Prologue

The conflict between the Interplanetary Strategic Alliance and the Helghast, a war raging on for the past six years and of which has been waged on both planet Vekta and Helghan, has now reached Earth. The Helghast had vowed to destroy Vekta and repopulate it, but succeeded only in the prior. Then they retreated to their home planet, Helghan, where survivors from Vekta brought the war to, cooperating with soldiers from Earth and driving the Helghast again in retreat. But now it has come to Earth, where for the past three months it's been nothing short of persisting chaos and fighting.

The whole planet has been marked a kill-zone for the persevering Helghast, who've proved more than a formidable opponent against the humans. The odds have narrowed, and the Helghast are outnumbered, but still they fight strong, and now supported by ludicrous rebels throughout the planet. All is lost, for now, for Earthbound civilization—nothing moves without being shot at, and everything has become hostile. No love, no compassion, no sympathy, no mercy…not for the Helghast, at least. But their hatred and antagonism towards Vekta has driven their war to Earth, where they've been demolishing mankind ever since. There isn't a single street whose macadam isn't tattered by the warring factions' fighting, whose surface isn't void of blood or littered bodies.

The planet has become a battlefield in its entirety.

The Helghast are the slaughterers, the 'humans' so aptly put are the slaughtered, and every day which passes—every second, every minute, every damned hour—is a time of ruthless slaughtering.

Only the boldest of soldiers hold their ground until death comes upon them, or until they bring it to their enemy early. Only the strong survive, and thus only the mightiest may determine which portion they belong to in the slaughtering.

There seems no end to it, no turning point and no proximities of triumph.

Every other soldier believes he or she is the next hero to victor over all, until they fall to a Helghan bullet. They give gallant warcries before charging into battle, haughty on pretenses of optimism or high on drugs. They use whatever weapon they can to fight this war, and to fight the cowardice within themselves.

But only true valor can win this war, only sincerity to actuality and abiding determination may prevail.

The Helghast are unfortunate enough to all have blackened hearts, to see through eyes that view everything behind a filter of odium and iniquity. For this is their weakness; they are all the same, excluding the seldom individual who leads in marksmanship or might, and that will trigger their ultimate demise. Afterall, they oppress in vanity. And the oppressed are not cattle, however much they act as such. Those who are being slaughtered shall resist and fight back.

One man and one woman may not win a war, but they could undoubtedly turn the tides.

And to fight with love in their hearts…is so much more powerful than to with abhorrence.

Chapter 1

Zachary Tyson watched his target collapse under a stream of 5.56mm bullets before he, too, was stricken by enemy fire. A feeling as though he'd been shot from behind by an automatic BB-gun swelled in his lower back, inciting him to turn and face his opponent. He spun on his heel and ducked as he did so, causing his foe's last burst of gunfire to narrowly miss his protected scalp. As he lowered himself and swiveled, Tyson's forefinger squeezed the trigger of his M82 with two jerky motions. Four rounds hit his enemy in the pecks, piercing his worn Kevlar and puncturing his flesh. The lightweight Helghast troop staggered back, blood leaking out the bullet-holes having speckled his chest, his face turning paler than it already was and goggled eyes rolling up into his head.

Tyson had no reason for festivity, for this was certainly not the place nor the time.

He was thankful enough, however, for the nth time, in having his armor equipped. Without it he would've yet again been killed by Helghan gunfire, and on more than one occasion it's even saved his life from a slicing battle knife. Tyson consistently thanked his uncle Benjamin Arwyn for giving him the armored outfit, and found it not only to be rewarding both physically but mentally, too. His confidence was higher than ever, which only upped the ante for sheer determination.

The full-body armor was like a bullet's shell itself, encasing him in a literal full metal jacket. The FMJ, as Uncle Ben casually labeled it, was topnotch physical security. Each piece was individual, leaving nothing joined so that some comfort was available to the wearer and that maneuverability would be nimble rather than hindered. Its rudimentary design was so basic that Tyson has not been the only one to adapt the style of body-armoring although he is one of the select few able to successfully sport it. The FMJ is a more mobile version of a medieval knight's armor, permitting more able motility and easier breathing in comparison to bulky metallic plates smothering the outfitter.

Tyson couldn't thank his uncle enough for the FMJ, though, in spite of its elementary design it proved extraordinarily helpful. The primary portion of the FMJ was, really, the 'J' of the acronymic outfit. A breastplate, basically, almost stringently molded to Tyson's torso on both the front and back, composed of pure titanium. On the sides, however, were gaps of the torso piece, about four inches in berth, to provide maneuverability and comfort in it; these front and back portions of the FMJ were secured together via four short leather straps coated in Kevlar at either side of the torso. The lower-body was protected, too, although much less than the more widespread coverage of the torso piece. Here, the thighs were fully protected on both front and back in a similar layout to the torso piece, while further down the legs the coverage lessened. At the knees there was nothing, although originally Tyson had worn Kevlar pads, but they've long-since been devoured by a few unfortunate occasions, though they were fortuitous to Tyson nonetheless. At the shins and calves there were titanium plates, while the feet were sheathed in Kevlar-based footwear. Basically, bulletproof shoes. And on the whole of his body, excluding the standard military slacks and shirt—of which he wore the Interceptor body armor atop—were portions of Kevlar fitted beneath each slab of armoring.

