HAYLO: LIFE'S A REACH

by Ridley the Violator

Reach. The most vital planet in the UNSC. Reach. The location of all the Spartan projects, even the ones on other planets. Reach. Where everything is balanced competitively. Reach. The birthplace of the human race. Reach. Primary source of dramatically punctuated sentences. Reach. From the beginning, you know the end. And from the end, you know the beginning. And from the beginning

Spartan B312 sat in the bay of the Pelican and contemplated the mountains and valleys of Reach. Every so often a blocky or two dimensional civilian structure would appear below in the misty morning fog, soon retreating into an even more vague, unresolvable shape. Although she had 20/20 eyesight (all Spartans were modified to achieve such), Six had had difficulty seeing clearly ever since coming to reach; while things around looked very bumpy and three dimensional, it was still difficult to look at object's edges, and to see things more than a hundred feet away. Everything just dissolved into a pixilated haze, as if seen through a very small window up-scaled to fit over her eyes without any simultaneous increase in detail.

The doctors had warned her this would happen when she got to Reach; they attributed it to old technology pushed to try to live up to the current generation's design standards, also low disk space. She assumed they meant something to do with Spartan technology.

But enough dwelling on her problems. It was time to dwell, on problems. B312 kicked back in the seat, propping armored legs up on the opposite seat and hooking her thumbs through the safety harness. She wasn't on the most pleasant ride, what with the wind screaming at the open bay door, but at least her helmet stopped her eardrums from exploding. She wondered why these Pelican pilots always left their bay doors open when they were transporting Spartans. Did they do this for normal people too? Of course not. It seemed nowadays nobody appreciated Spartans—maybe because there were so many. It hurt the image of your indestructible super soldiers when they came straight out of pre-school. She wasn't bitter—she was one of those babies, or had been, and one of if not the only Spartan from Beta Company to survive the battle of Pegasi—mostly because she'd been assigned to ONI before the battle even happened. B312 felt a shiver run down her spine as she thought of all the men and women, or rather infants, she had abandoned to their deaths. If she'd had a choice, she would have stayed behind. Then she would be dead too. On the other hand, maybe she wouldn't have stayed behind. The question was: what did that make her? A soldier could suffer worse things than death. What would those things be, though—maybe getting shot in the pussy with a needler. Yeah, that would hurt a lot.

The Pelican began to circle in preparation to land over what looked like an outpost—it was just so blocky and blurry. This must be where Noble Team camped out. B312 drummed impatient fingers on the safety harness—it had been a while since she'd worked with other Spartans. She'd worked with a few ONI operatives occasionally, but being her ONI boss's personal grim reaper, most of her wet work was solo—"Lone Wolf" as they called it, although the name didn't fit because real lone wolves were losers doomed to starvation. She hadn't died or lost a fight in her entire life, so she didn't fit those criteria. And about twenty five percent of these 'Lone Wolf' operations consisted of her boss begging for hand jobs. The hand jobs themselves weren't the disturbing part because Spartans had their sex drives neutralized, a fact she could attest to. The disturbing part was the names he wanted her to calm him during. B312 didn't know what a "Sissy Faggot Momma's Boy" was, but she disliked it as much as "Lone Wolf."

Hopefully, Noble Team would come up with a much better nick name. Or they could just use her actual name, Mary. That would be nice, to hear someone say her actual name again. She smiled as the Pelican set down on blood-red dirt. The wheels hissed as the landing-legs pressurized for a smooth touch down, the bay door sliding out like a playful tongue. The pilot flashed a green light on the bulkhead. Mary disengaged the harness, stood up, and popped the helmet off to hold under one arm as she walked down the ramp. Once a safe distance into the camp, she felt the air brush her regulation length buzz as the Pelican lifted off. The sun shone down hard as she walked on, so hot that phantom shimmers seemed to rise off every surface, every piece of ground.

Some gear waited under a tarp nearby, and a motor bike under obvious repairs lay on its side forlornly at a safe distance. Beyond that, a Pelican sat ticking in the heat, its own open doors pointed towards the large, cabin-sized box tent half a hundred meters away. There was somebody sat inside the flyer. Mary peered in their direction, trying to make them out through the dust kicked up by her arrival. Through the haze and the blur of inferior technology she could make out a cool and badass silver Spartan with awesome shoulder pads with a big-ass knife on them and a sweet skull painted on his helmet. He was sharpening a giant ass knife on a totally gnarly whetstone as he sat there, and while she looked he just sort of looked up all casual and saw her and then like just dismissed her and looked back down at the fat jacked up knife, called a kukri in Australia, and just kept sharpening like a hella fucking bad ass.

Mary waved. "Hi! Are you from Noble Team?"

Whether or not the cool Spartan heard, she couldn't tell. She might as well not have existed to him.

"Okay, bye!" Mary walked away. She could feel the mysterious bad ass's eyes on her back as she went, so she stopped and turned around to see the skull-painted helmet go back to the knife. Mary shrugged, then headed on into the tent.

She got intercepted by a strong female character: a tanned woman with a square face and not-too-ugly scars across it, she looked rugged but healthy and had piercing blue eyes. Her armor was also blue. But most interesting was the slim robotic arm she wore in place of her right arm, suggesting traumatic violence and character. She also had short black hair.

"Stop right there, Spartan," barked the newcomer, pointing a pistol directly into Mary's face. Mary did stop. She also put both hands up to indicate she had stopped.

"Whoa. Am I interrupting?" She peered over the woman's shoulder. "Got something top secret and super important back there, I bet." She laughed nervously.

The blue Spartan frowned. "If it was top secret I wouldn't let you see or hold it in your hands. I'm Noble Team's tech specialist, Kat."

"Kat," said Mary, still staring down the gun's barrel. "That's a pretty name. I'm M—

"You must be Six." It was a dark blue armored Spartan with short black hair and brown eyes and rugged stubble and a tan and small not-unattractive scars as he walked past Kat, resting a hand on her robotic arm. Kat only then lowered the pistol. "Don't worry: Kat means well, she's just protective of her work." He gestured to the maps and plans strewn all over a coffee table, along with an action figure. "Understand?"

