Friend and Foe
The shaking of the SOEIV brings it's stunned occupant back to full awareness with a jerk. Blinking away the blurriness in his vision the soldier takes in the brief flash of the planet that he was supposed to the dropped into. Instead of the towering mountains and silver cities of New Syracuse his eyes are greeted with jagged towers, their black flanks blistering with weapons emplacements. Confusion only has a moment to set in before the retro thrusters fire and the pod gets a royal kick from below. The rockets bleed momentum allowing for a "gentler" landing than could be expected.
His teeth clack together painfully as the pod slams into the pavement but he shakes it off without much difficulty. Too much rage, too much discipline, too much experience is instilled in him to allow for drop-brain to take hold. Punching the door release and ripping his cut-down BR55 from the rack beside his seat he explodes from the pod. Superhuman muscles propel him through the open space towards a cluster of battered buildings. The closed door doesn't give him any pause as he simply lowers his shoulder and slams into it with all the force of a freight train.
Expertly rolling with the momentum of his dynamic entry he pops up on his knee scanning the room. His visor automatically activates the low-light setting bathing everything in a yellow outline. The bodies thrown throughout the room don't give him pause after seeing the wholesale slaughter of humans on a half dozen other worlds in operations just like this one. Slowly, with the poise of a hunting cat, he advances deeper into the dwelling. His form shimmers and seems to disappear with the blink of an eye controlled icon. Soft footsteps and a blip on his motion tracker bring him to a sudden halt.
Wraith-like he moves to the side of the hallway, tracking the faint movement on his HUD and with his own eyes. Dropping to a knee he considers his options for a moment before silently placing his rifle on his back, relying on the magnetic strip to keep it pinned there. Six inches of semi-serrated steel slides free of its scabbard sitting comfortably in his palm. The high-carbon steel blade is coated black to dull the shine making it perfect for night operations. Memories of wielding the blade to silently eliminate sentries and open holes in the enemy's lines flood his mind for a half second before his ruthless conditioning crashes back into place.
The shuffling steps of the contact reach his ears clearly as he creeps a little farther forward letting the shadows wrap around him like a shroud. In his wildest dreams, his worst nightmares too for that matter, he'd have never anticipated what comes around the corner. The most obvious thing is the face: what once could have passed for a human face is now running like melted wax, and green. Not tinted, but flat green. Flabby masses of flesh give the face a stretched appearance, beady black eyes glint with a feral hunger even as rotting teeth munch on a hunk of what appears to be flesh. The ring and pinky finger of both hands are fused together on the stock of a beaten and scorched rifle, every appendage ending in a black talon. Blood and spittle mixes and dribbles down the creature's chin as it gazes around the corridor searching for its next meal before it finishes the last.
The last thing the being hears is the whoosh of displaced air before a white hot flash of pain spearing its brain from below. The corpse is lowered to the floor, the knife reverently wiped clean on the being's filthy shirt. The man regards the corpse with a certain morbid interest. But not fear. Fear was beaten from him long ago. He takes in everything: the mutation, the filthy clothes, the beaten weapon, and the strange symbols carved into its skin that make his eyes ach to simply look at. Shrugging to himself and sheathing the knife he continues on.
He keeps a closer eye on the bodies he finds as he clears the building room by room, eliminating another half dozen of the mutated things in a similar fashion to the first. Each one has different mutations: from insect proboscis mouths to scales growing in place of skin. The latter had increased reaction time and muscle mass, but nothing the man couldn't handle. Eventually satisfied that the building is cleared but for the corpses he decides to activate his suit's internal radio. His lips tighten into a straight frustrated line at the lack of signals the HUD displays before him. None of the available channels have UNSC designations making him slightly confused before he shakes it off.
'Equipment malfunction,' he thinks to himself. There's no possible way that there are no UNSC signals on the whole planet, after all the Covenant had just arrived over head.
"Wait," he mutters to himself and peers at the sky from a nearby window. Only now looking at the sky does he find what has been missing since he arrived: there is no cruiser hanging over the city. No Banshees scream through the skies in a hairball of a dogfight against Hornets and Longswords, no Spirits and Phantoms rumble over the streets dropping their hordes of zealous aliens. Instead all there is are dark grey clouds and the towering...buildings that dominate the skyline.
