, the sincerity. He was never really much for names. His foster parents called him Joe, and everyone else in the program called him "49". But really, those were just words that did him, as a person, any justice at all.
Man, soldier, killer, silent, abandoned. Some names he would have acknowledged being called as. That and one other.
Spartan. The newest definition of the word is that of any being that is effectively invincible, state of the art, immortal. But he knew these were all made up things; jut something to keep the press at bay, something to keep the tears from leaking. Not that he thought his real parents would shed any tears for him, let alone the abomination he had become.
He was anything but normal; he was much more than the ordinary man, much more than the extraordinary. He was beyond that, a whole other category altogether. He didn't know what to call this kind of man, but he knew that he was as far one can get from being human without being alien.
Alien. One other word was brought to mind.
Brute.
And the one in his crosshairs won't be standing for too long, that much he knew. His finger began to squeeze on the trigger of his high powered sniper rifle, the gun held steadily, and helped by the barrel resting nicely on the pile of sturdy debris he sat behind. The ruined roof overhead did just enough to keep the light of the sun from his scope. He figured this ruined building would do just as good a job of a vantage point as any other place. Best part was that his view was unobscured.
Two other brutes flanking the chieftain, and several jackals hefting crates to an old moving truck the brute company had acquiesced probably long ago. The human in front of the chieftain, a small man, no bigger than a regular office worker screamed out profanities, which could be heard cleary even this far away. One of his lackeys, a much bulkier man, sat still on the fountain they stood beside, one leg brought up and the other dangling. He seemed relaxed but one could easily make out his line of sight, focused solely on the jiralhanae and the grip he tightened on his pistol each time the took a heavy breath.
The Spartan took another deep breath in anticipation. His comm beeped to signal the passing of another minute. This meant he only had five left to call the job in and make the journey back to the pelican waiting for him about twenty miles away. If he didn't call it in after five, the pelican would leave without him.
He could finish it now, take the shot, but risk being chased down by forces he had yet to observe. Or, he could wait it out for a bit longer and see if there was anything else to be prepared for. Spartans were good in a fight, but he could only do so much against a much larger force.
The wind hitched, and the roof over him released a few rocks unto him. They bounced off his helm harmlessly, but it broke his attention for a moment. He took a look behind him, into the hall. The light seeped in from cracks in the walls and it seemed as if it hadn't been touched since reach had fallen all those long years ago.
'Nearly a decade now' He thought.
The time battered walls echoed with the sound of the wind slamming against it but the cobwebs and the dust and the long since decayed bodies remained undisturbed. Bullet shells, cartridges were scattered all around the floor and the weapons of those who had been fighting.
Another loud cuss broke his reverie. He took a peek back into his scope and it seemed nothing had changed, except for the arrival of a few more human men. He could see about five, each wielding an M5AB. The sight was a little intimidating, but the chieftain stood tall, arms crossed and chin up high. The aliens still outnumbered the humans two to one.
He was sure that the bullet would go right through the chieftain if he squeezed the trigger now, as the jiralhanae seemed determined to stand still and imposing like a statue for the remainder of the small man's tantrum. But he was sure there was something more to this deal, a bigger force perhaps, or a trump card, waiting to be revealed. Any of these could change the situation or, God forbid, even the mission.
So he waited.