A/N: So I finished Reach in the beginning of this month, and Noble six's death always bothered me, because the elites were kicking someone while they were down, 2:1 ratio, and that doesn't really fit with how honorable they're supposed to be… Think of this as my holiday gift from me to everyone…Enjoy! (And I'm really trying not to beg, but please review!)
Objective: Survive.
She saw the words scroll across her HUD, and she, almost, felt like smiling. Almost. Too many people had died, were dying, and would continue to die for her spirits to be properly lifted. But that Auntie Dot had kept a wry little bit of humor in reserves for times like these, it felt incredible.
Survive. Isn't that what everyone wanted to do? Noble Six mused to herself. It was just her and her thoughts now. They weren't very good company (they chattered too much). She saw the Covenant drop ship, saw the troops swarm out of it, saw the low amount of ammo on the counter on her DMR. This didn't look good.
She could've let her shoulder sag with defeat, she could've ran until she was exhausted, and she could've hidden herself, and stayed somewhere safe until this nightmare was over. And she wanted to do all of those things, somehow all at once. But she couldn't, in reality. She couldn't, because she owed a debt.
To Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose, the commander of the entire Spartan-III program; she refused to fail him, since she had convinced herself at a young age that not being the best at anything was equivalent to conceding defeat. He had given her a life that seemed like it was made for her, a purpose that she pursued with all her strength, and she'd only recently forgiven him for it, for taking away the life that she could have had.
To Senior Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez, the ever diligent drill instructor. This was the man who'd forced them on nighttime parachute drops on a whim. He'd woken them with stun batons for a month before the entire company, all 300 of them, had been trained to wake at 0515, get dressed and groomed, and be at the foot of their bunks, at attention, by 0530. While she, along with countless others, had hated him for the first few years, she grew to respect him. He knew what the hell he was doing, and how to get it done properly.
To Noble Team. They had fallen. She would fall, as would Reach. They had-not exactly- welcomed her, but once she had proven herself, she was part of the team. She had known them, had fought by their sides, and she had seen them die.
She shook herself out of her reverie, and turned her back from the brilliant blue of the Autumn's thrusters that contrasted against the dead sky. She surveyed her surroundings, jumping down from the platform onto the boulders below. She saw the first shots streaking towards her, blue pellets flying closer. She was sure that if she dared to close her eyes, that she would see the imprint of the plasma against the inky blackness of her eyelids. She dodged easily, dispatching the Elite with a few careful shots to the head.
Others followed him. How many, she didn't know, couldn't count. She felt a searing burst graze her back, and she stiffened with shock before riddling the grunt holding the plasma pistol with holes. She had gotten used to fighting with a team, and could almost hear Carter in her ear "Leave that Lone Wolf stuff behind…"
But now she was accustomed to someone. Emile with his shotgun and kukri, ready to kill anything that moved (and re-kill anything that didn't); Jorge with his chain gun and strength, providing back up, as always. Jun, with his eagle eyes and sniper rifle, scouting out the area. Carter and Kat, who always seemed more like a single person than separate entities, providing plans and technical support. Someone was almost always there. And now they were all gone, would all be turned to ashes and glass.
She scrambled down from the rocks, over the bodies of the enemy. They just kept coming. They were relentless, tenacious, and she was just one soldier.
Not just a soldier she thought, trying to rouse herself, her primal instincts to kill and slaughter. A Spartan. There was a spider web of cracks running across her visor. Maybe that's how Emile had seen everything, through a shadow of a skull, but she needed clarity.
She tore off her helmet, and the dry, scorching air hit her face, and she reveled in the heat coming from the glassing cores of the Covenant ships. The blistering air filled her with fire, and she pulled the trigger again and again. She was a Spartan, a Demon, an angel of Death. But when she when she tried to shoot a particularly ugly grunt there was just an ominous click. She threw it away, and lunged forward, snapping the pug-like alien's neck.
She saw the assault rifle laying on the ground a split second before she saw a white Elite coming towards her. She dove for it, and managed to get a grip on it. Years of training kicked in, and she automatically assumed the firing position. She filled his stomach with lead, steadily advancing until he finally faltered and fell.
She felt something grab at her, too-long fingers grasping for a weak spot. She saw the blur of orange before she slugged him with the rifle, and he toppled. Yet another white alien threw her to the ground before spinning away, and she saw a red bastard coming up on her right, energy sword in his hand humming to life slowly, time began to slow down.