"Not really," said Six.

"Don't take it personally, then. By the way, I'm Carter." He nodded to a bald green armored Spartan in the corner polishing a sniper rifle with a conspicuous silencer attached to it. "That's Jun. The freak you saw outside is Emile." He turned gestured towards a giant orange outhouse. "And this is Jorge." The outhouse was an eight foot tall Spartan in orange armor with tan skin, rugged scars, brown eyes, and short brown hair, and he also had a beard even thought it isn't allowed in the army. After all that, the dark blue Spartan pointed to himself. "And I'm Carter, again. Welcome to Noble Team. I won't lie, Six: you're stepped into some shoes many here would rather stay empty. Understand?"

"No. I don't."

"Hey, I said don't take it personally." Carter crossed his arms. "Look, you're replacing a friend, a valued member of the team, a team that's been working together for a long time. He was a good man, and a flawless soldier."

"Until he died," clarified Six. Kat glared at her.

"Now you understand," said Carter, nodding. "But, Six—drop the attitude. We already have one social retard on this team, we don't need another."

Six covered her mouth. "Is Kat actually retarded? Is that why she points guns at other Spartans when they arrive for a scheduled rendezvous?"

Jorge rumbled out a laugh as Kat and Carter glared even more harshly at her. "He's talking about Emile, Six. Try not to get us confused already."

She turned to the giant. "You seem awfully mature to be a Spartan."

"I'm a Spartan II," said Jorge mildly. "An original, you might say."

Jun looked up from the silenced sniper rifle. "Funnily enough, you might say Jorge is the soul of our little team. Kat is more the iceberg."

"I heard that," said Kat.

"Maybe you should point your gun at him, too," Six suggested.

Carter held up his hands. "Enough. You're teammates, so start acting like it. Understand?"

Six nodded. "Yes, sir. Let me just say this is a step up from ONI—nobody there would give me the time of day, much less point their guns in my face and tell me I'm not welcome."

Carter's eyes flashed. "I said enough. Six, come over here." He motioned her to a dark alcove at the edge of the tent. The rest of the team gave each other knowing looks and then returned to their original tasks: Jun to rubbing his rifle, Jorge to practicing mindfulness, and Kat to very competent tech-work. Presumably Emile was still outside with his knife, being a faggot.

Carter leaned over the map-table. Six followed suit.

"I'm sorry, sir," she began. "I just—"

"It's not that," said Carter. "Just shut up and listen. I read your file. Even the parts ONI didn't want me to know. I know what you've done, and what you're capable of."

Six groaned. "You too? But I never even gave him the—"

Carter talked over her. "I know you call yourself a Lone Wolf, but that's not going to cut it here. We're a team. We work together, as one, as a unit. I expect you to lay down your life for every one of these people. Even Emile. Understand?"

"Sir," began Six in a tired voice, "this would be a lot easier if your people acted like professional soldiers instead school children playing Shout of Valor. Excuse my language."

Carter shook his head. "You don't get it, do you? These guys are the best of the best. They're not my people, they're my family. And you're the step-sister nobody's met before. So stow the back chat—"

"I'll stop when they stop."

Carter pushed one finger into her face. "Stow. It. And get with the program. To them, you're just a rookie. Prove you've got what it takes in the days to come and they'll learn to accept it. For now, shape up and take it. Understand?""

This did not mollify Six. In fact, she was even more angry. Carter claimed to have read her record, but apparently he'd missed 'hyper-lethal' and 'kill-vector' and 'makes entire militias disappear.' But he hadn't missed "Lone Wolf." Fuming, she threw the best salute she could and stood back up at attention.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Affirmative," said Carter coolly. "I'm scripting a briefing now. We'll be heading out in ten—take the time to make a better impression on the team, understood?"

"Crystal clear, sir," said Six. She stepped back from the table, fists balled. She turned to see the awesome silver Spartan from before leaning against the doorway to the tent. Or rather pretending to lean because no tent flap could possibly support the weight of such an absolute total bad ass. The entire room went silent as his skull-painted helmet coldly scanned across them all one at a time, as if searching for weaknesses. The large kukri knife twirled in one quick hand.

Six braced herself: this was her chance to follow Carter's orders. She extended her hand and strode towards the door.

"Hi. We met earlier—you must be Emile. I'm Ma—"

"Whatever." Emile kept spinning his knife. Six's hand bumped into his arm. Suddenly he froze. A collective hiss came from around the tent. Even Carter looked up from the table.

Emile caught the kukri lightning quick and held it up to Six's face, only an inch away from her eyes. "Listen up, new meat: never. Ever. Touch me. Again. Do you copy?"

Six leaned away. "Uh—um—":

Emile twirled his knife dangerously. "'Uh.' 'Um.' Doesn't sound like a yes. Does it sound like a yes to you, Kat?"

Kat rubbed her face with a robotic hand. "…I guess not, Emile. Please don't talk to me."

"Listen," began Six. "Emile. You're really cool, but you might want to know—"

Emile interrupted, steely fingers tightening on the knife. "I don't care about your record, new meat. I don't care about your name. All I care about is that you stay the hell away from me. Now let's hear it: do you copy?"

"I copy," said Six. "But you might want to know you've got that knife the wrong way around."

"Bullshit: I just finished sharpening it broodingly."

"You're supposed to hold it with the sharp side towards the opponent," Six pointed out. "The other end is blunt."

Jorge spoke up from a meditative pose on the ground. "He never uses it."

Emile rounded on him. "Shut up you loser virgin! I'll use it to slice off your dick."

"You'll need a bigger knife than that, kid," said Jorge. Jun laughed. Carter and Kat just looked at each other.

"Whatever. Fuck you guys." Emile holstered the blade surreptitiously and went to stand in the corner with his arms crossed. As he passed Six he leaned in close, so close the skull-face helmet almost bumped her nose. Hey stayed for one intimidating moment before moving on.

