Type-74 GIAG's, or "Gravity Gauntlets", to bring a slightly simpler term to mind, are essentially smaller versions of the covenant gravity hammer, but are far more powerful and destructive than their heavier counterparts. The GIAG's work in unison as a closed circuit, which means that if one gauntlet is not present, then the other gauntlet is reduced to nothing more than a very heavy brass knuckle. It is still able to break bones, however.
When the user strikes an object, whether living or otherwise, an immense gravitational field is produced. This field, when used correctly, can bring down entire scores of covenant troops with one blow. Multiple blows can have a dramatic impact on the ground, and can generate small earthquakes that can forge seams in the earth or even metal, swallowing small infantry units (grunts for example) and hindering larger infantry units (such as hunters).
But alas, the gauntlets have been shown to be impractical for human use. Only something or someone as strong as a SPARTAN have been shown to possess the ability to withstand the tremendous aftershock that comes from each blow, as a SPARTAN's bone structure is far superior to that of a conventional human being.
But there are no more SPARTANS, and the Master Chief has vanished with In Amber Clad on a mission to pursue Truth's carrier. Their location is unknown.
Tests involving PED's (or Rumbledrugs) have also failed with high mortality rates. The drugs ability to bolster the user's strength and endurance is what's needed, but the remedy's downfall comes with its horrible aftereffects, which include a destructive breakdown of the subject's mind. This renders them insane, and soon after, dead.
For now, the gauntlets remain within my office locked away inside a secure lockbox. I will be taking them to a far more secure location. Hopefully, this location will prevent the covenant from acquiring the gauntlets. God knows that we don't need any more weapons being used against our troops that are fighting to keep Earth in human hands.
Sincerely,
Doctor Jackson
Firebase Zulu Armory
0500 Hours
"Sir, I don't know about this," muttered a marine who held a clipboard in his right hand. "Command's asking us to send in two entire tank sections with no air support whatsoever, and no infantry support either. What if they get jumped by Banshees or Seraphs?"
"Private Millers, infantry couldn't do shit against seraphs anyhow, and what have we talked about in the past involving orders sent directly from the brass?" questioned a brawny colonel to the young private, clutching a shotgun under his armpit while trying to light what appeared to be a cigar.
"…To not question them, sir."
"And what have you just done, Millers?"
"Questioned them, sir."
"Nice. Don't do it again. There's really no point if you really think about it. Those assholes don't listen to anyone's bitching nowadays, and they sure as hell won't listen to me despite the fact that I've gotten assignments done that no other colonel would even dream of gettin' done."
"But shouldn't we at least ask for a small escort force of Hornets?" the private inquired.
"Those tanks'll be fine. Banshees don't stand an ounce of a chance against'em, and the Seraphs are busy getting their assess kicked in space, courtesy of our flyboys."
The private shrugged lazily then walked off to question another superior officer about a shipment of rifles that were reported to be running late. Several battalions stationed in the city were complaining of weapon failure, and demanded replacements to compensate for their lost arms.
Task Force 135
Torris Highway, New Mombasa
0600 hours
"Big Daddy and Zeus, you're with me! Form up on the rear of Jackson's APC! Iron Coffin, Hear Me Roar and Son of Sunder concentrate fire on those wraiths! Watch the skies for enemy birds! If you see any, squawk and hit the gas!"
"Yes sir!" answered five individuals over the tactical radio of a commander's Scorpion.
A group of six M808B's exchanged blows with a duo of wraith tanks and a lance of grunts armed with heavy weaponry. An elite minor was in command of the lance, with said elite physically displaying its inexperience with UNSC tank crews by roaring ignorantly at the aggressive metal hulks that advanced slowly but surely up a large mound of metal that lay atop a section of Torris Highway.
The grunts, which seemed to be more focused on the attacking human vehicles, paid no heed to their supposed "leader" who was barking irregular orders at them.
A plasma round whirred over Iron Coffin, who quickly caught notice of what was going on and promptly opened fire. The round made contact with the mound to Iron Coffin's driver's disgust. The Wraiths were in an excellent position. While the mound provided defensive support, their mortars could pick at and eventually destroy the human tanks that were so keen on destroying them.
Hear Me Roar attempted to maneuver around the mound, but was forced to retreat when a volley of anti-armor green plasma screamed forwards towards the tank's hull. It rejoined its comrades, who were laying down an impressive display of firepower upon the entrenched covenant forces.
"Shit! We can't advance up this pile of crap anymore! We're sittin' ducks! What do we do sir!" yelled the driver of Hear Me Roar.
"Cool your jets and keep yer head in the game Shirley!" screamed the commander as he fired another round at the mound in a futile attempt in killing the obnoxious elite. Seconds later, the elite emerged again, throwing taunts and curses at the attacking humans.
"We ain't out of chips yet! Hit those grunts when they peek their snivelin' heads out again! Ease up the pressure on Jackson's APC! It's taking one hell of a beatin' over here!"
