Battle Drabble I
"30 Seconds 'til drop."
The voice of the pilot of DC-77 Pelican dropship Tango 4-4 came through Marcus' helmet in a strange way. His mind was elsewhere, focused on the battle ahead, and thus he found that the other man's voice came in a distant, a weak force inside the swirling maelstrom that was his mind.
"10… 9… 8… 7…" The pilot continued, as the hail of glowing blue plasma fire came towards the green hull of the craft, leaving burns as it passed, and occasionally hitting to very little effect.
The ramp of the craft dropped with a loud pneumatic hiss, and the Spartan knew it was time to go. Firing up his VISR H.U.D. system, the grey dreadnought lumbered forth from the belly of the vehicle, his massive, belt-fed weapon brought to bear upon the nearest squad formation that he could find.
Just a few hours ago, the Spartan had been briefed on this operation. The planet he was on was volcanic in nature, and had only one true distinguishing feature- a Forerunner fortress that spanned for miles across the equator the molten world, silver valleys and metallic mountains rising and falling in a great falsehood of times long past.
This meant very little to Marcus, as far as the mission was concerned. It meant that he could not shoot through a majority of the cover the Covenant forces planetside would be using, so hand grenades were a must. It also meant that command undoubtedly wanted him to pick up some sort of artifact for study. Both of these things were annoyances, but his job was clear, and he knew what he was up against, thus he felt rather confident.
Back in the present, however, things were a bit tougher. The grey orbs at his belt were running out, and fast, as each position had to be cleared before he could unleash his withering torrents of fire, sending wicked volleys of heavy rounds at those that were forced to evacuate their position for fear of being blown to chunks.
However, he had made it to the forerunner device, corpses littering his path for every inch the enemy had tried to hold back from him. It failed for them, and now he had his prize. Grasping the strange, glowing orb by its handle, the Spartan headed back to the Pelican, his large handgun grasped in his other hand as he put down those that he had not killed with brutal efficiency.
Mission accomplished, he thought with pride, finding himself rather pleased with the perfection of his execution.
Just like Kurt would have wanted.
