If you clicked on this story you're hear to read the story itself, and not the author's note; therefore I'll keep this as concise as I can. As a general statement, all the characters (and the planet) mentioned below are original, and not taken directly from canon. In terms of fitting into the Halo timeline, this story takes place in December of 2550. There's a bigger note at the bottom. Anyway, I won't bore you any longer; here you go.
"Heathrow—Huxley is down! Get to him!"
Richard nodded at his commanding officer, who was only a few feet away and took in a large gulp of breath. Shaw had been his commanding officer since before they'd touched down on the surface of Tsingtao, and he'd been training to comply with the Sergeant's orders at a pin-drop. He glanced out of cover nervously and hurriedly before glancing up at Huxley's roost in the distance. It was a long way.
The Covenant had touched down on the surface about five hours ago, and Shaw's platoon had been close behind. They were approximately seven miles south of the outskirts of Tsingtao's major metropolis (Hebei), and had dug in due have a vantage point on Covenant that would be attempting to move to the city. Thankfully, Hebei was bolstered with many anti-air defenses, so the Covenant had been forced to land their troops far from the city's perimeter; it was here, on the side of a narrow creek in a surprisingly scenic landscape, that Alpha Company had dug in to try stop the Covenant advance. On the north side of the creek—the side closer to the city—Alpha had formed a defensive line to try and create an impenetrable wall; the longer they held the creek, the more civilians were able to evacuate out of Hebei and into orbit. The entire maneuver was little more than suppressive fire on a grander scale, but it was being done for the right reasons. Everyone knew that.
The terrain reminded Richard of rural England; long fields of grass that ranged in height and species, with a little, narrow brook winding lazily through the greenery. The meadows were pockmarked with large rocks and erosion, however—presumably from when the planet had been terraformed. These rocks proved useful for cover and for giving anyone atop them a better vantage point over the enemy; about fifty feet up and to the right, Huxley, the platoon's sharpshooter, had chosen to set up shop with his sniper rifle. He'd had a good sightline and was able to overlook a large area of the babbling brook (which was so narrow a man could probably leap across it in a single bound) and, therefore, the advancing Covenant forces. It was possible, however, that he had overextended himself—bitten off more than he could chew—and now he was paying the price for it.
Richard was with Shaw and several other marines, ducked behind a large number of sandbags that the squad had thrown together for cover. It was originally supposed to be one of their failsafes—cover they could fall back to once the Covies passed through the river—but they had misidentified their enemy. They had been expecting the bold-yet-tactical Elites to lead the forces sent against them; instead, the troops were led by Brutes, who—as their name suggested—favored the bloodcurdling charge over a systematic advance. For that reason the Covenant's line was splayed and scattered, with some troops still on the far side of the river, and over groups much too close for comfort. The Brutes were disorganized, but extraordinarily dangerous, especially in close quarters; the UNSC Army's go-to strategy of keeping the alien enemy as far away as possible during engagements and fighting at range was essential in combating them. Unfortunately, their brute force (no pun intended) had carried them through much of the bullet-hail that Alpha Company had thrown down.
A group of small aliens, Grunts, were moving up from behind some rocky cover no less than twenty feet away. They should have had a Brute with them, to lead them (as was the typical Covenant doctrine, supposedly), but Richard didn't see one. It was surprising they had advanced without a larger alien at their sides, as the Grunts typically had to be forced into action.
Richard brought his assault rifle up and pulled the trigger, aiming at the Grunts. The gun jittered in his hold, and the bullets flew sporadically towards the Grunts, who could do nothing more than advance. There was a blossoming of blue, fluorescent ooze after a few seconds, however, and Richard realized he must have hit one. The Grunt on the far right of the group stared down at its arm, which was now seeping with bright-blue blood, and the rest began to spread out, trying to avoid being shot as well. Shots riddled several of the others as they continued to advance, and they collapsed to the ground in bloodied, tattered heaps. The one that Richard had hit, with the wounded arm, attempted to bumble backwards toward cover, and Richard kept firing at it. It eventually collapsed forwards, presumably shot straight through its large, methane-filled breathing apparatus, but Richard wasn't sure if he or another soldier had hit it in the end.