Six turned to Carter. "How'd I do?"

This time he gave a dry smile. "Six out of ten."

"Funny: that's how I was going to rate Reach."

Jorge rumbled. "Come on, now. Reach ain't bad. It's got some good people on it: strong minds, stronger soldiers. It's where the Spartan project started. In a way, we were all born here."

Six looked at him. "Is everything you say wise?"

Jun called out from his chair. "It's why he's so quiet all the time, he's coming up with wise things to say."

As if on queue, Jorge fell quiet. The gentle giant's face indicated he was concocting an empathetic one liner.

"We should hang out more," said Six to Jun.

The green Spartan smirked. "I agree. But I'm on the other side of Carter's planning table right now."

At that moment, Carter straightened up from said table and snapped his fingers. "All right, people. Now that we're all here—" he shot a look at Emile, who shrugged "—let's get down to business." The Spartans all abandoned their projects to assemble around the table: Jorge unfolded from his mindfulness projection posture, Jun switched from rubbing the barrel of his sniper rifle to cleaning the trigger guard, Emile stopped sulking like a bitch, and Kat was a very valuable and competent member of the team.

Carter tapped a spot on his map, a red triangle. "This is a small research outpost in the Ominoos mountain range, just a few clicks south. We'll take the flier over."

"What's the mission?" asked Emile, the bloodlust audible.

"Simple recon," Carter cautioned. "The outpost went dead a few hours ago. No contact. Nothing. Nada. No contact."

"Any contacts?" asked Kat.

Six gaped at her.

Carter shook his head. "No."

"Like the grave," commented Jorge, voice resonant with trepidation and relatability.

Emile sniffed. "No targets? No fun."

"There are humans at the outpost, Emile," said Jorge coldly. "In case you've forgotten what side you're on."

"I'm not the one who's forgotten what side he's on," retorted the silver Spartan.

"Was that supposed to make sense?" asked Jun with genuine interest.

"Yes," said Emile.

Six interrupted the banter. She raised a hand in the hope that contributing to the briefing would show she was willing to be a team player. Carter nodded for her to speak.

"Sir," she began. "If I may ask, why are they sending Noble Team to check this place out? Isn't this a job for a less specialized force?"

Before Carter could answer, Kat shouldered Six aside. "Sir," she said, "this doesn't add up. Why are they sending Noble Team in to check out missing scientists?"

Carter turned to Kat. "Good question, Kat. The residents have reported strange lights, odd noises, potential Covenant sightings in the area. The usual jumpy civilians calling 911—but paired with this black out it could mean enemy contact. They want us in there quick and quiet to deal with whatever we find, quick and quiet." He looked around at the table with authoritative eyes. "Understand?"

Six raised a hand again. "I have a question."

"Yes?" asked Carter.

"Why do you always say 'understand' at the end of every sentence?"

Kat looked at her in scorn. "What kind of question is that?"

"A simple one," said Six.

Carter sighed. "Cool it, Kat." He reached over to put a hand on Six's shoulder. "And Six, just take it easy, all right? One day you'll understand."

She stepped back a little. "There you go again. I mean—it doesn't make you sound more military or more authoritative. You know that, right?"

"I don't understand why you're so hung up on this," said Carter. He searched around the table for support. Emile crossed his arms. Jun shrugged. Kat glared at Six.

"She's right, cap," said Jorge after much thought. "You do say it a lot."

Carter ran a hand through his hair. He looked a bit flustered. "Fine. We've got work to do people, so let's get to it. I'll pilot us in and we'll split into teams of two; Jorge, Jun, and Six will get off at drop point one. Me, Kat, and Emile will set down at the secondary facility. We'll all meet in the middle. Understood?" He cleared his throat. "I mean, do you copy?"

Kat saluted with her robot arm. Emile saluted lazily. Jun saluted sardonically. Jorge saluted compassionately. Six saluted.

Carter looked miffed. "Stop saluting like a lone wolf, Six."

"What?" Six sputtered. "I just—I didn't—" Nobody listened; they were all putting on their helmets. Jorge slid his helmet on with care, minding his moustache, while Jun happily screwed his helmet on and wiped the visor a few times, sighting down the now well cleaned sniper rifle to make sure everything lined up. Carter looked off into the distance like someone bearing great responsibility as he put a helmet on, and Emile hadn't even taken his helmet off because he was a sperg-lord. Kat was the first out the door, taking only her pistol, not bothering to equip herself with one of the UNSC's deadly nine round assault rifles or three round shotguns. She pushed past Six and slipped her helmet on with a absolute preciseness a moment before a bullet went through her head and killed her instantly. Kat's dead body crumpled to the ground.

"SNIPER!" exclaimed Emile as he dove for cover. Jorge leapt forwards and carried Six and Carter with him to the ground. Jun stumbled backwards and fell behind the table with his rifle clutched to his chest.

"Where did it come from?" asked Jorge. "Did anyone see?" Carter only stared in shock at Kat's body. Jorge turned from him to Six. "Did you see?"

Six shook her head. "I didn't see—it was too fast. Must have come from the mountains." She craned from under Jorge's body to survey the tent. All three had grouped to the side of the tent flap, out of sight from the mysterious enemy sniper. Emile crouched opposite her on the other side, Kat's body between them.

"Jun! Report!" called Six when Carter gave no orders.

A long pause came from behind the map table. "Uh…present."

"Are you all right?"

Another pause. Six and Jorge looked at each other. Emile's fingers flexed on his knife as he leaned up against the side of tent flap, as if he was about to leap out and stab the sniper who was probably two thousand yards away. Jun spoke again.

"…I'm alive."

Six frowned. "Were you hit?" Some of the Covenant's weapons could penetrate all the way through even Spartan armor and keep going. She hadn't seen what kind of projectile it had been.

"…No, I wasn't hit."

"Did you see where the shot came from?" barked Jorge, his humanity turning into rugged intensity.

"Yes," said Jun.