As far as he knew, and the briefing was pretty damn clear, New Syracuse was supposed to a smaller city with only a small cluster of skyscrapers in the center around the orbital tether. Instead there are insanely huge buildings stretching as far as the eye can see, their vague shapes standing sentinel in the far distance and the untold number of smaller buildings between them. A small spike of something that could be considered fear grips his heart as he withdraws from the window and accesses one of the channels available to him.
"This is Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6 to any and all UNSC forces please respond, I repeat. Any UNSC forces respond!" He repeats the call twice more hoping against hope that someone responds. The hissing of static sets his heart plummeting towards his boots. Sighing heavily he grips his rifle and heads into the hallway. A voice in his ear stops him.
"Inquisi– Reymose to Sierra–we–ou," an intermittent voice replies in a heavily accented english. Relief surges through the young man at the sound of something at least human.
"Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6 I read you but you are coming in weak. Repeat your last."
"Dammit opera–clean up–e signal! There that's better. As I was saying, this is Inquisitor Reymose of His Holy Inquisition responding to your distress call. Just what do you think you are doing trooper? What is your location?" The voice carries the weight of authority and the young man responds immediately.
"Sir I was cut off during insertion and... missed my drop zone."
'Not a lie, but definitely not the truth,' he thinks to himself.
"I have made contact with numerous mutated creatures, requesting rendezvous point." There's a moment on the other end of the line as the "Inquisitor" argues with whoever is with him leaving the young man to scan the street beyond with his rifle. A light drizzle begins to fall restricting his range of sight through the small scope, but it's still enough to pick up the sight of the deformed shapes moving through the street. Suppressing the urge to open fire with great difficulty he withdraws once more into the shadow wreathed room.
"What is your current position?"
"Sir I'm in some sort of the habitation, numerous hostile contacts are closing on my location."
"Hmm, our set is picking up your signal from less than a kilometer away. That's ahead of our advanced units. Stay in contact and we'll scramble a squad your way." The Inquisitor's words relieve the young man for but a moment before a deep voice bellows something in a twisted language in the room below.
"Affirmative. Spartan Hunter, out."
The light drizzle had escalated into a full on downpour as the Inquisitor and his retinue swarmed down the streets. The carapace armored Stormtroopers in their scarlet and black uniforms clear the houses with the speed and precision that only lifetime soldiers can display. The shriek of hellguns echoes through the dead streets, flamers belching flames and turning the rain to steam. Chimeras painted void black with the Inquisitorial rosette picked out in crimson along their flanks add their weight behind the assault.
Trailing behind the column the Inquisitor himself observes every facet of the operation through the screens mounted within his command Chimera. Pale blue eyes take in every report, every single detail of the flowing battlefield. A hawkish nose is centered on his weathered face and his narrow chin is hidden behind a well kept goatee. Ornate armor is concealed beneath a black and red coat, the hilt of power sword peeking from beneath the heavy folds. A frown mars his face as he takes in the battle reports from the outlying squads.
There is surprisingly light resistance for being so close to the center of the uprising that claimed fifteen square kilometers of the city. The mutant hordes swarmed from everywhere and nowhere at once killing and eating the populace with equal fervor in their frenzy to take over the surface world. At first, the Imperial Reclamation forces met heavy resistance; the regiment of Cadian Shock Troops and the 3rd, 4th, and 7th Hydran Storm regiments that were deployed here were stalled for a day and a half before his troops arrived to break the stalemate. Even then the last two days have been filled with feverish firefights and bloody brawls in the dark.
Yet now…
"Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6 ETA of convoy eight minutes," the Inquisitor broadcasts calmly. This warrior on the other end of the line is the cause of the drop in enemy contact. Every bone in his body screams that this is an auspicious day. A day that can decide the fate of an entire planet in some cases. As an Inquisitor he has stood vigil over a hundred trials, put thousands of heretics and mutants to the sword. He's re-deployed whole army groups to suite his mission without a second thought, but the sudden spike of Warp magic in the air set him on edge. Coupled with this feeling he's getting now...one doesn't last as long as he has in his profession without learning to trust your instincts.
Something his headstrong Acolyte has yet to learn the limits of. Her hooded gaze sweeps over the same screens with a scowl, one hand latched onto an overhead bar and the other gripping her chainsword just a little too tight. Brown eyes catch the light beneath the hood but leave everything but the full lips of her mouth hidden in shadow. Battle plate, once pristine with the Imperial Aquila shining in gold in the center, is stained with the ichor and filth of battle.
