Taking Sides
The mist cascading from heavily laden clouds boils away as searing bolts of plasma streak through the air. Cries of pain fill the brief periods of peace between the storms of gunfire. Black armored figures press closer to the thin line of defenders, uncaring of their dying comrades behind them. Their featureless helmets remain fixed downrange their rifles spewing crimson bolts of plasma to keep the defenders suppressed. Fighters twist and burn overhead raining scrap and fire on both sides.
The defenders desperately try to maintain their fire rate knowing that they have little chance of actually holding out on this front, but buying time for their wounded and civilians to be evacuated. Their trenches seem like paltry protection against the swarms of black armored troopers bearing down on their position but they have little choice in the matter. Moral, already low from the desperation of their position, plummets into the depths of hell as the signature screech of igniting lightsabers reaches their ears. A half dozen crimson blades clutched in the deadly grip of the galaxy's greatest killers.
So chaotic and desperate is the fighting, the participants so intent on death, that no one notices the purple and black portal that belches a burning ship into the woods bordering the conflict.
The shaking Pelican groans in protest as it slams into the hard ground. Titanium plating buckles against the unforgiving ground as the dropship plows a path through the young trees and soft top soil. The occupants within are thrown against their restraints with every jolt before the ship comes to a sudden stop. Groaning figures in void black plating punch the releases on their restraints. Weak legs lift them from their seats and hands reach for the reassuring forms of weapons. Coughs are torn from parched throats as thin wisps of smoke are inhaled through open helmet filters before they automatically seal.
"Feral sound off!"
"Gunner up!"
"Jackson up!"
"Blackman up!"
The stunned figures stumbled from the belly of the dropship, faces hidden behind their helmets' signature silver faceplate. The fifth figure to emerge is differentiated by the suite encasing his body. Standing a few inches taller than the tallest of his companions he cuts a startling image with the thick armor plates and golden reflective faceplate. Carrying a similar weapon to all but one of his companions, he moves with the fluid grace of a predator. Always looking for something that might indicate danger with sharp eyes.
"Where the fuck are we?" one of the smaller figures asks. The nameplate on his armor reading "Jackson". A slightly taller, and definitely more muscular, man with the stripes of a Staff Sergeant sighs and shakes his head.
"I've got no fucking idea Jackson. All I know is that getting sucked into a slipspace rift should have ripped us into little itty-bitty pieces not sent us to a garden world."
"Well...Feral has always been lucky right Staff?" Some of the other Marines chuckle but their tall companion declines joining in. His thoughts are occupied with the thoughts of his dead brothers back home, where they claimed the head of a Covenant field marshall and his entire command structure before the Brutes and Elites rallied together. The numerous scratches and dents in the plates of his SPI II armor tell the tale of the fighting in those close confines of the command center. The battered MA37 in his hands has seen him through every conflict over the last three years of his service to the UNSC and would hopefully see him through the rest.
He's under no illusions: ONI doesn't place any particular value on his life beyond that of any other asset under their command. As a Spartan III he was expected to undergo hellish training, genetic modifications, and sent on suicide missions for the good of humanity. When his skill set him apart from the others in Bravo company and saw him set up with a team of his fellow Spartans and sent on more important missions. The last one on New Syracuse saw his team killed and him barely escaping with the rest of the UNSC forces on world.
Then the corvette appeared right in front of the Pelican carrying him and fireteam Feral. The team of ODSTs spread out in a cautious perimeter not even bothering to check if the pilots were still alive. There isn't a chance they lived through the impact. The Spartan takes a position in the formation without a thought, every movement guided by the absolute discipline and military sense pounded into his head by one Senior Chief Petty Officer Mendez. Taking note of this Staff Sergeant Anders silently mulls over their options. The lack of communications is going to be an issue but nothing that the seasoned Helljumper hadn't dealt with before.