Carter rose up then from the prone position, shaking Jorge's arm off. He went into a crouch and un-holstered a battle rifle, leaning up against the wall in a similar shitting posture to Emile as he did so. Six and Jorge looked at each other, but Carter ignored their concern.

"Jun," he said in a voice like steel water, that is, water made out of steel. "Did you see what happened?"

"…yes."

Everyone waited.

"What happened?" insisted Carter.

"The…um. The Covenant. The Covenant happened. Kat just jumped into my sights, I mean in front of me all of the sudden—I mean, I saw it with my eyes, a beam rifle got her, in the head. It was the Covenant. From the high mountains."

"Damn." Carter slammed a fist into the tent, creating a large billow which would instantly give them away to anybody outside. Six and Jorge inched away from him. "The Covenant—on Reach? And making perfect shots from miles away? It can't be."

"First Reach, then Earth," Jorge intoned. "Earth won't be far behind if we fall now."

"Son of a mother," Emile hissed.

Jun laughed a high pitched laugh. "Yeah, crazy huh? Wow!"

Six stared at Kat's body. Was this somehow her fault? Just like Beta Company…had her joining Noble Team too soon caused Kat to lose her cool, to go off without thinking, to get shot by a sniper? It really was like Beta Company, but in reverse and not really, but maybe it the same because Beta Company also hadn't been her fault in any way. Frowning, she looked closer at Kat's body, at the entry hole on the back of the helmet.

"Hold on a minute," she said. She pulled back. "Guys! Something's not right, here—the wound in Kat's head—" caught up in the moment, she delivered a few violent kicks to Kat's head, turning it to expose the face plate and the puncture mark therein. "Look! The holes are aligned—there was no drop at all! If the shot came from up in the mountains, it would have had to come at a downward angle no matter what kind of ordinance they used."

"Let's take a look." Jorge pulled Kat's body over by the arm with his great strength and tenderly turned her head each way. Carter looked to, steeling himself for the grisly task. Except for Emile, who still squatted behind the flap like a shitting monkey.

"Six's right, sir," said Jorge to Carter.

"Thanks for speaking for me," said Six.

Carter nodded. "You're right, she is right, Jorge. The shot is perfectly aligned. It might as well have come from…" he took a sharp breath. "Inside this very tent."

They all turned as one to scan the room in trepidation. Carter's hands tightened on his rifle. Jorge and Six didn't have their weapons with them. Emile did: the silver Spartan was always prepared for anything. With a flourish he un-holstered his trusty grenade launcher, the perfect close quarters weapon.

"There—" said Carter, pointing at something behind the table Jun still hid beneath with his sniper rifle. They followed his finger to see a faint shimmering just above the surface, as if there was something hot distorting the air there, such as the barrel of a sniper rifle that had just been fired.

Jorge licked suddenly dry lips and spoke in as calm a voice as he could manage. "Jun…buddy. Listen up."

"Y-yeah?" asked Jun.

"Don't look now. But the bastard who killed Kat is cloaked right behind you."

"SONSA BITCHES!" roared Emile, rising to his full height and firing the grenade launcher directly at the table. All Carter's brilliant plans were blown to smithereens, as was the bench bearing all their gear a few feet away from the blast. The bullets inside Jorge's heavy weapons guy mini gun all went off at once, sending a bullet storm in every direction, shredding the tent canvas and popping a few support posts as well. Shrapnel, carried on a wave of bone breaking force, fountained into the air as well, along with a great cloud of dirt. Everyone lay on the ground with their legs tucked and their hands over their heads. Except for one of them.

"WHAT THE FUCK EMILE!"

It was Jun.

"YOU BLEW UP MY FUCKING LIMBS EMILE."

Jun's torso flopped into view from the cloud of debris. Blood spurted from four mutilated stumps that had been his arms and legs. His sniper rifle lay a few feet away, blown in half. Everyone stared in shock. Except for Emile, who shouldered the smoking grenade rifle with a confident swagger.

"I got the bogey, didn't I?"

Jun screamed. "HOLY FUCKING SACRED MOTHER OF GOD, THERE IS NO FUCKING BOGEY, OKAY!? I WAS THE ONE WHO SHOT—"

Then all the grenades they had piled on the gear bench exploded; for the blast from Emile's launcher had triggered all their fuses. There were twelve grenades because Spartan IIs only carried two grenades at once; they didn't want to unbalance the fight by taking all possible grenades with them into the field. This brilliant tactical move now saved their life, as twelve frag grenades detonated in a pile would have been enough to crack Reach in half and spill its molten heart into the dead void of space, whereas six grenades just blew all the supports out, which caused the tent to collapse on top of everyone.

Also, Jun died.

But as with all Spartans, he didn't actually die: he just went missing in action. Because they would never be able to find all the pieces.

Jun disappearing half way through didn't stop Noble Team! They came up swinging with their knives and slashing at the canvas sheets which entangled them. Emile unsheathed the kukri and started hacking away, yet he somehow wasn't able to cut it despite having just finished sharpening it. Noble Six, the first one on her feet, was followed quickly by Carter and Jorge. Emile still flailed wildly under the tarp, screaming his head off like a jackass—however, they could barely tell where he was; the blast had blown a hole through the tent roof and sent a fountain of dirt into the noonday sky. Now that mess had settled back down on them in a great black cloud.

"Emile—hold still, I'll save you," said Jorge with great kindness as he discovered his brother in arms via tripping over his head. He knelt and began clumsily working with his own knife, trying to free the team's most deadly skull-painted asset. This didn't stop Emile from flailing and screaming like he was being raped.

"What's that noise?" Six called out into the cloud, turning in place, her boots tangling in the shredded canvas. She couldn't tell which way was which—the cloud seemed to stretch on for thirty feet all around.

Carter's shouts drew to the left. Six could make out a shape in the haze, hunched over in battle readiness. "Carter—" she called. "What happened?"

"Sabotage, Six," growled Carter under his breath, almost muffled from the dust. "The Covie bastards planted a bomb right underneath our tent. They're clever, I'll give 'em that."