"Heathrow, what the hell are you doing! We will keep you covered; get to Huxley's position and see to him."
"Understood!" Richard hollered, looking to make sure the way to Huxley's sniper-roost was now clear—it was…hopefully. He swallowed and braced himself. "Please do, sir!"
"Move your ass!"
Richard stepped out of cover and sprinted towards Huxley's ground—effectively the same tactic the Grunts had just attempted. Richard realized, as he ran, that he really couldn't accuse the Grunts of having to be 'forced into action' by superiors; he wasn't entirely different.
He ran, clutching his assault rifle, and muttered a string of curses under his breath. The ground under his feet was uneven; he desperately hoped that he wouldn't step in a rabbit-hole, or something of the like. Just as the Grunts had been exposed to overwhelming fire as they advanced, Richard was now caught in the open; he heard plasma weapons being discharged, and ran all the faster, his heart jumping about in his chest. A large green blob whizzed past him, sinking into the ground near his feet; where it landed, the soil burned and smoldered. Gritting his teeth, he kept running, trying to ignore the explosions and gunfire that formed a chorus on all his sides.
Near the foot of the large rocky incline that Huxley was on, there was smoking, burned wreckage of a vehicle—a Warthog. Richard practically flung himself behind the makeshift cover, stooping down and ducking behind the overturned side of the large jeep. He stopped to catch his breath, taking in large gulps of air, and tried to ignore his surroundings. The Warthog must have been placed at this position so its turret could have good range on the Covenant line, but the aliens had wasted no time in destroying the 'hog; the smell of burning rubber and burning flesh rose from the scorched earth at his feet. Richard felt bad for the gunner; he tried to avoid looking at the man's remains, as he had practically been grafted into the metallic surface of the vehicle when it had exploded. The results were disgusting.
Richard took the practically-empty magazine from his rifle and flung it to the ground, scrambling to reload. As soon as he had, he stuck the barrel of his rifle around the edge of the warthog and blind-fired in the Covenant's direction until the clip ran dry. He reloaded again, and glanced up at the scraggly knoll he'd have to ascend to finally reach Huxley.
Richard once again pushed off from cover and began to run, moving up the incline as fast as his legs would carry him. This time less plasma was flung in his direction, and he was thankful for it; Shaw and the others had presumably helped take the heat off.
Upon getting to the top Richard fell to a knee and ducked his head beneath the top of another pile of sandbags that Huxley's rifle was leaning against. The man was lying down on the ground, breathing heavily—still alive. Richard nearly fell forwards on top of him as a nearby explosion shook the ground.
"Sam, can you hear me?" Huxley didn't make much of a response; his breathing was ragged and ranged from long, gasping gulps to worryingly short sighs. He was probably just over thirty, with a goatee—rapidly evolving into a beard—on his face. He made eye contact with Richard, though, glancing up at the other man (who was more than a decade younger than Huxley). "Hang on, Sam. You'll be…" Richard trailed off as he saw the injury.
The Brutes were well known for their interesting choice of weaponry; unlike most Covenant troops, which used the generalized plasma-based weaponry that seemed to be Covenant standard-issue, Brutes chose to stick to their own tech. With a plasma burn, assuming the wound wasn't lethal, there wasn't too much to be done in the field; a bit of morphine and some stims, as well as maybe an scan for radiation or potential amputation after the battle—if there was no cut or physical wound, and only burnt flesh, there was little that could be done other than isolating the smoldering skin. With the energy shards—the 'needle' weapons—things could get grim, as the little crystalline shards needed to be exhumed from a wound one by one, which could often take hours; suturing or stitching up a wound was unwise unless all the little, pink splinters had been pulled out of it first. But the Brute weapons—the most common of which was the spike rifle, or Spiker—spat out massive spikes (Brutes were not inventive with their military nomenclature): massive, superheated, sharpened hunks of metal as long as a person's hand, from fingertip to wrist. A pair of the large spikes had sunk into Huxley's stomach, just underneath the end of the ribcage; they had clearly pierced the man's external gear (the BDU, or battle dress uniform, worn by all UNSC Army forces) and underarmor and finally his skin, as blood spurted from the wounds every few seconds, sending little fountains up into the air. The excess crimson trickled and dribbled down the marine's side, painting his belly a rose-red color. Richard wasn't sure exactly how deep the superheated spikes had sunk—they could have gone through organs and even bone if they'd gone deep enough—but Huxley smelled of fried skin and burnt hair.
