He gazed out at the setting sun, watching it begin to sink below the horizon, behind the mountains in the distance. His Air Assault pattern helmet was tucked under one arm. In the other, he held a small flask. He had retrieved it from Sword Base, from its hiding spot in what had been his quarters. He had been surprised to find it in one piece and undamaged, given the pounding the base had taken from the Covenant. He shook the flask slightly, then unscrewed the lid with his thumb and took a drink. The black current vodka slipped down his throat, and with it, memories slipped through his mind.
He remembered arriving on Reach, having been told he was assigned to Noble Team. He hadn't been happy. He wasn't really a team player. He hadn't been for a long time. Oh sure he could work with a team, he was a Spartan after all, they had all been trained to work as a team. But it wasn't his natural field. He was far more of a solo operative, preferring to work alone and fight at his own pace. But Ackerson had forced him to join Noble Team, as the new Noble Six, to replace Thom-A293. The team had been… interesting to say the least. He only knew one of the them personally, Kat-B320. She hadn't changed since he last saw her, shortly before Operation Torpedo. Once a tech head, always a tech head. He had told her so upon seeing her new bionic arm, to which she had replied 'Once an Irish mad-man, always an Irish mad-man'. He had chuckled, patted her on the shoulder, and moved to introduce himself to his new commanding officer, Carter-A259. He had seemed like a good man on first impression, and a good officer, both traits he proved to be true later.
Then there was Emile-A239, the loudmouth brawler of the group, never quite knowing when to shut up. Emile had taken one look at him and challenged him to a wrestling match, since they were both of similar size and shape. He been ordered to shut up by Jorge-052. He had been surprised to find a Spartan-II on their team, but he wasn't going to make a thing of it. Jorge had been the everyone's older brother, a dependable rock, and a good listener. And then there was Jun-A266, the team's sniper and resident 'nothing-flusters-me' guy. Another good person. He might have made it off planet by this time. Who knows what he would get up to?
He shook his head. It didn't matter. Whatever happened to Jun, it wouldn't affect him. He wasn't making it off Reach.
He took another drink. A flight of Banshees drift over a hilltop several miles away, travelling along the horizon. He thought about all that he had done as Noble Six. He had been there at Visegard, when the Covenant had been confirmed on Reach, when Winter Contingency had been activated. He had assisted in defending Sword Base, in assaulting the Spire, in the destruction of the Super Carrier Long Night of Solace, in the evacuation of Alexandria. He had infiltrated Sword Base with what remained of Noble Team, and carried the AI Cortana to the cruiser Pillar of Autumn. He had remained behind to allow it to escape.
And now he stood here. On the remains of a small UNSC outpost. With the entire Covenant army baring down on him.
He replaced the lid of his flask, screwing it shut. A pair of Banshees whizzed over head. They were close now, he could hear the hum of Phantom and Spirit drop ships in the distance. From around his neck, he pulled out the string of dog tags. The dog tags of Noble Team. He even had Carter's. He had shoved them into his hand before telling him to get the hell of the Pelican. The only ones missing were Jun's. He knew he would never added them to the chain, and he hoped that there would be no need for anyone to do so. He gazed at them for a few seconds, then placed them around his neck once more. He placed his helmet on his head once more. There was a hiss as it sealed around him. His HUD flicked into life, showing his ammo count, his shields, his motion tracker, and compass. He placed his flask into a pouch on his waist, then drew his shotgun. He checked it over, making sure that it was undamaged, fully loaded. It was. He did the same for his assault rifle, then his magnum. Both were good. Two grenades sat on his belt, and ammunition for all his weapons was in various pouches and on maglocks.
He saw several Phantoms dropping off troops in the near distance. They were truly coming for him now. But they had forgotten something very important. He was a Spartan. Spartan's never die.
Oh, and he was Irish. And currently tipsy. The black current vodka he had was strong enough to inebriate a bull.
The Covenant was not facing a Spartan. They were facing a tipsy, angry, Irish Spartan.
They would kill him.
But when the last of Noble Team on Reach fell, he would not do so quietly.
He would stand defiant, atop a mountain of the dead, before he fell.