The three attacking tanks obeyed, and unleashed a salvo of 90mm shells when the grunts poked their heads out to bring doom and destruction with their handheld weaponry. Body parts flew in every direction when the tank's shells made contact. The human tank crews racted in kind.
"Hell yea!" yelled the driver of Iron Coffin.
"Boo ya! No one messes with the 67th!" shouted another.
The shouts of joy soon morphed into muffled groans of annoyance when the blue elite minor emerged once again in its obnoxious fashion. It yelled and roared and pointed at the group of tanks like a hyperactive human child, its eyes bulging abnormally. It was completely oblivious to the fact that its once seemingly invincible mound of cover was nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubbish that even a lowly magnum mound could past through with disturbing ease.
The Wraiths had ceased fire; their plasma reserves had all but vanished, but they still presented an obstacle when it came to shoving the larger APC through the debris.
"What the shit is it doing?" asked Big Daddy's driver when the video feed from his tank's periscope reached his small compartment.
"Hell if I know, but it's pissin' me off something fierce. Someone clock his ass for me," responded Zeus.
Son of Sunder granted Zeus' wish and fired its main gun at the ridiculous alien. The creature tried to dive away, but was too late, and perished in a grand display of purple gore and bloody appendages. One of its mouthparts landed on the frontal armor of Zeus.
"Son of a bitch, I just got this thing cleaned."
Zeus' fellow tankers laughed. Zeus was not amused and broadcasted it loudly without haste.
New Mombasa, Covenant Scarab
Unknown Time
A grunt carrying a platter that supported some form of chalice scurried through the narrow walk space of the Scarab Undeniable Justice. This particular Scarab was a tank hunter—a human tank hunter to be precise—and had been ordered to intercept a human convoy that was supposedly carrying reversed engineered covenant technology.
An extremely religious Sangheili General (who went by the name of Orm) commanded this Scarab. His unusual name further enhanced his ability to strike fear and terror into those who served under him. His personality was simple: show no mercy for the weak, whether they be friend or foe.
Day in and day out this General stood behind this particular moral. In many instances, the General was jailed for abusing his troops due to them failing him and groveling in his presence. This General was even personally flogged with a plasma whip by one of the two Field Marshalls who guided the attack on New Mombasa. He bore his seemingly shameful scars with absolute pride despite how loud he screamed.
The General was regarded as a hypocrite because of the loud sounds of pain he emitted as he was whipped upon the back. Surely the strong would not submit to pain so easily?
The Unggoy who carried the platter shook nervously as he stood by Orm's side. Orm looked away from the viewing screen that stood before him and redirected his attention to the pathetic scrap that dared desecrate his magnificent image. The prideful alien snatched the chalice from its platform without a pause, took a sip and viscously spat the black liquid onto the Unggoy's face—but not before the flinging the chalice at an unsuspecting Kig-Yar. The avian alien fell limp to the floor unconscious.
Chalices were indeed deadly weapons.
"What nonsense have you fed me whelp? Have you know idea who you are serving?" Orm boomed, bending over to stare down the Unggoy without remorse.
"I-I am s-s-sorry y-your G-Generalness! I was-was only trying to c-come to your side with p-proper haste!" stammered the tiny alien.
The General displayed the Sangheili equivalent of a smile, which horrified the frightened grunt even more.
The General then mused for a moment. He then lightly grasped the small alien by its masked-covered chin. Orm bent his broad head low so that it levitated at the side of the grunt's own head, and spoke softly.
"I understand," the General said." It was an honest mistake; a mishap, an error of judgment that all creatures experience from time to time. It was not your fault, oh no, it was—"
The General slowly raised his arm and scanned the interior of the Scarab's control room. With one outstretched finger, he sunk his gaze on a Sangheili minor who was watching the entire ordeal unfold. The victim's eyes grew wide and it backed into a small corner. The others backed away from the General's newfound target as if he were some sort of creature from the lands of the damned.
"—His fault!" the General squealed delightfully.
In an animalistic-like leap, Orm had the minor by the neck and had hefted him into the air. The new recruit flailed his arms, trying to loosen the General's godlike grip to allow air to freely fill his lungs. With his free hand, the General ignited his energy sword and held it to the minor's stomach area.
The servant tried to protest, but could not force the words from his mouth.
"Say something! Stop him!" the minor croaked barely.
"…Would you like to take his place?" the General asked the grunt in a playful and rather childish manner.
The grunt shook its head and exited the Scarab's interior to join the others on the deck. He knew what was to come.
The minor's facial expression grew sour and frightened. The General only smiled and thrust his sword into the minor's stomach. The soldier's armor did nothing to stop the blade's deadly onslaught. The minor merely chocked and gagged as the hot plasma scorched his insides, reducing them to cinders. Without warning, the General ripped the sword upward. The gruesome feat produced a pile of entrails. With a wet plop and distinct smack, they fell to the floor. The minor tried to utter his final word, but death prevented him from doing so.
The General let the minor fall. Stepping over the body, Orm resumed his station at the Scarab's view screen.
It was officially clear now: Orm may have been an excellent General, but he was far from sane.