My attempt at halo fan fiction
The warthog's mighty engines screamed as they pushed the vehicle over the stone ramp. Two of the vehicles occupants were roughly thrown about when the 'hog landed nose first on the gravelly beach, the third just steadied himself with muscles of steel. Light glinted off his orange coloured visor as he scanned the shore in front of him. The chief was driving across the seafront, across beaches covered with entrenched covenant soldiers. Glancing up he focused on the aliens' assault carrier, hanging above the city of New Mombasa like some kind of god bent on destruction. "I'm coming prophet, just wait there for me," he thought, projecting all his hate for the covenant and all they had done to humanity in that thought. His brief break from combat was cut short when he heard the voice of commander Miranda Keyes in his helmet radio, "Chief, the carrier just launched a wave of pods. They're inbound on your position!" the chief silently acknowledged this, and concentrated once again on killing alien bastards.
Lance corporal Thomas Jones looked down at the back of the chiefs head, he was in awe to be fighting with a Spartan, and the sole surviving one at that, hell, the covenant didn't stand a chance now. Jones heard the brief message from commander Keyes about pods through his helmet radio, and immediately began swinging the 'hog's LAAG turret from side to side, inspecting every piece of scattered stone debris and rubble that covered the gravel of the beach. They had just crossed over a small platform separating one section of the beach from another, and in the distance Jones could see several piles of rubble and twisted metal, scattered around a huge hole in the wall, he could faintly see the main highway of Old Mombasa through it. His examinations were disrupted as, with an almighty crash, several coffin shaped pods burst out of the sky and landed on the surface. They were made of purple metal, a signature material of the covenant, and their surfaces gleamed dully.
Kicking into action with an efficiency that marine boot camp had installed in him, Jones brought the three barrelled gun he was manning around and centred it on the surface of the nearest pod, one about 30 feet away from the warthogs left side. The front of the pod exploded off, and the now useless lid was blown several feet away. An elite in a blue coloured combat harness emerged, reaching to his side, he drew a plasma pistol from a magnetic holster on his leg and scanned the area around him. His expression of determination melted when the warthog screamed past him, and he had just enough time to spread his four mandibles in a scream when 12.7mm rounds tore through his shielding and armour, and ripped his body apart. Jones, satisfied with the kill, turned to see that focusing his attention on the one elite had given time for the other five pods that had landed to eject their occupants and now they were facing five, two plus meters tall, humanoid aliens that stood ready to fight them.
Private Ashley Hendrix, in the side seat of the 'hog, steadied her BR-55 battle rifle and fired at one of the passing elites. In the short time that the marines had been equipped with this fairly new weapon, many had learnt to recognise its individual noise. The characteristic bark of the rifle sounded and three 7.62mm rounds sped towards Hendrix's target. The elites were equipped with personal shield generators, their effectiveness was limited, since low ranking elites were not equipped with very powerful shields. Ashley's marksmanship was very good, and in the time that Jones had known her she had missed targets only occasionally, so shooting whilst on a moving vehicle going at almost forty miles an hour over uneven terrain was hopefully not going to present much of a challenge. Her bullets sped towards the elite, and the alien ducked, but not quickly enough. Two bullets impacted against his armour and caused momentary shimmers of light across his form. Standing back up, he roared his defiance at the human who had fired at him, not expecting the three metal jacketed, sleek bullets that penetrated his exposed lips and literally disintegrated his skull,Ashley gave a satisfied grunt and turned to seek another target.
Jones turned and spooled up his machine gun, aiming at a red coloured elite that was rushing for the 'hog, probably attempting to board it. With a fire rate of almost 900 rounds a minute, the three barrelled LAAG managed to put almost 30 rounds into the elite in just under 2 seconds. The destroyed aliens blood splattered the air, and some landed on Jones' camouflaged armour, staining it purple. Jones almost lost his balance when the chief drove over a particularly rocky part if the shore, spinning the 'hog so that it was facing back towards the remaining elites.
Suddenly, a red coloured elite jumped up from a dip in the sand, and leaped onto the drivers seat of the warthog, obscuring the chief from Jones' vision. Horrified, Jones released the LAAG's handles, and pulled out his M6C magnum from his leg holster, searching for a clear shot at the elite now attempting to kill the Spartan. The elite raised its hand, holding a plasma rifle which it clearly intended to clobber the chief with. But before it could bring the hand down, an arm suddenly reached up and stopped it in mid swing, an arm covered in olive green coloured armour, scarred and pockmarked with plasma burns. The chief threw the elite off of him, and Jones heard a single magnum shot as the stricken alien fell to the floor. The chief was back in his seat, and Jones was mystified as to where the shot had come from until he saw the magnum holstered on the chiefs right leg. The dead elite's purple blood covered the gravel, tainting it as it flowed from a wound near the rim of his helmet, Jones had never seen someone draw and fire a weapon so fast. Ashley, her battle rifle still held against the crook of her shoulder, checked on the status of their driver and then resumed firing at the two remaining elites on the shore. Two blues, or minors, as Jones remembered they were called, had taken cover behind several rocks near the shoreline.
The chief brought the warthog screaming round in a tight, one hundred and eighty degree turn, and sent it towards the rocks at ramming speed. Jones, now back in position on the gunners platform, spooled up the M41 LAAG and began to pepper the rocks with titanium coated lead rounds. Rounds ricocheted around the rocks, and they two elites wisely stopped firing and concentrated more on hiding. Their mistake. When the warthog was only several feet from the rocks, The chief clenched the handbrake and stopped it almost perfectly parallel to the rocks. Jones watched, stunned, as the Spartan jumped over the rocks in one gigantic leap, landed on one elite and broke his neck between his hands in one swift, savage blow. The other elite turned to the Spartan as the chief threw the limp body of his first victim away, and roared his anger full on into his face. Jones watched, unable even to conceive a thought of moving as the chief and the elite tussled, heads down and limbs flailing. It was a short lived fight however, and the chief proved once again that even though the elite stood two feet taller than him, with huge muscles covering its body, that he was the stronger one. Using a cunning flip, the chief tripped the elite and threw him away. The alien scrambled up and his hand began to reach for a fallen plasma rifle on the ground, this gave the chief time to regain his footing, and he launched himself in a headlong tackle at the elite. The look of surprise on the aliens face was masked from Jones' view when the Spartan began to smother the aliens four mandibles, stopping his breathing. The minor struggled for a while, but eventually fell still.
The chief wiped his gloved hands of the aliens spittle, and turned to the two dumbstruck marines watching him "Lets go, we have a prophet to hunt," he growled.