"Bomb?" Six looked around. "I don't understand. I thought that was Emile's—"

"Don't you understand?" Carter scoffed. "No sweat, rookie. We were all new once. Let me break it down: Jun tried to tell us he'd already shot the bogey down. That means the bomb must have been set by something else—remotely, or on a timer. They waited for us for days, maybe weeks in advanced."

"Uh, Sir," Six rubbed her neck. "I'm pretty sure Jun was saying he—"

"Stow it, Six," snapped Carter. "This isn't the time. Noble Team's got issues, yeah, but we're the best at what we do. If you've got a problem with how we operate then you can damn well take it up with me once this is over. You're not a lone wolf any more, understand?"

Six was about to respond when a blood curdling scream rose from where Emile and Jorge were struggling with the tent.

"One of them got me!" It was Emile. "Sonsa bitches! There's more of the cloaked fuckers around!"

"God damn it all." Carter raised his knife and dropped into a combat stance. Six followed suit as Jorge went to help Emile up, having freed him from the iron clutches of the tarp.

"Hands off," snarled Emile suddenly, pushing Jorge away with one hand while he twirled his kukri in the other. The wound in the side of the black matte of his armor pulsed blood down one, but he also dropped into a battle stance as the dust finally began to settle around them. Jorge went back to back with Emile, the innate sensitivity and humaneness of a Spartan II giving him the patience required to work with retarded school children.

"Emile," called Six, "you're loosing a lot of blood. Maybe you should sit this one out while the rest of us fight the, um, the air."

"Don't think I'm some sort of new meat, new meat," snapped the silver skulled Spartan. "I figured out how to hold the kukri without your help. Also, look at this skull I painted on my helmet. Show some respect."

Six turned to Jorge. "You talk to him."

Jorge chuckled, though he still kept his eyes on the desert with a ready knife, which for some reason dripped with human blood. "Don't fret, Six. You've got to learn to trust other people's judgment. This is what it takes to fit into a tight knit team like Noble Team. 'Lone wolf' won't cut it."

"Lone wolf?" exclaimed Six. She turned to Carter. "You let him read my file?"

"Focus, Six," Carter shot back. "Yes, I did. I showed your file to everyone. Teams have to know each other, be family, if they want to work perfectly. Understand?"

"Oh, totally," said Six. "But since you guys know me so well, you must know what my name is, right?"

"Um." Carter looked around, then pointed with one hand. "Another cloaked Elite, there!" They all looked. Indeed, something shimmered above the ground fifteen feet away from the tent. Carter leapt free of the canvas with one bound and landed on three limbs, looking up from a crouch before pushing off like a sprinter straight for his target, knife wound back to strike a blow which would cut any living being in half. "This one's for Kat, you son of a bitch!"

"Go get 'em, Carter!" cheered Emile. He rounded on another blur rising from the ground beneath the hot sun and swiped the kukri in a counter strick. "Ah-ha! Gotcha, you sonsa bitches! –Whoa!" He dodged to the side from a phantom attack. "This one's fast. Watch your asses!"

Jorge was trading fisticuffs with another ghostly enemy; his enormous fists swiped through the air but found no purchase. "I've got this one on the ropes," he exclaimed to the others. "HRAGH!" Jorge locked grips with the invisible foe in a test of ultimate strength; a Spartan II's awesome power locked in equal measure against the alien might of a highly trained super secret Special Operations Elite—so secret it might as well not have existed at all.

Six gawked at this display of military teamwork; Noble Team wove in and out of formation, dancing between each other in a ballet of stainless steel edges and precise strikes. Years of teamwork experience had given these Spartans an almost preternatural sense of cooperation, an efficiency akin more to a pack of wolves than soldiers; so much so that, even with half the team KIA, they still worked together as a well oiled machine.

"GOD DAMN IT EMILE YOU CUT OFF MY FUCKING HANDS."

It was Carter. He collapsed to his knees, bright red blood sprayed from two stumps at the ends of his arms. A few feet away, a pair of twitching blue gauntlets and discarded knife sprayed in Carter's own blood lay forlornly. Emile backed away, hands half open, kukri dangling from one. Human blood dripped from its curved edge—the right edge, this time.

"You were in my way!" preempted the silver Spartan. "Also, I tripped on something."

"GAAAH!" Carter waved two stumps around, sending blood in all directions. At that moment, Jorge ducked in and scooped Carter up without breaking stride. The big Spartan sprinted straight for a pile of net-covered supplies a hundred yards away.

"Captain's down!" Jorge called over the radio. "We've got to get him to cover now! Move it!"

"No way." Emile turned, flicking the blood from his blade. He faced the shimmers around them in the sweltering air—there seemed to be even more now. As he did this, Six knelt and gathered up Carter's 'belongings.'

"What the hell are you doing, Six?" Emile snarled as he stabbed the air. "Get your head in the game!"Jorge had already disappeared behind cover some meters away, but Emile did not seem interested in following suite.

His heroic and masculine hostility did not cow Noble Six. "Maybe Carter can get his hands re-attached if we preserve them," she offered.

The other Spartan snarled in disgust. "We don't have time for this touchy-feely shit, new meat. In case you haven't noticed, we're surrounded by the sonsa bitches."

"Yeah," said Six, not dropping her charges. "But if it's not this, it'll be robot hands. And Kat couldn't operate weapons more complicated than a pistol with her robot arm."

"Don't you know anything? Kat used a pistol because she was a strong female character." Emile grunted as he swiped at the shadow of a tent pole, then delivered a swift roundhouse kick, snapping the pole in half and ending the threat it posed to humanity forever. Then he shot Six a venomous look. "Before she died."

Six didn't know why Emile put that particular emphasis on his words, so she tried to divert the conversation's course. "So, I'm a female, and I'm also the only Spartan III to ever be classified as hyper lethal. Do I get a pistol?" She ducked so Emile could roll over her body and deftly cut at where the head of a cloaked Elite would have been, if it were there.