Richard managed to keep a grimace from his face, looking up at Sam again. His training had granted him, if nothing else, a good poker face. "You'll be fine, Sam. Just try to stay calm. I'll get to work."
Richard stooped over Huxley's downed form, swinging the large burden on his back off his shoulders and down onto the floor alongside him. He would have normally abandoned the large backpack so he could run faster—i.e. when he'd had to run to Huxley's position—but its contents were far too valuable to do such a thing. He began rummaging through the various pockets until he found the right materials.
Huxley's eyes never left Richard's face the entire time. He looked panicked and terrified. No doubt that, had he the strength to speak, he would have been screaming. "Relax," Richard said, doing his best to smile down at the sniper. "Relax."
Taking out a large canister of biofoam, Richard pressed the tube projecting from the top of the canister into the wound, wedging the nozzle in between the torn surface of the BDU and the still hot (though thankfully not burning) side of one of the spikes, and pressed down on the canister's release. Whitish fluid, almost the color and texture of shaving cream, poured from the nozzle and into the wound until some of the stuff seeped from the top, mixing in with blood. It was ice-cold to the touch, but would quickly warm up to the temperature of Huxley's skin and exposed wound, in order to stop the blood-flow, and seal over in an attempt to emulate regenerated skin tissue, and—hopefully—alleviate the pain. The foam reacted quickly and Huxley would be better off within seconds, but its effects couldn't be relied on for too long. The man was still in grave danger of losing his life; the biofoam simply bought time.
As soon as the can was empty, Richard flung it over his shoulder, and Huxley's gasps became a bit more balanced. However, he still didn't manage any words, which was worrying; even with the biofoam bolstering his system, he was too weak to manage any words. Richard began looking through his bag for more medical supplies; he was so focused on his work, and attempting to save Huxley's life, that a Brute probably could have clambered up the incline and snuck up behind him without him noticing.
Richard was a medic, and not a surgeon, but this job was going to necessitate a lot of in-depth work. He contemplated trying to pull the spikes out of Huxley's chest, but doing so would require more muscle than he had, and an abrupt removal could actually kill Huxley if he wasn't careful. He would have to try and get them out slowly and gently—though it would probably cause Huxley a lot of pain.
"Okay. Here we go. Sam, this is going to be painful." Richard set a second canister of biofoam out for easy accessibility and cracked his knuckles. "Breath in, Winifred," He whispered underneath his breath.
Wincing from the unpleasant basis of the situation, Richard moved his long, dexterous fingers over the bloodied opening, and sank them into the wound. The injury was wide enough that he was able to do so, wriggling his fingers into the cavity that had been torn open by the spikes. They sunk through the slowly-sealing biofoam and the blood that mixed with it; Richard felt a mixture of the frosty-cold and freshly-hot temperatures against his skin. Sam let out a whimper of pain.
Unable to see, Richard had to use only his sense of touch to guide him as he sunk his hands deeper and deeper into the wound. He wriggled his fingers about, letting them writhe slightly—crowded together by the BDU's layers—and moved them until he could feel the side of one of the spikes. The projectile was superheated once fired and it was still quite warm—as was Huxley's excessive blood—but the metal against his skin was a very noticeable sensation. Richard began to move his hands deeper, tracing the edge of one of the spikes to see how far down it went. Eventually, in moving, he felt the dampened BDU give way to the much softer and much squishier flesh beneath, and then, eventually, to the sickening feel of what was beneath the skin. Richard wasn't sure what organ his fingers (he had no gloves) were touching, but he couldn't see anything of his hands below the wrists because they were thrust so deep into the wound.