"Affirmative. Be advised, increased enemy presence on my position." The utter lack of any emotion in the man's voice doesn't give the Inquisitor any cause for concern, after all many warriors choose to cut off all emotional attachment when in battle to spare themselves any lasting harm. But the casual nature that he refers to being outnumbered does seem to be a little...callouse for one man against an army.
"Copy that, just hold on a little longer."
"Acknowledged."
Hunter ducks under a ill-aimed stream of laser fire and pops back up. The BR55 spits a single 9.5mm round at supersonic speeds through another of the mutant soldiers' brain cavities. The creature collapses back into the arms of another creature that receives the same treatment. They join the two dozen bodies laying in the street in pools of their own fresh blood while another hundred waits in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. Briefly the Spartan wonders why they haven't rushed the building's flanks but he shoves that thought aside. Best not to tempt fate any further.
His aim jerks to the side as a squad sized group breaks from cover and sprints for the front door, clogged as it is with dead bodies. He glances once at his digital ammunition counter before taking aim. Eight shots are fired. Eight bodies drop. With expertise and speed far beyond his years his hands swap the spent magazine with a fresh one. A flick of his thumb releases the bolt chambering the next round and updating the ammo counter: thirty six more rounds and thirty six more lives ready to be taken. The cut down, specially issued rifle, scans for more targets. It's wielder's adaptive-plating aids in his effectiveness at dealing with the amateurish efforts of his enemy.
A timer in the corner of his HUD displays the estimated time until his reinforcements, as dubious as those were, arrive. He hasn't had time to think on his circumstances since the assault on his one-man position began. The only thing that has mattered is the enemy before him and the bullets in his magazine, or the blade in his hand. The inhuman level of marksmanship he has displayed has served to stretch his six magazines beyond what a normal human could have expected when faced with such odds. But then again he isn't a normal human: he's a Spartan. The sword, shield, and dagger in the dark of humanity itself.
With his second-to last full magazine seated he waits calmly for the next wave. Every sense is strained to the max to pick up the tell-tale signs of an approaching enemy. So it comes as no surprise to him when a blip on his motion tracker translates to the sound of the back door finally buckling inward. A wry smile splits his face as he leaves his perch by the window and places his rifle on his armor's back magnetic holster.
'Took them long enough,' he remarks mentally and draws his M6/SOCOM and knife into either hand. In training he was rated as the top pistol and knife combat specialist in Bravo company, pick up by ONI only for his skill at hunting down targets like his name indicates. Slipping into the hall he waits by the staircase leading from the ground floor. The pounding of feet announces his enemy's presence before they emerge from the staircase. Hunter waits for them to emerge, letting three gain the landing before exploding into motion.
To the bug-eyed mutant who is on point it seems as if the shadows themselves turn against him for the briefest moment before a razor sharp knife opens his throat. The Spartan spins with the momentum of his strike aiming his pistol in the same motion. The second mutant takes a 12.7mm slug to the face, the exit wound forming a crimson leaf on the wall behind him. A fist drives the beaten shotgun in the third mutant's hands to the floor and plants the knife clutched in a reverse grip into her brain on the return stroke.
The suppressed pistol coughs three more times tossing a pair of corpses back into the faces of their comrades. With a diabolical grin the Spartan sheaths his knife and pulls a grenade from his pouch. A flick of the thumb primes the charge and an effortless toss sends it bouncing into the pack of mutants below. A startled screech precedes the thunderous boom of the detonation. Blood and smoke flies through the air blinding the survivors.
The Spartan leaps into action firing single shots into each mutant with his trademark accuracy. His heart hardly increases its beating as he lays into his enemy with a cold detachment. Not an action is wasted, not a round ill-spent. Everything in him is a part of the most perfect killing machine ever created by man. Searing laser blasts streak across his vision making his visor polarize automatically for a brief moment. With lightning speed the M6 snaps up and fires the last rounds in the magazine in quick succession.
Holstering the spent weapon the Spartan kicks up one of the boxy rifles the mutants brought with them. Filth is smeared across the housing but the Spartan pays it no mind as he snatches it from midair and takes aim. The precise crack is a change from the booming report of his usual weapons and the lack of recoil throws his second shot off for a split second. Hunter immediately corrects hammering a flurry of incandescent lasers into the stunned mutants clogging the doorway. Their screams and the hiss of escaping steam fill the air until the laser rifle sputters and dies in his hands.
Without a second thought he drops the boxy rifle and retrieves his own from his back. The battle rifle booms twice punching through a thin chestplate buckled over a twisted torso. And then the wall explodes.