A glance at the sky confirms to him that there are no Covenant cruisers hanging in low orbit to glass him and his men with energy projectors, and the lack of screaming Banshees also is a comforting fact. But that is easily counter pointed by the lack of UNSC channels appearing in his HUD beside his own squad channel with the Spartan's tie in. Gripping his MA5B a little tighter the Staff Sergeant signals his men forward.
Growling lightsabers clash in squealing crosses as their wielders batter at each other with reckless abandon. Troopers in white and black armor spray each other with plasma, dying in their fighting pits while their more dangerous comrades duel in the open. Artillery pounds either side wreathing the battlefield in a cloud of smoke and dust obscuring the armored hulk of machine and man alike. A cry strikes up and thousands of the ebon armored troops rise from their positions in a headlong charge into the teeth of the defenses.
Heavy weapons roar their fury hosing the advancing troops with crimson plasma bolts. Missiles streak past each other detonating in flowers of flame and smoke. Bodies quickly litter the earth between the two sides and the black armored troops cease their charge, taking a much closer position to the defender's positions. Too late the defenders realise that the artillery that landed short was really making new positions for their foes to take cover. Hovering tanks rumble forward blasting entrenched heavy weapons with their massive cannons on full power.
And still the blades clash in a blinding display of light, each blade winking out one by one. A trio of fighters scream from the heavens turbolasers spitting plasma at a phenomenal rate and carving a path through the troops caught in the open. Then the first of the beings wielding the crimson blades leaps into the trenches.
The low thumping of explosions sets the ragtag group on edge as they move quietly through the trees. The hardened Marines, used to plummeting through the atmosphere of a world from a ship in low orbit and into unknown hostile situations, have been ignoring the strange creatures that scurry past them in the trees and in the underbrush. Once they had to take a long route around a sleeping predator the size of a Warthog but nothing has threatened them unduly. The sounds of conflict in the distance however is something else entirely.
So they move cautiously, all conversation restricted to curt reports through their secured helmet communicators. The Spartan moves at the front of the formation by unspoken agreement. After all, his thicker armor and better reflexes increase his chances of survival beyond that of the average ODST. It was all going smoothly if a little tense...until a streak of jade colored light streaks past the Spartan's head.
"Contact!" Anders bellows unnecessarily and dives for the cover of a nearby fallen tree. Fireteam Feral scrambles for cover as a storm of sizzling plasma streaks past them, carving furrows into the earth and starting small fires in the dead leaves and twigs. The Spartan finds cover behind a thick tree calmly taking stock of what he saw in those few heartbeats before he found cover.
"Enemy contact, fifty meters. White armor, platoon strength," he reports calmly, glancing down to check the ammo counter on his rifle.
"Shit, we in deep Feral! Let's see what these bastards can do. Spartan you've got free reign!" With that the Helljumpers leaned out from their cover and return fire with short controlled bursts. Tracers and searing plasma cross midair. The ODSTs are careful, years of fighting an enemy with advanced weaponry has taught them that caution is the better part of valor. The Spartan meanwhile activates his armor's trump card: photo-reactive armor plating. The massive soldier disappears as his armor shifts to represent the world around him.
Enhanced muscles, beyond anything a normal man could ever hope to possess, propel him to speeds in excess of fifty kilometers per hour. In a blur of shifting imagery he accelerates avoiding the few poorly aimed shots that come his way. The first of the humanoid shapes that he comes upon aren't ready. T-shaped visors turn towards his speedy form in shock, rifles swinging around to face him. Then he fires.
Jack A-333 doesn't make a sound as he slips around the white armored troops pushing towards his comrades. The strange people's weapons spit plasma towards the shock troops but he isn't concerned: ODSTs are meant to be outnumbered. The expert marksmen retaliate with short bursts of 7.62mm slugs that punch into their foe's armor. While not the through and through wounds that the rounds are capable of against the relatively thin armor of Covenant troops they are still effective enough to kill. A round that doesn't penetrate the back plate bounces around the man's insides and mulches the organs.
