Disclaimer:I don't really own any of the elements used in the writing. I am not associated, nor do I own Microsoft or Bungie. I do not own Halo. Materials are being used without permission - I would like to note that most fanfiction is written using copyrighted materials without any formal consent from the creators. The author owns the writing (unless otherwise noted - e.g. using quotes) and certain elements contained within the story (which may include, but is not limited to: locations, weapons, characters,...et cetera). This fic may contain strong language, descriptions of gore and violence, among other things that may not be suitable for folks under sixteen years of age. By continuing to read this fic, you agree that you are at least sixteen years of age and are legally able to view such material within your country, state, county et ceteraYou also agree to not hold the author responsible for any stupid crap that you, the reader, may do after reading the fic. Please do not sue me, as I am bloody poor. This fic is solely for entertainment purposes, only - I do not gain any profit from it, whatsoever.

If, at any time, you happen to stop enjoying the fic, then I suggest you desist and just close the web browser page or tab. It's that easy. And you save everyone a lot of grief. Stop whining and stop trying to give people crap just because you're an insecure little emo brat. Grow up. This especially applies to those di'kutla hut'uune that flame authors, even though they haven't even written their own stories. And when they do write their own stories, it's typically a steaming pile of crap, at best. Plus, they tend to be illiterate and they horribly butcher the English language. It's both amusing and depressing. Anyway, yeah. Enjoy the fic. Also, please be sure to read the author's notes at the end. It may address some things you may want to ask or comment upon. Read that before you waste my time with questions that I've already answered. Even if you don't like the fic, I suggest you read the notes before you start flaming me for some reason or another.

Thank you.

Tiger Tank (AKA: RedGuard6)

Working Title: Fox Two

UNSC Colony "Bountiful."

Somewhere in the capitol city "Prosperity."

0032 hours, local time. Late October, 2552 CE

A dozen, battered survivors marched through the dark, deserted streets of prosperity, with only the glow of fires, Wraith mortars, and Bountiful's two moons to light the way. Palls of ink-black smoke billowed into the air, partly obscuring the moons and the stars. Abandoned and overturned vehicles - ranging from sports-utility vehicles and convertibles, to burned-out hulks of Covenant hover tanks - lay scattered around the streets like broken and discarded toys. The ubiquitous stench of death and destruction hung in the air like a foul mist, and numerous corpses - human and alien - lay strewn about the pavement, which was flecked with dried blood spatters and arterial sprays. Many of the bloated and maimed corpses were human civilians, with a smattering of planetary defense force uniforms - otherwise known as the local militia - here and there. There were also the bodies of the various alien races comprising the Covenant. None in the party reacted visibly to the grisly sight, all of them having gotten over the shocks to their sensibilities hours ago.

The distant sounds of battle could be heard as countless, chaotic skirmishes raged throughout the city: the distinct whine of plasma weapons and the barking staccato of human fireams was punctuated with the thunder of explosive ordnance. Otherwise, all was quiet around the ragged band as they trudged onward toward perceived safety.

Officer Sarah Caston of the Prosperity Police Department led the way, her department-issued Glock 19 automatic and a powerful, lit LED torch in hand. A pair of shadowy, armed individuals followed close behind - one with a rifle, the other with a shotgun. Sarah was clad in a dark-blue uniform, consisting of slacks and a long-sleeved, collared shirt, and was an athletic woman of average stature, with piercing, steel-grey eyes. Caston's shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair was up in a messy bun, with several stray strands touching the collar of her navy-blue jacket. A black leather duty belt cinched her waist, with various pouches and holsters secured to it.

Caston was also very tired. She'd been running all over the city, for the better part of the previous morning, responding to various calls made by the "concerned" citizenry. Burglaries, various public and domestic disturbances - including subduing an irate and foul-mouthed drunk - and now, she had to deal with what initially appeared to be an alien invasion. The blonde officer found herself stopping to think. No, that doesn't sound right. Sarah couldn't put her finger on it, but that description didn't quite seem to fit; she recalled that she had seen the aliens fighting amongst each other as often as she had seen them killing off humans. That's really bizarre, Caston thought to herself. I thought they were all hell-bent on killing humanity off. Why would they turn on each other like that?

"Ma'am?"

