Lone Wolf: Six's Tale
Six looked out over the barren, scorched landscape before her. The sky was painted the color of rust, a dirty, burnt reddish-brown. In the distance, Six could still see a Covenant Carrier, a pencil-thin beam of light tethering it to the ground beneath it in a vertical line. In reality, she knew it was the Carrier's Plasma bombardment, hosing the area beneath it with superheated plasma and rendering the planet's surface to glass. Six looked down to her clenched fist, within it were Jorge's dog tags. At her hip, she felt the weight of Kat's pistol, an odd combination of regret and comfort issuing from both objects. Six looked up from the tags, bringing her hand up and attaching them to the magnetic clasp on her neck. She then reached back and clutched the grip of her Designated Marksman's Rifle, drawing it from its magnetic holster and shouldering it.
She stepped down from the platform she had been standing on, walking toward the dust cloud at the edge of her vision, in which the forms of several armed figures could be seen. Six raised her rifle and lined the sights up on the closest figure, a diminutive figure with the silhouette of a pyramid sprouting from its back. Six fired one shot, and smirked as she hit her mark. The Grunt's methane-filled backpack ignited upon impact, causing a small explosion that served to distract her targets long enough for her to line her sights up on the next target before they could react. The next shadow in the haze was much taller, with a hunched posture and a weapon clutched in one of its claws. Six recognized it as an Elite and peppered the figure's form with shots. After three shots, the familiar blue haze of a burst energy shield radiated from the figure, and Six adjusted her aim to land the final shot into the center of the Elite's skull. Without hesitation, Six turned her sights on the final figure, another Grunt, still frozen in fear, and put a single round into its head.
As the last figure dropped to the ground, Six calmly ejected the nearly spent magazine, grabbing a fresh one and smacking it home with a familiar click. Only then did Six release the breath she hadn't remembered holding. As more figures began to make their way out of the smoke, first one, then two, then a dozen, Six sighed, and raised her rifle again.
Six fought for hours on end, not thinking, not feeling, only acting and reacting. More and more Covenant soldiers fell from her attack, some with neat holes in their heads, others in pieces from her grenades, and some with their skulls or chests caved in from her harsh blows with the butt of her rifle. As she continued to fight the infinite horde of alien attackers, Six occasionally was not quick enough to dodge their shots, and over time gained a hefty collection of wounds. A large cauterized gash lined her stomach, and in several places her armor sported holes, revealing deep burns that wept blood from between cracks in the charred skin. At one point, a shot had impacted the side of her helmet, the armor saving her from being decapitated from the blast, but leaving deep cracks on the edge of her visor.
She noticed none of this. Only continuing to blow away the Covenant, determined to cost them as much as they had cost her, had cost all of humanity.
A click resounded as Six pulled the trigger of her DMR, and she instinctively ejected the spent mag and reached for a full one, but paused as she realized she was out of ammo, the first conscious thought she had had in the last two hours. She quickly dropped the DMR, and went to reach for her pistol, when a bolt of plasma impacted her in the center of her visor. It shattered, a gaping hole appearing in it as shards of melting glass peppered Six's face. She roared in pain and rage, and gripped the helmet, yanking it off and setting it on the ground. She then noticed an assault rifle laying not five feet in front of her, like a gift from God. She stumbled forward and grabbed it before standing upright, leveling the assault rifle at the oncoming horde and pulling the trigger. Immediately a steady spray of bullets poured from the rifle's muzzle, and the front line of the approaching Covenant fell as Six's fire left a large pattern of holes in their bodies.
An Elite approached Six from behind and Six whipped around, smashing its face with the butt of her assault rifle and finishing it off with a quick burst of fire. As another Elite approached Six began painting it with fire until its shields broke and the soldier collapsed in a pool of its own purple blood. Six continued firing until a stray plasma bolt impacted just beneath her arms, hitting her in the chest and sending gouts of blood into the air as she staggered back. Noble Six would not be deterred, however, and managed to cling to her rifle with her right hand on the grip. With her left, she reached to her hip and retrieved Kat's pistol. She whipped toward the source of the enemy fire and began spraying the area with her assault rifle, firing from the hip. In her opposite hand she leveled the pistol on the nearest approaching Elite and fired several shots. She adjusted her aim to an Elite that had managed to get within swinging distance.