An ugly way to die, but effective. The battered MA37 in his hands barks in three-round bursts drilling neat little holes into each of his targets as he blitzes past them. Plasma scorches the air around him as they ineffectually spray his last known position. He simply smirks and primes a grenade.
Staff Sergeant Brandon Andrews curses as his cover catches fire under the concentrated fire of a half dozen of those plasma rifles. His eyes flick to the ammo-counter on his rifle, comforted to see the magazine mostly full. He always wished to die on his feet rather than in his bed, or cowering in a closet like so many others have. He takes a deep breath and leans out firing a burst that takes an attacker in the chest killing the man instantly. A burst of retributionary plasma fire hammers into the tree sending splinters into the NCO's armor. A grenade blast rips into his attackers and brings silence to the battlefield for a moment.
"Press forward! For the Republic!" a voice bellows from the other side. The plasma fire resume and the ODSTs can do little to return it.
"They're pressing closer Staff!" Gunner bellows from behind his own tree.
"I know! Spartan! We need some room to breath! Suppressive fire and grenades on my mark!"
"Confirmed," the cool and collected voice replies. The Staff Sergeant has no doubt that the supersoldier is going to pull them through this. He's seen the man pull through far worse odds in the short time that he's known him. Andrews sucks in another breath to settle his nerves.
"Mark!" Five grenades sail through the air to land in the bushes. The fist-sized charges explode in deadly flowers of smoke, fire, and flying steel. Bodies are shredded and crunched by the air-pressure waves that smack through their armor as if it isn't there. Gunfire replace the explosions in the ensuing silence driving the white armored troops back into cover just long enough for the second phase to begin.
"Back! Regroup at the creek!" Andrews shouts and makes a break from cover. Feral breaks contact immediately and sprints as if the hounds of hell themselves are on their heels.
Jack melts into the scenery as the white armored troops sprint after Fireteam Feral, content to let them walk into their own graves. The Spartan stalks them in total silence, every footfall carefully but quickly planned so as not to give him away without need. The Helljumpers offer a few bursts of gunfire to try and slow their pursuers but otherwise don't break their retreat for a moment making for the creek that they crossed earlier. The Spartan silently locks his rifle to his back and drags his knife from its sheath.
"Cloak and Dagger," he thinks with a smirk and stalks after the rearguard.
The ODSTs sprint for their only hope for refuge: a creek bed with hardly any water in it and enough space for them to make at least a somewhat effective stand. The fireteam dives headfirst into the safety of the muddy creek, not even giving a second thought to the mud now coating their once void black armor. Rising from the muck they take aim once more with their now equally mud-coated MA5Bs. The sudden stop of the retreating Helljumpers throws their pursuers off just enough for six of them to be caught in the open and cut down.
A body at the rear of the formation slumps to the side: his throat slit wide open. No one sees him die, or hears the last gurgling breath that escapes his lips as he chokes on his own blood. They do notice the next three that die to the unseen blade as the last manages a short cry of shock before the steel edge silences him forever more. Rifles whip around and spray the air with superheated ionized gas. Not even giving their camouflaged hunter a sunburn. A suppressed pistol coughs at close range punching heavy 12.7mm armor-piercing rounds through the vulnerable visors of the white armored troops.
Confusion reigns as the unseen Spartan butchers his foes with brutal efficiency. Panicked orders are thrown back and forth as the NCOs try to restore discipline only to be picked off themselves by the accurate fire of the Helljumpers and the Spartan. The platoon of once disciplined soldiers is reduced to a pair of slightly overstrength squads with no command structure to speak of in under twenty minutes. In another two, there isn't a single one left standing. The mud spattered ODSTs climb from the creek and meet Jack halfway, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion and hands shaking from the adrenaline rush. The smallest ODST present looks around at his comrades and says what they're all thinking.
"Well Staff...I'm pretty sure we're fucked."