Finally he found what seemed to be the tip of the embedded spike. Swallowing down his own nausea, he began pinching at the very tip—which was still quite hot—until he was able to move it free of the skin below. Slowly, and very tenderly, he wrapped one palm around the spike, and began raising it back the way he had come, up and out of the wound. It was slow going as the spike seemed to get stuck several times.
When he finally managed to pull the entire spike out, he tossed it to the ground nearby, and glanced at his hands. There were specks of biofoam here and there, globules of the thick stuff, but they were absolutely drenched in Huxley's blood. It looked like he was wearing red gloves. Richard cursed the officers to had decided upon his issued supplies for not including gloves not only for his own sake, but also for Huxley's; if the man ended up with an infection because he'd been contaminated by germs on Richard's hands, it would be very life-threatening (though at the present time that wasn't the most pressing issue, to say the least).
Richard fumbled for the next canister of biofoam; he knew that, with the pressure of the spike removed, blood flow would probably increase from the injury. He filled the spot with half of the canister, knowing he'd have to save the other half for the second spike. "Okay, halfway there, Sam," Richard said, looking at him. Sam looked pained and still panicked, but he'd calmed down a bit. He managed a single, weak nod at Richard.
Richard took a deep breath and braced himself, moving his bloodied hands over the second wound, when something screeched in his ear. "Heathrow! Heathrow, respond!" Shaw's voice was very distinct.
Richard raised a bloodied hand to his radio-communicator and turned on the transmission. "Here, Sergeant."
"The Covenant is falling back! They're retreating…" Shocked, Richard glanced up. He couldn't see over the barricade but he heard just as much gunfire—maybe a few fewer explosions—but a bit more yelling. Most of the gunfire seemed to be emanating from human firearms now; it surprised Richard both because he'd been very focused and hadn't noticed the changing tides of battle, and also because the Covenant did not 'retreat' very often—especially the Brutes. Richard, realizing his mind had wandered, tuned back into the Sergeant's call.
"…Shot! Do you understand?"
"Sorry, sir, can you repeat that last? I didn't copy—"
"Their commander is retreating right now! It's near the back, the big one. We can't let it get away. You need to get Huxley on his feet and get him to take the shot so that bastard doesn't escape."
Richard frowned. "Can't comply, sir." He looked down at Sam. "Huxley can't stand up, sir, and he's in need of medical attention."
"If he can't do it then YOU have to do it. Is his rifle intact?"
Richard looked around and spotted it again. "Yes, but I can't do it, sir. I need to tend to the Private!"
"He can wait, Heathrow. Get up and take out their leader—that's an order!"
Richard desperately looked from the gasping, pained Huxley to the rifle several feet away. "Sir, Huxley is gravely injured! I can't!"
"Do it! That's an order!"
"Fuck!" Richard roared, but put in an "Understood, sir!" immediately afterwards Turning off his transmission, he looked down at Huxley apologetically. "Sam, Shaw wants me to man your post. I'm sorry; he won't take no for an answer. Just hang tight and stay still—I'll be back in a second." With that, Richard turned towards the sniper rifle and moved over to it. He picked it up and examined the weapon hurriedly, propping the edge of it on the sandbags and hefting it up so he could look down the scope, bringing one knee up to support himself. The spots where he gripped it quickly became slippery, smeared by his bloody grip. Before he peeked into the sights, he glanced over his shoulder at Huxley, who was lying on the ground, breathing weakly. "Fucking…fuck this," He murmured quietly. "Fuck."
"Heathrow!" He winced as he heard the noise in his ear. "None of us have a clear shot—you have to shoot, now!"
Richard cursed, though not in response. He'd barely even trained with sniper rifles. He turned on his transmitter with an index finger, staining his radio, yet again, with a red splotch. "Which on is the commander?"
"The big one. You'll know him when you see him. He's almost across the creek now!"