The Elite grabbed Six in its claws but she simply pressed the muzzle of Kat's pistol against its head and pulled the trigger. The Elite fell back with two new holes in either side of its head, one neat and surgical, the other ragged and gaping. Six fell from the Elite's grasp, but managed to stay on her feet. This was not for long, however, as another Elite rushed forward, launching a kick into her wounded chest, causing her to fall back, gasping in pain.
She landed hard on her back, and grunted as what felt like shards of ice lanced up her spine, but recovered quickly as she saw an Elite bearing down on her. It leapt forward, ready to run her through with its energy gauntlet, but Six struck first, lifting one leg up to catch the Elite in the chest, lifting it off its feet and away from her and into one of its fellows. Another Elite came forward, this one being smart enough to avoid a full lunge toward her, instead bringing its arm down to bury its energy gauntlet into her skull. Six rolled to the side, ducking under the blow, before turning toward the Elite and launching her elbow into its mandibled face. The Elite fell back, clutching its face in pain, only to be replaced by its brothers. Another Elite bore down on Six, this one armed with a full-length energy sword. Six rolled again, avoiding the glowing blade and drew her combat knife, before lunging forward and burying it in the Elite's neck. The Elite twitched before going limp, its fresh corpse falling on top of Six. Six grabbed the dead Elite's energy sword and shoved the body off of her, just as the Elite she had elbowed returned, its eyes full of indignant rage, one of its mandibles hanging lamely. It brought its gauntlet down again, but this time Six was prepared, and grabbed the Elite's arm just as it brought it down in a final stab. With her other hand she lifted the sword and buried it in the Elite's chest, piercing its heart. The Elite fell back, dead before it hit the ground.
Six took this opportunity as the Elites watched their fellows' deaths, leaping to her feet and getting into a combat stance, the sword in her right hand, her left ready to catch or block any incoming blows. In front of her stood five Elites, and behind them, in the distance but rapidly closing, was an army of their fellows. Six was exhausted, and seeing the horde of enemies bearing down on her nearly caused her to break down in tears. She quickly shook the thought away, instead setting herself one final goal. The five Elites in front of her would die.
She calmly raised her empty hand, palm up, toward the gathered Elites. She then curled her fingers back in the universal "come and get me," sign, flashing the Elites a tired, but devilish grin. The Elites roared in outrage in response, and charged. Six took a deep breath, and sprinted forward, meeting them head on.
The first was raising its sword as Six drew within range, thrusting her sword into its abdomen and twisting sharply, felling the Elite before it could so much as breathe.
One down. The next was more prepared and launched an attack just as she removed her sword from the body of the first. She barely had time to block the incoming blow, but managed to save herself as the two swords clashed, sending sparks of plasma flying in between them. Six twisted the sword again, jerking the Elite's grip loose and giving her the opening to jerk her sword forward again, this time cutting deeply into the Elite's neck. The body of the second Elite collapsed, the gaping wound in its neck shedding no blood as burning plasma of the sword instantaneously cauterized the wound as fast as it was inflicted.
Two Down. The third and fourth Elites were prepared for Six at this point, each moving to one side of her as they raised their swords to strike. Reacting quickly, Six snatched the sword from the dead Elite's grasp, bringing it to bear as she caught the sword strikes on each side of her. Six then shoved the sword in her left hand forward, knocking the corresponding Elite back and granting her some breathing room to deal with the remaining Elite to her right, swinging her left sword forward towards its chest. Unfortunately the Elite was ready and raised its arm, activating its energy gauntlet and blocking the blow, while Six and its blades remained locked in front of them. Six's arm fell back, and she struck again, this time aiming just under the Elite's forearm, towards its elbow. It connected, and the Elite howled in agony as its left arm fell to the ground, the blue plasma surrounding its forearm dissipating as the energy gauntlet automatically deactivated. Six then proceeded to bring her left sword forward again, this time beheading the unfortunate Elite in one clean swipe. This skirmish happened in a matter of seconds, and the Fourth Elite was just recovering from the knockback as two thumps signaled the death of its comrade.