Sarah nearly jumped five feet into the air - she would have, if she wasn't so tired. Even though that single word was barely above a whisper, she reacted as though someone had yelled it into a bullhorn two feet behind her; she'd nearly dropped both her torch and her handgun. The blonde furiously whirled around to face the person who'd disturbed her thoughts and hissed, "what?"

The spectacled rifleman was roughly a head taller than Caston, in spite of his seemingly hunched-over appearance. Crowning his head was a camouflage-patterned boonie hat, which partially obscured his countenance in shadow. Despite their difference in height, the man seemed to recoil at the venomous glare she cast at him. "Sorry, ma'am," he continued in that low and hushed voice, "you'd stopped an' were spacin' out." Caston blinked blearily for a second before shaking her head, as if to clear it. "Sorry," she muttered. "It's been a long day, for me..."

"Yes, ma'am," the young man nodded as he shifted the sleek, scoped, bolt-action, hunting rifle that he carried in his gloved hands. In spite of the bolt action, the rifle's appearance strongly reminded Sarah of the old black-powder muskets and rifles used almost a thousand years ago. However, Caston couldn't readily identify the weapon, especially in the darkness.

Firearms weren't exactly illegal on Bountiful - it was like any other colony world in the UNSC. Many government-issued weapons, as well as ammunition used by military and police, were strictly controlled and were illegal for civilians to even possess. This included any and all eight-gauge shotguns. Strict limits on the carrying capacity of a firearm were also put into place - many thirty- and twenty-round magazines were often illegal for non-sworn citizens to own, let alone use.

However, this still allowed people to own a motley assortment of "obsolete" and "antiquated" weapons - which were often far deadlier than the modern, standard-issue. Caston had always scoffed at this glaring loophole in the system - but now, she was glad for it. It meant that the citizenry was still armed, and wasn't completely defenseless. In fact, in terms of small arms, they were better-equipped to take down Covenant.

"Ma'am?" the trench-coated fellow queried, noticing the look of concentration etched into her elegant features. "Ah--"

"Hey!" one of the unarmed civilians cut in, to the irritation of the rest of the group. Some of the other members in the group tried to shush him. "What's the hold-up? Let's keep moving!" Caston scowled and gave the loudmouth a rude gesture of disapproval, before turning around and continuing down the street. The trench-coated rifleman and the shotgunner both followed a few paces behind her, bemused, while the loudmouthed kid grumbled inaudibly under his breath.

"Fuckin' bitch," the blond teenager muttered, returning Caston's rude gesture and directing it to her back.

"Well, Adam, it doesn't help that you're an asshole..."

"Fuck off, fatso," Adam snapped at the civilian that had addressed him. The stocky, twenty-something man, clad in a security guard's uniform with a photo-identification card that read "LANGDON, S.", looked ready to give a sharp retort. However, he was stopped by a feminine hand landing on his broad shoulder. "Shaun, don't," a slender, shorter Asian teenager warned him, sternly. Langdon frowned down at her, but his friend pressed, "let it go." The portly guard reluctantly obeyed and remained silent, glowering at the blond teenager. Adam sneered at him, earning a smoldering glare from Langdon's female friend.

"And you, Adam," she stated quietly, "do everybody a favor and shut up. You wanna get us all killed?" Adam shrugged and replied, his tone dismissive, "whatever, Em." Em's glare intensified, and for a moment she looked torn between giving the blond teenager a piece of her mind, and letting that one slide.

"Keep it down, you three," one of the armed members of the group grunted. He was a taller, older, broad-shouldered man, dressed in the camouflage-patterned livery of the Bountiful Planetary Defense Forces. A subdued, lightly-colored bar on his uniform collar denoted him as a second lieutenant, and a similarly subdued nametag read: "VELASQUEZ, H." The trooper carried an MA5K RIS assault carbine - an MA5K modified to accept rail-mounted accessories, with a torch secured by a scope ring mount to a rail mounted on the right side of the weapon. The arguing trio eyed the carbine warily, and wisely chose to cease their bickering for the moment.

"That's better," the lieutenant muttered. "Kids these days..." One of the other armed members of the group snorted at his remark.

A brilliant beam of lavender light suddenly lanced out from an office building, up ahead, and pierced through Velasquez's skull. The lieutenant's eyes rolled up into his head as he toppled over, dead, onto the pavement with an audible whump! A rather large hole was neatly burned into his forehead.