She was back on Onyx, Camp Currahee, one of her classrooms. She could still feel the Elite's feet fall on the scorched Terra firma back on Reach, but Tom-B292 was teaching her company in depth about Elite principles. She remembered him telling them all how they prized honor above much else, and how they believed that honor would light their way.
They weren't very honorable in her experience. There was no honor in how they had shot Kat through the head, no chance for retaliation. She had immediately caught her, and tried to shoot the cowards out of the air, but it was in vain. There was no honor, either, in how they had stabbed Emile in the back. Emile, of course, being Emile, had probably grinned as he killed both of those who had taken him down. He had stared into their eyes as he killed them, and she had gotten a vindictive satisfaction from the fact that Emile, her fellow Spartan, had been the last thing that they had seen.
But the others had possessed honor. All of them had. Jorge-052, their only Spartan-II, had looked out for all of them. He had to make sure that the Slipspace drive would go off properly. He'd always had to check and double-check things before he was satisfied that whatever it was would work without him. He'd stayed behind, been torn apart, because he knew that he had a duty, and he'd known that he had to fire it manually, had known that this plan had to work. That was honor.
Kat-B320, she had been in Six's company, even, so she knew her a bit more than the others. She had done her best at every turn to aid them however she could, be it with firepower or brainpower. She had been contesting orders when she'd been shot down, which was what she did. Even in training, she tested plans, strategies, almost everything that trickled down the chain of command. She improved them, made them more effective, and if you were lucky, safer. She had viewed things from a different perspective to help more people more quickly and efficiently. That too could be called honor.
Jun-A266 had been Noble's eyes. She remembered their first mission; Jun had scouted it out, told them where the enemy was, and how they could get there. He was infinitely more reliable than any long-range radar, because as SCPO Mendez had drilled into them: "Machines break. Eyes don't." Jun was escorting Dr. Halsey to CASTLE base. He should make it, should get off this dead world, and go help some others. She remembered how he'd hesitated when Carter had given him the orders, but he obeyed his superiors, even going against his instincts to protect the remains of Noble team. Un wavering faith in the Commander's decisions, and seeing that Halsey was a higher- priority at the moment? Yes, that was honor.
Carter-A259, the leader, the one you always went to if there was a problem. He knew everything, it seemed, all the intel to be had, and he knew how to save people. There was a certain peace in simply following orders, doing what you were told. He didn't have that. He had to tell people what to do, had to weigh the options before doing anything. All the guilt from over the years rested on his shoulders. He had tried to preserve all human life, but sometimes that just wasn't an option. He had thrown himself, along with that pelican, into the Scarab, because he'd known that sacrifices needed to be made. That was honor.
Emile-A239 was the team's pure determination. She got the feeling that he didn't exactly want to win, he just wanted to take as many bastards out as possible. He was always ready with a kill and a one-liner, and was always ready to throw himself into the heat of battle. She could still see him, the memory of his death still fresh. He'd gone as he would've wanted-outnumbered, and he still managed to take them down. He had honor, he had always wanted people to know who killed them, so he never snuck about like those damned cloaked Elites.
She reached a conclusion as 'Spartan Time' kicked in. Spartan time is what they had all called it when, thanks to their enhanced senses, time seemed to slow down. She could see the red Elite rearing back, ready to stab. As the Energy sword entered her gut, she tried to spit at the Elite, blood mixing with the saliva.
"You aren't Noble." She hissed, glaring at them. She could tell when the words worked through the translation software, because that's when she felt a sharp pain in her side; the white Elite's hoof sinking into her side, crushing her ribs. We were noble, she thought in the growing black mist. She wished she could've said it, and seen the rage on their faces, but one of the ribs had punctured her lungs, causing any words to become a wheezing noise.
She started to laugh, and Noble six could tell that it was wrong, she knew that she couldn't beat the odds this time, that she was going to die. She rarely laughed, and she reflected that she should've done it more. It sounded grating now, a death rattle. She died with a look of grim satisfaction on her face. The Elites didn't know that while they were kicking at her prone figure, she had primed a grenade. They never saw it coming.
The glassing cores of the Covenant ships took care of the bodies. The armor was her grave, her final resting place. The name stenciled in military block letters on her shoulder served as a headstone, and her helmet, containing all of it's audio and visual logs… that was her legacy.