Three Down. Six turned toward the Fourth Elite and brought both swords to bear, before charging forward. The Elite had almost no time to react as Six brought both blades down in a vicious arc, but it was enough. Using the same method as its fallen comrade, the Fourth Elite used the sword in its right hand to block one of Six's swings, activating its energy gauntlet in its left hand to block the other. The blades locked, and the struggle quickly became a game of reverse tug-of-war, each side trying to push past their opponent's defenses. Plasma sputtered and sparked from the crossed blades, occasionally landing onto one of the combatants, searing their armor or worse, their skin. Six grimaced as a particularly nasty stray piece landed on her cheek, the superheated plasma carving a deep gash into her face before burning out.
The Elite was faring no better, as one spark of plasma landed on one of its outstretched mandibles, burning through several teeth and making the Elite roar in pain, but it refused to submit. It only pressed harder, and Six suddenly found herself losing ground against her larger and incensed opponent. Then, a stroke of bittersweet luck struck both parties, as both Six's left energy sword and the Elite's energy gauntlet collapsed, their power cells drained and the plasma blades dissipated.
Their forearms collided, and it distracted both parties for a moment as the exchange of plasma ended, on one side, anyway. Six's right sword and the Elite's own energy sword was still active, and spitting plasma as their embrace continued. Six recovered from the surprise first, and launched her fist into the Elite's face, colliding with the side of its head and leaving a small dent in its helmet. This caused the Elite to flinch back, and Six pressed her advantage, pushing with all her augmented strength on her sword, and then bringing it to the side, knocking away the Elite's sword and sending it to the ground. Six then brought her sword up in an arc, cutting into the Elite's abdomen and dropping it into the dust.
Four Down. Six finally lowered her sword and dropped her arms, relaxing her stance as a deep breath escaped her lips. The last Elite's body was slowly cooling in front of her, and Six finally was able to breathe easy. The Covenant forces in the distance were still advancing, but Six gave them no mind. She had won this final victory, she had-
Her thoughts were violently interrupted as pain tore through her chest, and Six found herself lifted off her feet as a glowing blade of energy burst forth from her chest. The sword receded as a four-fingered hand wrapped around her throat, and spun her around to face its owner. The Last Elite, Six having forgotten its presence in the middle of all the conflict.
The Last Elite snarled at her, his eyes burning with hatred, and yet, oddly enough, showing a deep respect for his victim. Six thrashed in his grip, a last desperate act of defiance, when to her surprise it spoke, in deep, guttural English, "It is over, Demon. You have fought well. Your actions, though fruitless, have earned you an honorable death. But before I send you to meet the rest of your kind, I must ask: Why? Why do you resist us? Why do you fight, knowing the consequence will always be your demise? For honor? Your kind has none. For survival? Even now we have conquered your greatest stronghold, and we have no intention of stopping until every last one of you humans is dead by our hands. So why? Why do you fight?" Six stared, shocked at the Elite for a moment, before recovering and giving her retort.
She spit in its face.
The Elite stared, slack-jawed, Six's saliva slowly sliding down the front of its helmet, before its face contorted into one of pure rage. It brought its other hand up to clutch at Six's throat, throttling her as it roared incoherently. It ceased its violent thrashings for a moment, simply holding Six by her throat as she fought against unconsciousness. She then summoned her dwindling strength to grab a knife from her belt. Bringing it up she sunk it to the hilt into the Elite's forearm, bringing forth a howl of rage from the Elite and trapping herself in the its embrace. With her other hand, she reached into her belt and withdrew her last resort: a single, unprimed plasma grenade. The Elite's eyes widened as it glanced at the grenade, and then back to Six as it attempted to drop her. She looked it dead in the eye as she placed her thumb on the trigger. "For Noble." Six said simply, jamming her thumb down on the trigger of the grenade. It instantly lit up in a bright electric blue glow. "For Reach." Six closed her eyes and let loose one final breath of relief, giving in to the exhaustion in her final moments.