"Sniper!"

"Cover! Cover!"

Up ahead, the three armed scouts scrambled for whatever cover or concealment they could find on either side of the street.

Adam, Emma, and the other three unarmed civilians stared at Velasquez's cooling body in abject horror. Langdon, however, scooped up the dead trooper's MA5K and grabbed Emma's arm. "Emma, c'mon! Take cover!" He'd just started dragging her away when one of the other civilians was hit in the chest. It was at this point that the other two armed survivors ran for cover, while the red-haired, thirty-something woman screamed in agony as she sank to the ground, clutching at the sizzling wound. That was enough to make the other survivor pick up a screaming child, a little girl, and bolt.

"Mommy! Mommy!" the girl wailed, nearing hysterics. "No! Wait! Don't leave Mommy! No!" The man carrying the child, presumably the father, ignored the child's pleas and sprinted into a ruined diner across the street. Adam, however, remained rooted to the spot by terror. He stared at the downed red-head and saw the fear in her eyes. The blond teenager suddenly felt a white-hot lance of pain stab through his left thigh, causing him to cry out in pain. "Oh fuck!"

Shaun and Emma watched Adam roll around and scream in agony from behind a wrecked Wraith mortar tank. Langdon harshly suppressed a sickening feeling of satisfaction at the brash teen's predicament. I've got bigger fish to fry. The stocky security guard began visualizing the attack in his mind. "Where the hell did that come from?" one of the armed survivors, a man, bellowed. "Anybody see?"

"Further up the street, I think!" Caston hollered back. "Stay down!"

"I am!"

"Not you!" Puzzled and curious, Shaun looked around and spotted the the other unarmed man - who had hidden in the diner - cautiously making his way over to the wounded. At least he's got the sense to stay behind cover, Shaun noted. "You there! Stop! Stop moving!" Caston yelled. "Stay where you are!"

The brown-haired man seemingly ignored her and did not heed her words until a bullet hit the ground next to his hand, accompanied by the loud bam! of a pistol firing. The brunet immediately froze with an expression of shock on his face. Langdon suddenly heard Caston screaming her head off, even over Adam's agonised cries. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" she bellowed, "you could have hit him, you fucking idiot! Hey! Where're you going! I'm not done with y--stop! Damn it!"

"What's going on?" one of the other armed survivors - a woman, judging by her higher-pitched voice, vocalized the question on Shaun's mind.

"Damn it! That stupid ass ditched us!"

"Who?"

"Trench-Coat Guy! Mister Funny-Hat! Hell, I don't know his fucking name, and I don't give a shit!"

Langdon inwardly shook his head. It wasn't rare for people to do crazy things like running off on their own. He knew it was usually because they would panic and lose their heads. A beam glanced off the armor of the Wraith he and Emma were hiding behind, causing them both to flinch.

Adam's incoherent screaming began to die down, becoming groans of pain. Shaun risked a look and saw that the teenager was still clutching his leg. The red-headed woman had stopped moving, although she still appeared to be breathing - she gave silent, labored gasps of pain. The seconds slowly crawled by, and they all remained where they were for what felt like an eternity. Checking his wrist-chrono, Langdon noted that ten minutes had passed. The alien sniper had wisely decided to stop firing, but Shaun had a feeling that it was watching them, waiting for them to move from behind their cover.

An eerie silence had returned, settling over the scattered survivors.

Unseen by the enemy sniper and by the pinned survivors, the trench-coated man lay in wait, fifty or sixty meters ahead, almost perfectly hidden and kneeling behind a set of stairs. He had unslung his black backpack and set it beside him. Through his rifle's scope, he silently watched an office building seventy meters away. He was sure he'd seen the sniper fire coming from one of the lower floors during the attack.

"Where are you, you frikkin' alien?" he muttered inaudibly, slowly shifting his aim to look through some of the shattered office windows. Finally, on the third floor, he saw an ugly, ravening creature whose ugly head resembled a vulture's. Its attention appeared to be directed at the survivors behind him - its eyes were behind the integrated scope of its own weapon.