"Carter showed me your record, Six." The silver Spartan's voice had a note of scorn in it. "Handjobs. Really? Maybe if you didn't spend all your time being a sexual woman then you would have been confident and skilled enough to spot the sniper who killed Kat, before it could kill Kat. They never shoulda saddled us with a newbie." He spat loudly. But of course he was wearing a helmet, so the spit created an entirely new badass skull-like pattern on the inside of his visor.

Six looked on in disgust. "Great. Of course. You know what—" Six threw Carter's severed limbs away. "You know there's nobody here, right?"

"What are you saying?" Emile performed a deadly 360 spin, slicing through the midsections of every invisible attacker within reach of his razor sharp blade.

"I mean there's nobody here. You're not fighting anything."

"Huh?" Emile stopped, amazingly. "…well. God damn. Good call, new meat. They must have retreated!" He sheathed his knife after wiping its bloody harvest (all human blood) on his thigh. "Bastards must be spread out over Reach like an infestation by now."

"Fuck this," said Six, and then she stormed off towards where Jorge and Carter had taken cover. As she got within range she could hear an earnest talk.

Jorge spoke in reverent tones. "You sure you wanna do this, Captain?"

Then Carter. "I gave you an order, Jorge…"

"…All right. What's next for Noble Team, though?"

"You…you have to get Kat's body to home. Burn her in her armor in a nuclear forge, then scatter the ashes on the east wind. She always said she wanted that to happen."

"Consider it done. What about Jun?"

"Who? Oh, right. I guess bury him. If you can find all the pieces."

"And the rest of us?"

Six rounded a corner just as Carter patted Jorge on the shoulder with an awkward forearm. "You're in charge now, Jorge. Make sure Emile keeps a lid on it. And help Six. She's young, brash, inexperienced and a hotheaded lone wolf who doesn't play well with others. But I think she has potential."

"Is she the new Kat, sir?" asked Jorge.

Carter nodded. "Yes, she is the new Kat."

"Hey guys," said Six loudly. "What's going on here?"

Carter looked over at her, his back propped up against a crate for cover. Where his severed hands had been now were strapped two HE Fragmentation grenades. He raised them both to eye-level. "This."

"And what the hell is this?"

"The Covenant…" began Carter. "I figured out their plan to invade Reach. It's so simple. They've been under our noses the whole time,."

"Sir," began Six.

"Literally under our noses," Carter continued. "Hiding beneath the very tent we set up in." With a nod beyond the crate he indicated the blasted hole that Emile had just departed from, the silver Spartan on his way to them. "They must have dug tunnels up to the surface, maybe under my rugged planning table. That's how they got in behind our backs to take down Kat and Jun—we never saw it coming."

"Sir—"

Carter ignored his team's opinions, as good leaders do. "It may be too late for us, but we've got one shot at slowing down their attack, maybe even stopping it for good." He shook the grenades belted to his stumps. "This. Two frag grenades right on top of the tunnel should be enough to hold them back, to stop more from getting to the surface. At least for a while." "It will give you time to get out of here on the Pelican and warn General Pattonington."

"Who?"

At that moment Emile came around the corner to join them. Carter nodded at him, and the silver Spartan looked down at Carter's hands. "…Sorry about the hands, Captain."

"It's okay." Carter grunted in pain as he tried to salute Emile and bonked himself on the head with a grenade. Everyone flinched. "Noble Team is a family, Emile. And families look out for each other. Remember that, when I'm gone."

"Sir." Emile saluted him. Carter hesitated, then just nodded and stood up, Jorge supporting him under one arm. He thanked the gentle giant and then turned to Six.

"Can I tell you something, sir?" asked Six. "Real quick, before you kill yourself?"

Carter shook his head with rueful sigh. "No need. I know you've been falling in love with me ever since we met, Six." He clunked Six on the shoulder a grenade and everyone flinched. "Don't be embarrassed," he continued, noting her tic. "I also know that you're extremely sexual—it's nothing to be ashamed of. We're Spartans. Yet we're only human. We're the only family we have, and although I can never return your love, I can say I'm honored to have had you on this team, no matter how much trouble you've been, or how responsible you are for Kat's death." He saluted her with fatherly respect, which meant he bonked one of the grenades into the side of his helmet.

"Please stop it, sir," said Six.

"I'm sorry," said Carter. "But you deserved to know the truth."

Six gestured to the dented grenade. "I meant—you know what, never mind." She gathered herself up, grief stricken and heartbroken. "Well, sir, I don't know what you're saying anymore, probably the blood loss talking. But…" For fear that Carter would reciprocate, Six chose a respectful nod over a salute. "Go give 'em hell, sir. For Kate."

"It's Kat," said Carter.

"That's what I said, isn't it? Do it for John, then."

"You mean Jun."

"Exactly," said Six.

"Enough," Carter barked, straightening up with absolute determination. "Don't cry for me, Six. Just make this sacrifice count. Understand?"

"You know what—" Six stopped suddenly and cleared her throat, getting too choked with her feelings to continue. She stepped back, chest heaving with contained passions. Carter turned resolutely away as a distraught Six began to count to one hundred.

"Let me have the honor, sir." Emile reached out and pulled the pins from his superior's grenades. The blue armored Spartan then walked out from behind cover, braced for energy blasts from the Covenant stealth troopers who were no doubt pouring invisibly out of the secret spy tunnel beneath the tent at this very moment. Without giving them a chance even to fire, the brave but mutilated Spartan III gave a wordless war cry and charged straight towards the wreckage that had once been Noble Team's mobile command base, their home away from home, now soon to be the rest' place of the better parts of Noble Team's three greatest and most effective soldiers. Carter sprinted on at the speed of sound as the remaining Spartans peeked out to watch with solemn looks on their faces. This was a soldier's true sacrifice, the last charge of their honored captain, the end of their service with the best damn leader in the universe.