Richard scanned the distance for the so called 'big one' and certainly did know it on sight. The Brute was enormous, with black fur on its arms and chest. It took up almost the entire scope; the creature must have been at least nine feet tall. It wore more armor than most Brutes (which, truth be told, actually wore little armor to begin with; they had shield generators like the Elites, but theirs were much weaker, meaning that they had to and did compensate for it with their thicker, tougher hides), and the monster's large headdress was riddled with burns and bulletholes. There was a large weapon, a gargantuan hammer-like device, slung over the creature's back; in one hand it held a Spiker, and was firing it at some unseen enemy. It was backing away and was now through the miniscule creek, and it was almost to the edge of woodland, where the trees would obscure it from sight. It stopped for a second, roaring defiantly as it retreated; through the scope, Richard could see large specks of spittle fly from a very toothy mouth.
The medic squinted down the sights and moved his finger up to the sniper rifle's trigger, not knowing what to expect in terms of knockback. He steadied his aim, trying to line up the targeting reticule with the Brute's large head, and held his breath. It turned, assuming it was close enough to the forest to hightail it, and began to lope off towards safety.
"It's getting away!"
Richard tried to ignore Shaw's less-than-helpful analysis as he realigned his sights. A moving target? This would take a miracle.
"Shoot that bastard! Take the shot, Corpsman!"
Richard depressed the trigger and felt a sudden jolt of pain; as he heard the shriek of the gun's discharge, the kickback pressed the sniper rifle against his chest, and the sights he had been looking down flew straight at his eye with the abruptness and strength of a sucker-punch. He hadn't been ready at all and, momentarily blinded, he grunted in pain. The gun clattered to the ground and he moved his hands up toward his right eye, which was badly bruised, forgetting for a second that his arms were dripping with Huxley's blood. Holding his face in pain, the red ooze splashed against his exposed skin.
"You got him. You got him! Heathrow, you got that son of a bitch! Well done!"
Richard looked up with his good eye, glancing into the distance, and saw the large, black-furred form of the titanic Brute stretched out on the earth, deep-red blood pouring from its corpse. Richard groaned at the pain emanating from his new black eye.
Regardless, he quickly sprung back to his duty, and groggily turned towards Huxley. Having dropped the sniper, he stumbled over to Huxley's form; with one eye blackened and with a face painted with blood, he wasn't able to see very much.
"I'm back, Sam. Now let's get you fixed up properly," Richard said, lowering his hands toward the wound. Just before he sunk them in, though, he looked up at Huxley's face, realizing that the sniper hadn't returned eye contact. His eyes were simply staring upwards at the sky. The man's heartbeat had stopped.
Richard stayed there, staring at Huxley's dead body for a second, before screaming. "Damnit!" He roared, pulling off his helmet and flinging it to the ground. He punched at his radio. "God fucking damnit! Fuck!" He tossed the half filled biofoam canister over towards the sniper rifle, and collapsed backward onto his rear end alongside Sam's prone form. His screams slowly transformed into sobs.
Alright, that's the end of the story. I hope you liked it. It is, for the time being, a oneshot, though this STORY (as in the fan-fiction-dot-net 'story') is a work of progress. As I think I mentioned in the summary, this story will be a string of oneshots (or at least relatively short-stories) that all connect to characters in the Halo universe. I have several other chapters lying in wait already, but I'm still pondering subject matter; I think I will do some stories from non-human perspectives fairly soon and potentially from the perspectives of canon characters (the Arbiter, Keyes, and Parisa being examples; tou knohe 'canonity' being considered is anything canon, so any character from the novels, graphic novels, short stories, or games is applicable here). I'll probably post each with little more than a date in the canon plotline (this story's date being an example) and try to explain anything else in the narrative itself. For that reason, any time period, character, or subject matter is up for consideration. If you, as the reader, have any suggestions, feel free to give them to me in a PM or review. I'd be very appreciative. If you want me to write a story about Tartarus, tell me. If you want me to write another story about one of the characters in this story, tell me. If you think I'm a horrible writer, tell me (although knowing why would be nice; you know, constructive criticism and all that). Anyway, I've rambled enough; thanks very much for reading; as always reviews are much appreciated. Take care, and again, thanks.