He lined up the cross-hairs with the alien's head and slowed his breathing. You have all the time in the world, he reminded himself, trying to relax and concentrate. Of course, things are often more easily said than done - his sight picture wavered, betraying his nervousness and his animalistic fear of pain. Man, I'm really glad I bought these kneepads. The young man pushed those wandering thoughts aside and attempted to concentrate. Don't rush yourself. Relax. He nearly laughed at himself. It was almost impossible to stay calm. The young man's heart raced with the knowledge that a hostile was nearby - an enemy intent on killing him, his comrades-in-arms, and any other human beings it had a clear shot at. The situation, in spite of its horrifying reality, started to seem surreal to him, and a cool, detached feeling of calm draped over him like a cloak. He embraced this feeling and clung to it, finally calming down.

The young man took a slow, deep breath, then slowly released his breath. Halfway through his exhalation, he held his breath and pulled the trigger. There was a loud boom!and the rifle kicked into his shoulder. Hard. The trench-coated man grunted as he shifted the cross-hairs back onto the target: the Jackal was still standing. Something's wrong, here, he noted. A cold lump plummeted into his gut as realization struck him a second later.

I frikkin' missed

"Fuck!" he hissed as he frantically worked the bolt, causing him to momentarily lose his sight picture. The ejected brass casing made a quiet, bell-like, pinging sound as it hit the sidewalk. When he reacquired his target, the vulture-headed alien had lowered its weapon and was looking around wildly for the source of the hostile gunfire.

Guess he hasn't spotted me, he thought. He instinctively adjusted his aim and loosed another shot. This time, purple blood fountained from the side of the alien's throat and the creature toppled over. He watched as two pulses of purple blood spurted into the air above the downed Jackal. After that, nothing.

After confirming that the Jackal was dead or suitably incapacitated, the young man ejected the spent cartridge and chambered a fresh round. He examined the surrounding area with his scope, searching for any more hostiles, or for any enemy spotters. Seeing none, he got to his feet and slipped his rucksack back on before making his way back to the rest of the survivors.

As he approached the car he'd left Caston behind, he quietly queried, "ma'am? Are you there?" The blonde officer peeked from behind the car and shot him a smoldering glare. "What the hell are you doing?" she snapped. "Where the fuck were you?" The young man paused for a brief second. Her choice of words had affronted him, but given his abrupt and as-of-yet unexplained actions, it was understandable. So, he merely shrugged and reported, "threat neutralized. One of those ugly vulture-heads, ma'am." He caught sight of the other survivors as they timidly began emerging from cover. The brown-haired man ran over to the wounded woman and the cussing teenager. Shortly thereafter, the brunet was joined by the child he'd carried to safety. The bulky security guard had slung the MA5K over his shoulder, and had begun the grisly task of scavenging ammunition and equipment from Velasquez's rapidly cooling corpse.

"Yeah, I heard the gunshots," Caston scowled as the trench-coated man returned his attention to her. "I've got a bone to pick with you, later, bub."

"Yes, ma'am." The blonde officer shook her head at him and walked away to check on the wounded. As she left him, he heard her mutter, "frikkin' toy soldier." The rifleman watched as one of the other armed survivors - a pretty brunette in a tube-top - was in the process of patching up the auburn-haired mother. Tube-top wore a black pistol belt with a tactical light clipped to it, along with a number of ammo pouches secured to the front and sides. A pair of automatic handguns rode in a shoulder holster and in a thight holster. I wonder what kind of heat she's packing, he mused. His gaze then shifted upon the blond teenager - the lad's leg was already patched up and he was leaning on a large, black man for support.

The black man wore a PDF unit patch, but he looked more like a defense contractor or a mercenary than a member of the local defense forces. He wore a black, tactical vest over a white, collared, long-sleeved shirt. Over his dark slacks, he wore black, tactical kneepads, and the ensemble was completed with a pair of black, fingerless gloves. A holstered, large-framed automatic was secured to the left side of his vest - an FN Five-Seven, and he carried a Fabrique Nationale Herstal Project 90 submachinegun - the basis of the popular P90 carbine utilized by civilians for varmint-hunting and home defense. The ammunition it used was also used in the somewhat popular Five-Seven pistol, which was originally designed to be a sidearm for an operator using the P90. It was a logical choice for someone in the defense forces, the young rifleman noted. He was dimly aware that the shotgunner had begun conversing with Caston, as he mentally reviewed what he knew about the PDF trooper's hardware. He unwittingly began walking down the street, wandering away from the group while he lost himself in his thoughts.