"REMEMBER REACH!" came Carter's battle cry as he plunged into the smoking wreckage of the tent. In the next instant, as if from some great distance, bagpipes could be faintly heard.

Six closed her eyes against the flash as a wall of compressed picked up their cover and blew it over their heads, leaving them exposed. Everyone's shields flared. Their ears popped from the blast. Shrapnel and scraps of canvas rained down all around, too far away for any real threat. A thick dirt haze rose into the air and then settled back down, revealing an enormous pock-marked crater where the tent had been. No underground tunnels could have had the structural integrity to survive the blast.

It had bought them some time. One last heroic act from a hero of humanity.

"Also," said Emile, "I'm dying, too." He turned to reveal an enormous waterfall of dried blood all down his side, coming from where a camo-green handle protruded from his stomach. It was a human knife. This was even worse than the first wound.

"What the hell happened?" Six sputtered. "Did you stab yourself? Again, I mean?"

"Not likely." Emile patted his blood thirsty blade, now safely logged in its holster. "One of the Covies must have grabbed a knife from the tent and poked me during the fight. I took him out, though." He drew a finger over his throat. "Cut right through his invisible neck and decapitated his invisible head."

Jorge had been checking around to make sure no bogeys were left standing after his Captains glorious sacrifice. Now he returned to the pair and eyed Emile's wound. "Well, I'll be damned. That's where my knife went."

Six looked up at him. "Are you saying you stabbed him, Jorge?"

Both men burst out laughing. Blood spurted from Emile's stomach with the motion, though he didn't even seem to notice.

"This is Noble Team, rookie," said Emile condescendingly. "We don't make Beta Company level mistakes."

"What did you just say to me?" Six had gone as still as an ice sculpture.

"What he means is there're no greenhorns here," placated Jorge. He shot Emile a look, but continued gently: "There ain't no way my knife could've ended up in Emile from something I did—it would be like stabbing myself, stabbing my own brother. Noble Team is—"

"Yeah, I know," said Six. "Noble Team is a family."

"What, you think you're part of Noble Team all of the sudden, Noble Six?" Emile jutted towards her. "Where was that team spirit back in the tent when we were trying to welcome you, huh?"

Jorge stepped between them. "Carter put me in charge, Six, and that means no starting fights from you. We don't have time for this lone loose cannon nonsense; we need to get Emile to the Pelican and get out before the Covenant find a way to dig their way up again." He went behind Emile, sticking his hands under the silver Spartan's arm pits. "Here, I've got this end. You take the other."

"Got it, sir." Six reached for Emile, who began to sputter in outrage. "What the—I don't need help from other people!" Then he screamed as Six grabbed the handle of the knife in his stomach and pulled up, hard.

"Six!" Jorge growled. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"My bad." Six backed away. "I thought he came with a handlebar. Because I'm new and inexperienced." She bent and scooped the screaming Spartan's boots out from under him, then put him in a half-bridegroom carry as Jorge supported the top end. Emile had just caught his breath from the pain when Six's bicep bumped against the knife again.

"AAAARGH! YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

"The blood loss is giving him hallucinations of Kat!" Six exclaimed. She bumped the knife again as they began to carry Emile towards the Pelican. Emile screamed once more.

"FFFFFUCKING RETARD!"

"Carter's not here," Six shot back. "He died for us! Get your head in the game, Spartan!"

Jorge was also concerned. "I've never heard Emile scream," he growled low in his throat. "This might be the big one." He looked over one shoulder at the nearby drop ship. "We're almost there. Let's cross our fingers." Indeed, Noble Team's personal Pelican stood with open bay doors, waiting to receive. Jorge and Six prepared to heft Emile's considerable weight.

"On the count of three," said Jorge. Six nodded. "One. Two. THREE!" They heaved him into the Pelican and Emile landed on his stomach, pushing the knife all the way into the wound.

"Fuck," said Six.

This part had not been intentional, but at least Emile had stopped the screams. Jorge leaned over the landing ramp to roll him over with one large hand. "Emile?" The silver Spartan didn't respond. His painted helmet stared up at the sky, unmoving and unautistic. Jorge let out a deep sigh.

Six shifted her feet. "Uh…sorry, Jorge."

Jorge raised hand. "Don't bother. There's nothing you can say. Nothing you or I could have done to stop him from bleeding out like this."

"Bleeding out?" Six looked at the centimeter of knife handle still protruding from the wound. Its angle suggested the blade had been pushed straight into Emile's heart. "Yes, bleeding out. Obviously."

Jorge pondered thoughtfully. "The mad dog didn't even realize he was bleeding out until it was too late. Maybe if he'd just stopped, stopped fighting for one second, maybe he would have lived. But that wasn't Emile." He stood up, his immense wisdom towering over Six. "Emile was what this war made him. A killing machine." He turned away and walked towards the Pelican's exposed exterior engine block—designed so that the ship could be shot down by small arms, another ingenious and balanced innovation courtesy of the UNSC. Six watched him go, then climbed up into the Pelican's bay and took one last look at the silver Spartan, at the awesome badass skull painted on his helmet. She reflected on how swoll and sweet-kickass he was with that badass kukri and he was like cold as ice aw yeah, then she pushed the corpse out of the Pelican. It splattered into the dirt.

A moment later the whole ship shook with a loud wrenching sound. Six jogged back to where Jorge had gone, only to find him standing there with a huge metal hunk in his arms—and it wasn't Carter this time. Opposite him there was hole in the engine of the Pelican full of bright blue wires sparking and fizzling, their connectors torn where the ship's slip space drive had used to be. Six gasped—Spartan IIs really were strong. And stupid.

"The slip space drive core," began Jorge dramatically.

"Yes, I know what it is," said Six.

"I wanted to make sure just in case you didn't." Jorge set the device down and flipped a hatch open on its side. His skilled hands dove in and began to rewire the drive core. "Standard code red procedure," he continued to explain. "These little bad boys can be repurposed into bombs that pack a hell of a punch. Little core from a Pelican won't do as much as one from a cruiser class starship, but it's something."

