Neverlasting Peace

Chapter One

Disclaimer: If I owned Halo, this would be in a game.

Here then, is the problem we present to you, stark and dreadful and inescapable: Shall we put an end to the human race; or shall mankind renounce war?

- The Russell-Einstein Manifesto, 1955

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Year 2659

"Up! Up! Here they come!" shouted Lieutenant Tyler Marks as a wave of Elites rushed forward towards his platoon's trenches.

It was funny in a way. Trench warfare hadn't been used in hundreds of years and yet, here they were, in foxholes and trenches. It was the most effective as Elites seemed to have a passion for charging. When the UNSC declared peace with the Covenant, no one could have expected a barroom brawl to turn into another war. While most of the Elites returned to Sanghelios, a fair number remained on Earth. After a drunken brawl between Elites and humans, a mob of angry citizens proceeded to beat or kill all the Elites they could find before the UNSC sent in the National Guard. It was too late however, as the signals were already sent. A month later, Elite ships glassed Corona, an outer colony, and declared war on mankind. A hundred ships arrived in the Sol System and were only defeated by Earth's three hundred original Super-MACs and fifty nearby ships.

"Hey Sarge, why the hell didn't they glass Graves too?" Private First-Class Randy Orel shouted to Gunnery Sergeant Stephen Blake.

"You leave that shit to the spooks and deal with the shit in front of us." Blake responded coolly, stubbing a cigarette as he shouldered his ARK, called the "King" for its accuracy and firepower. Marks only had enough time to thumb the safety off his NC baseline Carbine before a wave of plasma washed over the Marines. The Marines responded with a symphony of clicks and a blast of firepower from their standard-issue MA5Vs.

"Holy shit! They got swords-!" bawled a Marine right before his head was blown off from an overcharged Plasma Pistol. Marks swore and did a quick "Hail Mary" before he raised his head above his foxhole. There it was. A golden armor Elite, along with red and gray covered ones, was swinging an Energy Sword as they approached.

Marks quickly ducked before the Elites could draw bead on him screamed, "Where the hell are the gatling guns!"

"Taken out, sir. A plasma mortar fell on it last night and the heat has distorted the other one. One's left but there under heavy fire. There are fucking WRAITHS over there trying to take it out.

Marks swore again and grabbed two frags at the same time. "Fire in the hole!" Marks yelled as he chucked both of them over the edge. A roar of pain and anger followed two consecutive bangs. Other Marines quickly warmed to the idea and grenades fly over foxholes.

There was one thing about Elites that Marks hated, they never gave up and they grew angry to the grenade lobbing quickly. Screams, followed by gunfire, erupted. Marks shuddered as he realized what had happened.

"The hell was that?" the inquisitive PFC asked.

"Sounded like my girlfriend, that cheating slut!" joked a Marine farther down the trench. Nervous laughter filled the air, punctuated by the whizzing of plasma and the dry staccato of gunfire, along with the screams. The question remained unanswered for better or for worst. Marks did a quick check and was puzzled. The nearest sword-swinging Elite was A hundred meters from the front most trench. Something didn't seem right. While he contemplated the problem he mindlessly fired his Carbine at oncoming Elites. Another scream. Marks tracked it to the foxhole it came from and fired a questioning round at it. Something seemed to shimmer. Puzzled, Marks was about to fire another round when an the sound of an ARK to the left of him went off on full auto, followed two seconds later, a full sixty bullets later, by an empty, echoing click. Two Elites materialized dead on the ground, heading towards the next foxhole.

"Nice shot Sergeant, but how did you know that those sandbagging son-of-a-bitches were invisible?" Marks asked.

"Read the in-flight articles." Blake grunted. "Hell, too bad those SPARTANs are dead though. They must've been tough as nails to survive hundreds of confrontations with the Covenant."

"All dead? Their listed as MIA, and if they are, why aren't their new ones?" Marks asked. He had read some of the in-flight articles, although he concentrated on the Spartans, something he was always interested in after he read about SPARTAN 117 when he was a young kid. His family once took him to see the Memorial on Earth after years of begging and they toured Mombasa and its ruins, New Mombasa, Voi, and Tsavo Highway in Africa.

Blake shrugged. "Well doesn't matter does it, they aren't gonna help us now, and besides, it has to be hell of a coincidence that all of them are MIA."

Marks nodded. Propaganda for sure then.

The lead gold-armored Elite almost reached the first trench when two rockets met it head on, followed by an almost orchestrated blare of MA5Vs, whistle of Carbines, and bass of Kings, punctuated by the rumble of rockets and the cymbals of snipers. The spear of the Elite charge broke and went down, some by the hailstorm of bullets, most by self-preservation. The remaining Elites retreated, followed by loud cheers from the Marines.

"They're running! Sweet Jesus their running!" That one statement drew even more cheers like a moth to a candle. Marks joined in by adding his own two bits but noticed Blake was still sober. Marks shrugged it off and the rest of day went without anymore interesting events. The night was filled with soldiers cheering their victory and mourning the dead. Bottles of wine and barrels of beer were emptied.

The next day, an early attack by the Elites, before sun-up, ended the celebration quickly. The front collapsed.

Marks and his platoon moved a hundred kilometers east.

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