The grenade detonated, and both Six and the Elite vanished in a flash of blue light, reflected in the cracked visor of her discarded helmet.
Reach, 2589
37 Years Later
Thel Vadam' walked calmly through the plains of the resurrected fields of Aszod, his sacramental armor shining in the midday sun. He had taken a short relief from the endless political meetings that had taken up the majority of his days after his adventures as the Arbiter. He still carried the title, he would until the day he died, but no longer did he feel the sense of honor the position gave him. He felt old, a ghost of the once proud warrior he had been. He pursed his mandibles in thought, pondering whether he was even worthy of the status he still held.
His thoughts were interrupted as a glare of sunlight reflected into his eyes. He shut his eyes reflexively, and looked away, cursing this planet's blinding sunlight. It was then he realized the glare had come not from the sky above him, but the ground. Squinting, the Arbiter cast his gaze back to the source of the glare, and gasped. There, lying not ten feet in front of him was a helmet. It was faded grey; whatever color it had once had was gone, weathered away with age. He strode over to the helmet and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was definitely human, he could make out the letters UNSC emblazoned on the sides, though the paint was faded and chipped. He turned the helmet over so the front was facing him.
The visor was shattered; a collection of spider web cracks radiating from a large hole in the center. With a jolt, the Arbiter recognized it as not one of the helmets used by the ordinary UNSC marines, or even the specialized ODSTs, but a SPARTAN helmet. The Arbiter looked up from the helmet and gazed across the plain, looking for any further evidence of the fallen SPARTAN. There was none, everything else had been consumed by time, only gently rolling hills and healthy plains of grass were visible. The Arbiter heard footsteps approaching behind him. He turned, and stood face to face with Lord Terrence Hood.
Hood had long since retired as an Admiral, and now served as an ambassador alongside the Arbiter. The aged man locked his gaze on the helmet in the Arbiter's hands, and his wrinkled face took on an expression of surprise. He gestured to the helmet, saying, "Where did you find that?" The Arbiter looked down at the package in his hands, meeting its shattered gaze with his own, before responding. "Out here, on this plain. It is a relic, all that remains of a forgotten soul." Hood nodded slowly, scrutinizing the helmet, studying its weathered surface. The Arbiter noticed his interest in the helmet, and held it out for him to take. Hood accepted it, turning it over in his aged hands. After a minute of study, Hood handed the helmet back to him, saying, "It's a MJOLNIR markV[B]. It was issued to SPARTAN-IIIs. None of them are left, they're all MIA."
The Arbiter was familiar with his human allies tradition of never listing their Spartans as Killed In Action, instead referring to them only as Missing In Action, as though they were simply cut off from the rest of the UNSC, still fighting on some unknown battlefield. Since learning of this ritual, the Arbiter had on many occasions pondered why they did this. To the Sangheili, denying a warrior's death usually denoted a form of banishment, dishonoring them by refusing to acknowledge their deaths and by extension their lives. The Arbiter recalled having once asked Hood about this, but the veteran officer simply said it was to promote morale. If Spartans weren't listed as Killed In Action, they could perpetuate the rumor that they were incapable of dying. The Arbiter's own experiences had taught him that this was a complete lie. He had, over the course of his career as the Fleetmaster of the Fleet of Particular Justice, seen and even been responsible for the deaths of many Spartans. But he conceded that morale was important in any army, and noted that without the tenacity and spirit the humans had displayed in the Great War, they would have been dead a long time ago.