The P90 was compact, had a magazine capacity of fifty rounds, and was chambered in a 5.7x28mm cartridge that was capable of penetrating anything short of the best (and very expensive) UNSC-issued body armor. It was boxy in appearance, and the majority of its body was made of durable polymer. It was a little over a third of a meter in length, and its clear plastic magazine ran lengthwise along the top of the weapon. The civilian-legal P90 carbines had a lengthened barrel, compared to the P90 submachinegun - but it was still very compact and quite accurate. While nowhere nearly as popular or widely-distributed as certain Glock handguns or Remington-Mossberg's shotguns and rifles, the Five-Seven and the P90 were used by those who could afford it - and ammunition was about as plentiful as any other non-government-issue cartridges currently available.

For centuries, the P90 had served the UNSC government as the best personal defense weapon available for rear-echelon troops, and law-enforcement and government agencies. However, politics - as it often did - came into play and the P90 was rendered "obsolete" by the M7 caseless submachinegun. This even more compact weapon took on the P90s role as the prime PDW used by UNSC forces - in spite of the fact that the P90 had a much longer effective range and had comparatively superior stopping power and penetration capabilities. Still, the retirement of the P90 meant that it was available to civilians, and it was embraced by people out in the outer territories - especially the local militia. Numerous surplus P90s and massive amounts of stockpiled ammunition were sold to local law-enforcement agencies and planetary defense troops - and there was an enormous amount of parts for the weapons, readily available on the open market, which facilitated parts replacement and unit repairs.

Naturally, while the P90 reigned supreme, the Five-Seven had served as the standard-issue sidearm. When the P90 and the 5.7x28mm cartridge were retired from service, the Five-Seven followed suit. Handguns were, naturally, more strictly controlled than rifles or submachineguns since they were easier to conceal. Thus, only militia and law-enforcement officers were allowed to own or carry handguns with a magazine capacity over ten rounds - and they were almost always carried out in the open, riding in a readily visible - and, unfortunately, easily accessible - holster. While the somewhat rag-tag Planetary Defense Forces could use any weapons they could pick up and find supplies for, law-enforcement officers like Caston were considerably less fortunate. Police departments often prohibited officers from carrying personal weapons while officially on-duty - they would always be stuck carrying an anemic, 9x19mm variant of the Glock. At least, that was the case with the Prosperity Police Department.

The spectacled man suddenly found himself before a relatively intact retail storefront that apparently sold sporting goods and camping equipment. Hello, what have we here? He strode forward, into the store, and found himself grinning at the smorgasbord of goods inside.

Excellent.

To be continued...?

Author's Notes: Get used to the cliff-hanger "endings." Muhahahaha! That was basically the only way I felt I could divide this one-shot up. Then again...perhaps my understanding of the concept of a one-shot is flawed. Hmmm...

I apologize that I left out some details, again...same as Fox One. Although I really wonder if I can get this story off the ground. I have a basic overall plot down, but I want to throw in some subplots to give it a little more depth. So it's now a matter of how I'm going to get from the beginning to the end - as opposed to "where the futch am I going?"

As you may have noticed, I've made up firearms companies and I've even combined current, existing ones. I'm sure some of you are wondering "what gives? What is up with that?" Well, I'm surprised nobody's really questioned Bungie on just who is manufacturing weapons and equipment for the UNSC military. I don't think they've gone that far into detail - the lack of realism with the human firearms is evidence enough. C'mon, seriously. Sixty rounds of 7.62x51mm into the MA5B's impossible compact magazine? I think not. At least the M7 is more believable...the magazine is similar to the FN P90s, in that the magazine is mounted parallel to the weapon, rather than perpendicular (as with more conventional rifle/weapon designs).

Anyway, I figure that a lot of the companies/corporations today probably might not exist in the far future. Or, in order to survive, they would combine with other companies. Or they would be bought by other companies and renamed. Blah-de-blah.

Also, yes. I did change things around a bit. Considerably. Remember, I did say that the story was a work in process. These one-shots let me play around and help me figure out what I may or may not want to use in the story. If I ever manage to slap it together. If I'm not satisfied with something, I'll be very hesitant to post it...