Halo
The SPARTAN program. A last resort. Something that proved humanity's need for survival. Whether they did it for the UNSC or humanity is up for debate. But they were not intended for mere rebels and corrupt officials. They were the perfect match for the Covenant. Billions of the Covenant's soldiers fell prey to the Spartans. But even gods fall. They died one by one, but their deaths were never acknowledged. Called MIA, nothing could have been more wrong.
While John-117 was fighting the Covenant on one side, there was another SPARTAN, who fought with just as much vigor. His story, forgotten by humanity, is this. This is his legacy. His name was Garrett-179.
Chapter 1
"Welcome to Hellsing Valley, Spartan. This is as far as we are going to hold your hand, son. So, double time it to your new team's cabin." "Yes sir!" replied Garrett, as he stepped off the Hornet, to the officer.
Hellsing Valley, just like its name suggested, it was a battlefield of no limitations. Located on Devon II, it was part of the Inner Colonies. The Covenant had invaded a week ago and it had already taken the planet through hell and back. They could have glassed the entire planet, but that wasn't how the Covenant operated. Not since Sigma Octanus. They act with "honor" and fight, then, when you think they're retreating after taking over the planet, they glass the place. Some distorted form of honor that was.
The UNSC had been pushed back all the way back to the Inner Colonies within a matter of years, even with the Cole Protocol. If it hadn't been for the Spartans, it would have been over in months. If they could operate in space, the problem would have been the Covenant's. But they didn't and the war was going badly for the UNSC.
"Commander, the new one has arrived." Said someone as he approached the Pelican. "Good. Delta team can't do without a sniper. Welcome to the team, Lieutenant! We will be going in deep in enemy territory. Standard do-or-die." As he looked around, his eyes adapted to the darkness, and he saw five large armored figures in the darkness.
One, who was obviously the commander of his new team, had his armor colored red. That ruled him as a sniper or a scout. He was a "tank", as his original sharpshooter instructor had called them. As he was about to reply a siren began to scream. It was a warning of an attack.
"No time to get acquainted now. Grab your gear from the locker and move. We can't fly this thing until we survive this wave!" This wasn't going well.