Hello everyone! I'm releasing this one shot from Europe! Specifically Malta!
This One Shot came to me when I was rereading the Halo Evolutions short story Acheron VII, shown below. I don't own halo or the short story this is based on.
Please let me know how I did with a review! Thank you and enjoy!. :)
"It's barren here
the air chokes; on dust and smoke
the ground cracks; surrendering to the heat
It's lonely here
with only the dead as company,
but anymore, this has become his closest companion;
death
There was once a purpose to all of this;
a specific design
Soldiers sent forth in the name of retribution
In their path; an alien covenant
vast in number
ardent in their belief
Now, but one stands
Only one; survivor
His friends taken by conflict
Their adversaries delivered unto
Alone now, he treks the wastelands
cut off; stranded
Knowing somewhere above;
Out and beyond
His brothers, his sisters, continue to struggle
Continue to fight, to die;
to strive. A million stars between here and home
A million enemies; more
Yet here he stands, ever vigilant
And here he'll stay;
A lone warrior, on a desolate plain."
Halo Evolutions short story Acheron VII
The lone Spartan eyed the wasteland around him, his MJOLNIR MK IV armour, once pristine and functioning now dirty and broken, covered in head to toe in dirt and sand and yet it looked almost angelic in the wastes. The green and black paint scheme chipped and worn, displaying the grey shell underneath.
That's all he was now, a shell. No longer a human being nor a Spartan, just a shell.
Had he even been alive to begin with? What was his purpose?
Around him were hundreds of Covenant soldiers, their armour just as dirty and broken as his own. They posed no threat to him. They had been claimed by the sand, the sand coursed through them, penetrated them. Their bodies filled with holes for the sand to enter. To take. Banshee flyers and Ghost fast attack ships were also buried, burning beside their infantry counterparts.
Around him were also his comrades, humans. Soldiers, saviours. Their bodies burned and mangled, splintered and bruised, crushed and desecrated by the alien juggernaut.
He wasn't a saviour. He had failed to save even one of the people around him.
He had no power over life and death, no lucky charm or technical marvel. He wasn't a God, he couldn't choose who lived or who died, who killed what and when.
No, he was not a God, or a Titan, or a saviour or a hero. He was a demon, a monolithic entity created to kill, to destroy...but also to protect. His home, his people, his planets from harm. That was his purpose, his mission, he remembered, his hands gripping his rifle tighter as he realized.
He was alone, now. No Human forces remained on planet or in space. He was stuck here, cut off, stranded. He didn't mind, he still hadn't accomplished his mission.
His gaze drifted to the bodies of the fallen, Human and alien, UNSC and Covenant. Soon they would be buried, nothing of note would be known of them, no one would hear from them, call for them. There was no one left, no tales would be said of their bravery, no medals given or recognition to be had.
The Spartan then shifted his helmeted gaze to the clouds, his golden visor reflecting an image of a CCS class Battlecruiser as it descended from the sky. It's hangers shooting out dozens of phantom dropships that were barreling towards the lone soldier, intent on killing this lone demon where hundreds of their comrades had failed.
The Spartan checked the MA5B rifle held gingerly in his bloody armoured hands, finding half a clip, his M90A Shotgun attached magnetically on his back held only three shells and he carried only two M67 HE grenades. No matter, he thought. It would be enough to finish his mission.
As the first dropship landed the Spartan levelled his rifle at the door. It opened, unleashing its Covenant cohort onto the world.
The Elites surrounded him, swords held ready as the lone Spartan shifted his aim between them, all of them, barring one were Elite Special Operations except a white armoured Ultra at the front of the circle.
He would not die here, he could not die here for he had died long ago. He was no more than a shell, now, a broken shell. And he still had a mission to complete.
One of the Elites, the silver armoured Ultra stepped forwards, sword held high. It bellowed a war cry. The Spartan didn't falter.
The Spartan steadied his aim as the two warriors circled each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.
The Elite snarled and charged. The Spartan steadied and fired.
Not much is known of that day, only that of the thirty Covenant troops that touched down on the ground sent to dispatch the lone Spartan only one survived. The Ultra, Rtas Vadumee. For his troubles he lost his left mandibles, received three broken bones including a broken leg and a severe concussion and was taken off combat duty for months.
The UNSC officially listed that lone Spartan as Missing In Action, partially due to ONI directives but mainly because no one alive saw him die. Rtas was knocked unconscious by the Spartan within the first few minutes of their fight. None of the other ground troops survived the encounter and the Phantom operators were nowhere to be found when UNSC officials went to question them. No evidence was found to suggest a confrontation took place on the planet entirely, everything had been swallowed by the sand.
All the UNSC (and by extension the public) know is that a lone Spartan defied the Covenant one last time, on a world no one cared about in a war that never should have happened and that for the briefest of moments that Spartan was more than a soldier, he was a symbol of human courage and fortitude in the face of impossible odds.
Dr. Carl Emerson, University of Visiguard, colony of Newton
January, 2678
[Taken from Humanities' Darkest Days: A look at the Covenant War]