"Holy sh-" Diving back behind cover, Private Chapman felt the barricade buck into his side, bruising his ribs. The force of the collision had thrown the grunt clear of the Ghost it had been riding, and at some point, it's crumpled body marked the end of a messy trail of flesh and fluid across the pavement. Clutching his side, the Private sat up and peered over what was left of the concrete barricade he'd taken cover behind, noting the chunk missing from the top.
The battle for outpost seven had not been going well, it was clear. There had been a panic over the TacCom when some poor schmuck had mentioned that he was stuck inside a locked down bunker with two civies, a fully intact navigation database with a broken interface, and nothing to smash it with.
Echo Company had scrambled to get there first, before the Covenant had a crack at that database, and made life on Earth... Simply not there.
Well, they had made it there first. For their troubles, they got about two minutes to set up a perimeter before a wave of Ghosts and Banshees had screamed over them. As it was, Chapman was the only man left in his squad still standing, and with the condition of his ribs, it needed to be amended to 'barely standing'. Hauling his MA5B off of the ground, he thumped it down atop the mostly intact top of the barricade, and shouldered it one-handed. "This is going to really hurt." Taking a few breaths to steady himself, Chapman eased his finger onto the trigger, just as his radio crackled.
A deep, authoritave voice rang out through the tiny speaker. "Take cover Private."
Confused, Chapman looked around for a moment. "What-" He stopped wondering when he heard a sharp crump followed by the woosh of rocket propellant igniting. Throwing himself to the ground, he let out a pained grunt that was drowned out by the sound of something blowing into pieces. As the ringing in his ears died off, he thought he could make out a rhythmic thudding.
An instant later, a pair of armored hands hauled the Private upright. "Are you alright soldier?"
Peering up into the amber visor of a seven foot seven hulking mountain of a man clad in iridescent green armor, Chapman could do no better than nod dumbly and babble an affirmative. "Y-yes, sir!" Another walking tank drew near, catching his attention.
"Move up and delay that wing of Banshees until Will destroys the database."
The first SPARTAN nodded, setting Chapman gently down on the ground. "Yes sir." Skirting the barricade, the armored supersoldier broke into a sprint, breaking stride only to hurdle a Ghost as it swerved sharply, trying to run down the lone human soldier. Leaping three meters into the air, a ton of enhanced flesh and armor crashed down on the pitifully small Grunt driving it, crushing it into the seat like a bug. Steadying himself for a moment, the SPARTAN flung himself skyward again, this time a fantasticly impossible ten meter leap that brought him directly into the path of a Banshee lining itself up for a strafing run on what was left of the UNSC defense line.
It was something amazing, Chapman realized, to watch a SPARTAN in action. From his vantage point on the ground, he had a clear view of the entire battlefield, and plenty of time to watch the lone SPARTAN catch the Banshee by it's port drive pod, literally tearing it out of the sky with his armored hands.
Bounding from the doomed craft before it was halfway to the ground, the SPARTAN slammed into the side of a second Banshee. Taking a good grip on the narrow struts attaching the starboard drive pod to it's side, the SPARTAN planted his feet against the aircraft's hull and straightened his body out, tearing off the pod, struts and all.
While the human had been tearing through the first two Banshees, the third had been carefully circling around, lining itself up to make a strafing run on the small target. Softball-sized globules of plasma splashed into the ground, burning twin dotted lines of destruction into the pavement, steadily closing the distance to the soldier ahead.
Clutching the drive pod of the second Banshee by the withered roots of it's struts, the SPARTAN spun around twice, and hurled the roughly angular hunk of debris directly into the third and final Banshee's path.
The impact of the pod dented the cowling a little, and the base of one of the struts tore a small furrow in the gleaming purple hull. The impact was enough to throw the pilot's aim off, and forced him to correct it's flight path.
That distraction was all the SPARTAN needed to haul the gutted remains of a battered Warthog off of the ground, and heft it over his head. Calculating the distance in an instant, the augmented super soldier heaved the fire-eaten chassis into the air, smashing the lighter Banshee out of the sky as if it had been crushed by a gigantic hammer. As the alien craft burst into a cloud of blue-white flame, raining blackened fragments of alloy onto the ground, the SPARTAN had already sprinted back to the defensive line, rejoining the wounded private and the other SPARTAN. He briefly glanced at the pile of broken Grunts laying not six meters from the barricades. "Busy while I was out?"
"Not terribly." The second SPARTAN slammed a fresh clip into his MA5B, scanning the battlefield. "Report."
"Banshees have been taken care of, Master Chief." Unslinging his own rifle, the unnamed SPARTAN shouldered the weapon, flicking the safety off. "I did see a line of Ghosts forming up about ten clicks to the south while I was up there." Turning to stand alongside the Master Chief, he glanced at the display in his HUD. "Positioned here. I give us about three minutes, unless they get particularly brave and decide to blitz us."
"Noted. Will is finished with the database, we'll be pulling out soon."
"He does love to smash things, doesn't he?" Squaring his shoulders, the nameless SPARTAN waited for the wave of Ghosts to arrive. It was all in a day's work for him.