Six crossed her arms. "I thought Carter already took care of the, um, teleporter."

Jorge stopped and looked up. "Teleporter?"

"The…" Six snapped her fingers. "The whatever it was. The tunnel! I meant the invisible tunnel filled with invisible Elites from an invisible underground lair where they somehow stole Jun's sniper rifle and your knife. Right?"

"Right," said Jorge. "But do you think they could have some sort of teleporter technology? Damn. This could be worse than we thought—a teleporter beneath the surface of Reach beaming in Covenant troops right under our noses." He went back to working on the slip space drive as Six almost went into shock. "We need this boom now more than ever, Six. There!" The core began to hum ominously. "It's done—should overload and blow in five, ten minutes. Six?"

She steadied herself. "I'm okay. Just…you just blew my mind."

Jorge nodded. "Isn't that what they say? War is hell."

"What?"

He stood up. "And sacrifices have to be made to keep that hell away from ordinary people. As a Spartan II my number one purpose is to protect civilians."

"It is?"

"Don't go Emile on me, Six. Let's go set up the Pelican's autopilot."

Six followed him as Jorge climbed up into the ship and headed towards the cockpit. "Autopilot?" she asked, half to herself. "Why would we need autopilot?"

"No reason." Jorge whistled innocently as he fiddled with the controls. "There, it's done." The deck began to rumble to life. Red lights blared, bathing the interior with a bloody coat of paint. Jorge turned to Six. "Let's go stand in the open bay door."

"O-kay," Six said as he jogged past. But she stopped just outside the cabin and glared suspiciously at the Spartan II as he stood before the howling maw of the bay door, beckoning her to come over.

"Come on, Kat—I mean, Six—the bomb's going to be a hell of a view," he cracked wise, some wry humor still contained in his voice even after losing so many trusted soldiers.

Six was not convinced. "Why did you set the autopilot, though? Why don't we just fly it ourselves? We're both here."

"Naturally." Jorge took a small step away from the open hatch.

Six did not miss a thing. "You know, there's no good reason to hang out in a dangerously unsecured cargo bay. Because we're not planning to, I don't know, jump out and stay behind while the slip space bomb goes off—you know, sacrifice ourselves pointlessly for no reason at all like Carter did. Right?"

"Right," said Jorge. He chuckled. "Come on, Six—I know you haven't seen the best side of Noble Team today—"

"You can say that again."

"But we're not just a bunch of glory hounds. I'm a soldier, not a badly characterized self sacrificing war hero stereotype."

Six shrugged, pushing away her suspicions with no small bit of reluctance. "Fair enough, I guess." She walked over to Jorge and stood there with him as the Pelican began to take off, lifting into the air and leaving the carnage behind.

Jorge looked down. "I notice you left Emile's body behind."

"Yeah," said Six.

"Probably for the best."

"Uh-huh," said Six.

"He had a cool helmet, though."

"Not really," said Six.

"Hm." The Pelican was a few hundred feet up now and coasting as the computer made its trajectory. Jorge released the safety sidebar and took a few steps forwards so he could look over the lip of the bay to see the smoke stained crater that had been Noble Team's base of operations. As Six watched him, he started speaking, the fatigue showing in every syllable of his words. She could hear the marks that not just this day but every day in the life of a Spartan had left on the gentle giant.

"Six…I can't imagine how hard this must have been for you; joining a new team and then loosing us all, all over again. Just like Beta Company. But don't let what Emile said get to you. I want you to know this: this wasn't your fault. You did everything you could have done. I know it was hard to adjust to a diverse team of soldiers who are just as competent and experienced as you when you've been playing lone wolf for so long, and I've heard the others talk about how you have trouble controlling your sex drive. That doesn't mean I blame you for what happened to us—not even to Kat. Reach is a harsh world, and the Covenant got lucky. Next time they won't be so lucky." He turned to her with finality. "Go out there, Six, and give them hell." So saying, Jorge raised one giant hand to the rim of his helmet in a solemn salute. "And make it count."

"Hold on, Jorge," said Six, patting the air in a calming way. "Stop right there. I know where you're going with this, but you actually have to have a reason to sacrifice yourself nobly, you can't just kill yourself for no reason. Right?"

Jorge stared at her for a minute. Then, suddenly, he turned and pointed out the hatch, down towards the distant dust basin. "Look! I never would have believed it, Six: it's a cloaked Scarab down there! The bastards brought a god damn Scarab!"

"That's heat from the engine making the air blurry."

Jorge hesitated. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Well." Jorge scuffed the deck with his boot. "Well. Okay. But I'd better check to make sure."

Six lunged at him, but the much larger Spartan simply picked her up by the collar and wrist with both hands. He threw her back into the back of the Pelican. She landed on her back, and quickly scrabbled back towards him on her hands and knees.

"JORGE, WAIT!"

"Make it count, Six."

Six screamed. "MAKE WHAT COUNT!?"

Without a word, the great orange Spartan saluted one last unnecessary time. Then he took a single step backwards and disappeared. Six got there a second too late. For a moment she hung with her hands outstretched into the wind, a look of shock on plastered over her face. Then, slowly, shakily, she pulled herself back inside, pushed herself up the bulkhead, and pressed the button to close the bay. Then she retreated into the cock pit and collapsed onto the pilot's seat.

The Pelican had gone into full blast and now zipped across the countryside. Six blinked, almost missing the flash which illuminated the landscape in a brief moment. The Pelican rocked as if a wave had buffeted it. That was the slip space drive blowing; now there would be nothing left to prove Noble Team had ever existed. Their bodies, the equipment, the evidence of their deeds—all gone, atomized, lost not even to history but to the dark recesses of some dusty ONI file. Few would remember the day a few brave men and women had banded together to stand up for humanity, to stand up at the fall and choose with fists raised. But even fewer would remember the truth: these men and women had hearts and souls—they were not just soldiers, not just Spartans, not just machines. They were heroes. Real heroes.

And there are few such people in this world.

"Thank god," said Six.