As with every time Spartans were mentioned, the Arbiter's thoughts drifted to the one with which he had the deepest relationship. The Master Chief, John-117. Their time as comrades had been short, only a matter of days, but it was during that time that the Arbiter witnessed the indomitable might of the Human's last, best hope to win the Great War. He had saved the Arbiter many times over both through direct intervention in combat, and through indirect action as well. Had the Spartan not fought against the Covenant and struck so deeply within their core, he doubted the Great Schism would have occurred, and the Human-Sangheili alliance would never have formed. He was even the cause of his transformation into the Arbiter: It was his destruction of the Installation-04 that led to his fall from grace, and into the armor he now wore.
His thoughts then drifted to their final battle, their tag-team campaign during the Reclamation of the Ark, Installation-00. Several times during that conflict, the Arbiter found himself fighting literally back-to-back with the Spartan, each of them protecting the other as they fought off innumerable waves of Enemy Covenant, and the Flood. His expression darkened as he recalled the final culmination of their conflict, their hectic race against time to escape the Ark. The Master Chief at the wheel of the late Sergeant Johnson's Warthog, with him clinging to the mounted chaingun on the rear. Their desperate leap of faith into the hangar of the Forward Unto Dawn. It was there that they were separated, the Arbiter making his way onto the bridge, the Spartan remaining in the hangar. They had launched the ship away from the Ark, desperately attempting to make it through the portal back to Earth before the Ark detonated, destroying itself and anything nearby in a massive explosion.
The Arbiter recalled the return to Earth, the nerve-wracking crash into one of Earth's oceans, half of the ship sheared off from the collapse of the portal. The Arbiter was eventually rescued, but the Spartan wasn't so fortunate. He had been in the section that had been removed from the ship, left behind in the wake of the Ark's destruction. The humans, Lord Hood included, believed the Master Chief to be dead. The Arbiter, however, was unsure. It would be easy to assume that the Chief had been killed in the explosion, with not a trace remaining from the colossal detonation. Were it so easy. The Arbiter's own words echoed through his head. He knew deep inside that the Spartan was out there, somewhere, waiting for the next conflict to call him into battle.
Throughout this reflection, the Arbiter had continued to stare into the helmet's ruined visor, contemplating its many scores and deformities. This Spartan was dead, a remnant of a dead planet, newly renewed. The ghosts of the past continued to haunt him, some more so than others. Would the ghost of this Spartan join them? Did he deserve it to? He had been a fool, yes. A puppet for the Prophets, blindly following their will no matter his own moral perceptions. And the humans had paid for it, far too many with their lives. He traced one long finger over the top of the helmet one final time, then strode back over to where he had originally found it. Depositing it back in its original resting place, before taking a step back. He had made amends for his transgressions, and while he may not deserve forgiveness, neither did he deserve to further condemn himself for his crimes. He heard Lord Hood step forward to his side.
"I recall saying that I couldn't forgive you for what your kind had done to mine." Lord Hood said, apparently sensing the Arbiter's thoughts, or at least taking a very good guess. "But I did give you my thanks. I don't hate you. I don't know if I should or not." The Arbiter glanced over to Hood, and saw that his gaze was locked on the helmet, a solemn expression on his face. "But after all this time, I think I can bring myself to say that I don't blame you. This war brought out the worst in all of us, but also the best. I don't know who this Spartan was, but I know that they gave their life for us. They displayed courage beyond the call of duty. That enough makes their sacrifice worthwhile. They were the best of us."
As Hood ended his spontaneous eulogy, the Arbiter was hit with another wave of regret. He lifted one arm and brought a clenched fist to his chest in a salute. After a moment, Hood joined him, removing his old Admiral's cap and placing it over his heart. The Arbiter met the broken gaze one last time, and said, "Your courage has given us this day. We will not forget you, Warrior. We will remember your sacrifice." He turned back to face the plain, its recently-terraformed surface offering a symbol of a hopeful future.
"We will remember Reach."