In fact, to say it rather simply, Tyson is bulletproof.

Only his ankles, knees, small portions of unarmored space on his legs and torso, and his neck were open to injury. And his eyes, if a bullet were so lucky to enter one of the two sockets in his facemask.

The facemask of the FMJ was predominantly effectual, as it was menacing. The more diabolical side of the ex-NHL goalie of Uncle Ben brought him to carve the facemask into something particularly ominous. Something that may even frighten the Helghast, of all fiendish beings. For its visage is that of a skull, or something strongly reminiscent, with a wide forehead and a glaring countenance including small but crater-like eyeholes, teardrop nostril openings, and a play of angular edges to make it seem like the face was grinning. Uncle Ben even added specific notches in the lower half of the facemask, where Tyson's mouth would be beneath, to represent the leering skull's bony teeth. And, here in a diamond layout, were five small holes from which Tyson would breathe.

There was no helmet with the facemask—something that left the rest of Tyson's cranium unprotected, if it weren't for his military-grade PASGTH. This helmet is fitted to Tyson's head via a secure chinstrap and is steel on the exterior then padded inside with pure Kevlar, giving it a defense rating of Threat Level IV.

Overall, Tyson was as much of a full metal jacket as were the bullets he shot upon his Helghan adversaries. This made him that much more lethal, that much more menacing, that much more effectual in his quest.

Tyson's quest was not a very strict one to say the least.

"What's our objective, sir?" one of his comrades of 4th Battalion had asked on the third day since the Helghan invasion of Earth. The squad had originally consisted of nine total troops, including Tyson and their superior, Lieutenant Frederick Bridges, but after a mere three days they were reduced to five total. This left the remaining members of 4th Battalion weary, distressed, and unconfident.

They needed a goal, therefore, something to strive for.

"Command Center is down right now," Lieutenant Bridges said with a sigh, glazing down at his feet as he stood to overlook his apprehensive troops. He shrugged, adding, "So we don't have a set objective as-of-now, but until they do reconnect I believe our goal is as good as any."

"What would that be, sir?" Tyson had inquired.

"To kill as many of these bastards as we can manage. These Helghast think they're invincible, think they're unstoppable. Let's give 'em hell, and show 'em otherwise."

It wasn't but ten hours later when Tyson had gotten separated from the rest of his team, most of whom were obliterated in a mortar attack on their position at the frontlines in southern Utah. He's yet to reconnect with Command Center Headquarters, let alone the Lieutenant, and that was months ago. After his separation, however, he managed to get to Silver Lake, Colorado, where his uncle resided—whence he took two days' R&R before being reequipped to return to the battle. Of course, by then the war had come to him, and within hours Silver Lake was swept clean like grass under a lawnmower—but Tyson had managed to slip out.

Hence his longing gratitude to his uncle, who he knew despite all his optimism was now dead. Thanks to the damned Helghast, who have turned this planet—Tyson's home—into a warzone.

And he was acting to take it back.

Primary objective: stay alive. Secondary objective: kill as many Helghast as possible while sustaining prior goal.

He repeated those lines in his head every now and then, just to reassure himself of his own guidelines, originally put in place by the Lieutenant and then recently readjusted to his own likings.

As Tyson shall become the slaughterer of Helghast, he also must not become the slaughtered. Stay strong, hold up, be vigilant, and act without hesitation were all governing factors to his survival. If he were to kill five Helghast simultaneously via suicidal grenade detonation, it would be rather effectual; however, if he could prospectively kill fifty Helghast individually throughout the following day, it would be worth more on account of both tacit objectives.

Live to fight another day, and survive longer to kill further.

That was his motto, so bluntly put.

The top of his ears were covered by the PASGT helmet, but his hearing was more than adequate. And a sharp buzzing sound was familiar enough for him to keep focus; it was the sound of a bullet searing the air, narrowly missing his head.

Tyson scurried ahead, ducking right, turning into a roomy cubby whose entrance was open and whose bordering walls were composed of chainlink fencing. It provided absolutely no cover from a proximate enemy, but taking refuge in the cubby—a small waiting room, one of two on this second floor in the Thompson Terminal of eastern Utah—gave him a brevity of solitude to reload and reorient himself.

His M82G assault rifle didn't need reloading, though. The two-part magazine had yet to deplete one of its clips, thanks to Tyson's short controlled bursts. Given, it was difficult to maintain potency in just a few rounds per enemy, but fortunately Tyson had had an abundance of practice and was now an elite in categorical marksmanship, though he would never label himself as perfect.

His sidearm, however, had ran out a few minutes back during a firefight. He hadn't time to reload and was forced to switch to the M82G, which at the time was on the verge of depleting its own. So he took the time now, slinging the assault rifle and unholstering the M4 pistol. He ejected the pistol's empty clip and it clattered to the tile floor at his feet, a noise which was drowned out by consistent gunfire both near and in the distance. He reached into one of his three mini-satchels looped to his belt at his hips, and retrieved an extra magazine for the M4. Just as he slapped it into place, some of the proximate gunfire ceased and he heard a Helghast roar aloud.

Turning his head and bringing the M4 to aim just as he cocked it to arm, a Helghan grunt charged past him, wielding no firearms but an armed grenade in his raised left hand. His warcry continued as he charged forward, undoubtedly towards a reloading enemy soldier. The Helghast hadn't spotted Tyson, for his gaze was set straight ahead at whatever target he was planning on killing—with himself, too, suicidally. And while Tyson would like of anything to see a Helghast destroy himself voluntarily, in hopes of saving one of his fellow human soldiers he acted quickly.

One shot, two shots brought the Helghast just short of his destination.

Both .44-caliber slugs struck his left leg, bursting a kneecap into smithereens and shearing apart a hamstring. The Helghast screamed in pain and cursed himself as he took the fall from the wounds, toppling immediately left, tumbling over the guardrail and dropping to the first-floor lobby below. There was an explosion before he even landed, just a second after he'd cleared the guardrail. It was the Helghan-issue J19 percussion grenade, the one he so steadfastly held in his hand. Its explosion took with him his entire body, spattering blood and gore upon the walls in a mist of blackened smolder; the concussive force of the blast shattered three of the glass panes of which the guardrails enclosed, sprinkling tiny glass splinters over the floors.

Tyson felt the shake of the explosion rumble the terminal, while a buzzing filled his ears.

He shook his head to rid himself of the sound, holstering the pistol, and returning the M82G to his hands. He wrapped his forefinger around the primary trigger and got to his feet.

Suddenly a young man ran out in front of the cubby, outfitted in the standard USMC urban camouflage. His helmet was missing, and his hair was all ruffled up. He looked beyond disorientated, despite the smirk on his otherwise dreary face. The M13 shotgun, also known as the "Lucky Strike" by the ISA, he held port-arms in perspiring gloved hands.

"Thanks a lot, man, I owe you—"

The young Marine's sternum suddenly erupted in a spurt of blood, which splashed Tyson's FMJ breastplate, and the high-velocity bullet just missed his right side. The exit wound it made in the Marine's chest was enough to mark him dead already, which Tyson saw as the life slipped from his eyes and he dropped to his knees. As the soldier collapsed, Tyson was frantic on determining the enemy sniper's position.

It didn't take him long, thanks to the gossamer trail left by the .50-caliber APFSDS slug from the Helghan SLAR, to realize the sharpshooter was crouching in an identical cubby but on the other side of the second floor. It was straight across the high-ceiling lobby on the second floor, behind a guardrail whose glass panes had long since been demolished. He was a lightweight Helghast, a scout, members of the Helghan ilk Tyson saw as mere cowards.

Tyson rushed to do his own bidding as another of the sniper's rounds roared past him, searing through the chainlink fencing to his left and lodging itself into the wall astern. The report from the high-caliber Helghan sniper rifle was vociferous each time, but it wasn't a warning as much as that would be convenient; if you've heard the shot and are in range and view, you've most likely already been hit. Fortunately for Tyson, however, this sharpshooter wasn't so sharp; a rookie, probably, given his slightly off aim and his rather vulnerable position.

Tyson would take this to his advantage; he acted quickly.

With the assault rifle angled so its muzzle pointed skyward, Tyson bent his knees to get leverage, cocked the M203 grenade launcher on the underbelly of the M82G, and pulled its separate trigger. The assault rifle bucked in his clutches, spurted out the 40mm HE grenade from its tube with a low whoop. Tyson saw the blur of the airborne grenade soar in a high arc before coming down accurately upon his target. The sharpshooter hadn't even time to attempt an evasion, let alone see what was coming. The grenade detonated in such proximity that he was now no more; the only remnants of the Helghast coated the walls of the cubby in crimsons blotches and strands.

Tyson grinned to himself as he ejected the spent grenade casing and inserted another from his pocketful, subsequently sliding the chamber shut and returning his forefinger to the primary M82G trigger.