TITLE: Bow Down Before No Man
CHAPTER: 2
AN: Hello again. Thanks for dropping by. I know I'm taking a few liberties here, but I'm so intrigued by these characters and so disgusted with Nightfall, I feel the need to create a story.
"For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first." ―Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games
The three men squared off and just to make a point Jun held on to Randall's fist for second longer than Randall allowed it. He sneered into Jun's face, "I told you two to clear out. Or shall we break all protocol and just have a go at it here on the grass. I'm sure no one'll notice."
"Get a hold of yourself. There are larger forces at work here."
"There always are John. Always are. So that you know, I protected my little slice of humanity here on Vodin. They saved my life, and I helped them rebuild their community and made a home here for myself. And. I. Am. Not. Leaving."
Jun threw up his hands with an impatient gesture. "We know the story. Covenant orbital battle. You fell from one of the planet's skyhooks into Vodin's atmosphere, plunged to the surface. Managed to survive by landing in one of the colony's oceans. Lovely story. Just please spare us the romantics."
"Jun, you son-of-a-bitch, I'll dig you a grave with my hands. You're about two words shy of calling me out as a traitor." Randall's hands closed into fists and the sound his anger drew the attention of the mourners just leaving for their vehicles.
"I'll call you a coward, too. Hiding behind the skirts of a wife and these people. I may not know everything about your kind of Spartans, but I know," he waved his hand toward the staring crowd, "this wasn't a part of your training."
John-117 moved between the two men. Someone around here needed to act like an adult. Why the fuck did it always, turn out to be him? These Spartan IIIs were nothing but a wild bunch, intent on kill numbers and showing off. They were, in his opinion, out of control and no good would come of them. Randall-037? A good man in a bad situation. Had no one really thought to go looking for him in ten years? No Spartan ever dies. Bullshit. That was just more of Halsey's propaganda.
A sound no human ear could hear vibrated the air molecules and parted the air between the men drawing them away from each other and turning their attention to the tree trunk. Silent and deadly, a well-placed shot had impacted the tree dead center. The only evidence was the smoking hole in the dead wood.
"Randall?" His brother-in-law called him from the vehicle. "Coming? Nat's in the car with us."
Behind the Spartans, the dry timber burst into flame. The old tree went up like a torch and an easily spotted target. Another shot exploded into the pile of dirt next to Lara's coffin. All around them screams ripped the through the air. Ten years was not enough time to forget a Covenant invasion. Panic drove them to run not just for cover, but also for their lives.
The priest shouted for them to stay away from their vehicles and get into the trees. Their spiritual leader since that fateful attack he was one among many who held the survivors together and helped form a new community. His strong and persuasive voice managed to turn them from the parking area toward the tree line.
The second shot landed just close enough to the vehicle, where his daughter slept in her car seat, to make a point.
Jun and John rolled away from the tree while Randall sprinted toward the car. With Spartan speed and a father's love pushing him on he managed to grab his daughter, slide across the back seat and out the other door. Tucking her against his chest, he rolled down the short slope and away from the car. He called to his brother-in-law, but the man was frozen with fear and surprise.
"Take care of that little girl, Randall!" He watched his brother-in-law, a man he knew as a friend and loved like a brother stand tall. And realized it wasn't fear at all when the man dropped himself into the car and sped away, churning grass and mud beneath the wheels. He didn't get far.
The infant wailed in protest.
The third shot hit the car in the fuel tank, and Randall dropped his head and tucked his body around his screaming daughter. A ball of burning gas roared across the Spartan burning the shirt off his back. The four-foot dip in the lawn saved him and only the thought of keeping his daughter safe kept him from screaming in pain as the fire licked at his flesh.
200 yards away, Lieutenant Jameson Locke swore and aimed his weapon into the panicked crowd. If he couldn't get the Spartan, he'd take out a few more of his so-called family. That should bring him out of hiding. The other two Spartans had disappeared, and the young lieutenant was under no illusions that he'd see them again. That was okay. His real target was Randall-037.
His orders, signed by Halsey herself, were explicit. Retrieve the renegade Spartan Randall-037. MIA for the last decade, he'd finally surfaced after the planet Vodin recovered enough to contact the other colonies.
Locke adjusted his scope and noticed a man pointing toward the wooded area, east of the graveyard. Dressed all in black, Locke remembered watching the man speak at the funeral ceremony. Keeping the chaos churned up would help Locke locate the Spartan.
A breath, a squeeze of the trigger and the man clad in black dropped silently to the ground, only the red cloud where his head had been a sign that he'd been standing there at all.
Now, Locke could hear the screaming as it rolled across the emerald grass toward his location. His Spotter chuckled in admiration, "Helluva shot, LT."
"Couldn't have made it without you, Third. We work well together. Let's pick up the pace and call in the rest of the team. Time to move in for the pickup."
"Aye, sir." While the Petty Officer Third Class, Alistair Bov Estrinmade the call, Jameson Locke watched for his target moving through the crowd. It's what he'd do. Try and hide himself among the panicking crowd. But hiding a 6'7" frame wasn't so easy.
And there he was!
Locke followed Randall-037 through his scope, moving through the crowd staying low and darting into the trees. The lieutenant, with higher aspirations than sniper specialist, took his time loading the tranquilizer bullet into his rifle. Catching this prize would mean, at the very least, a field promotion. He'd make sure his Spotter came along for the ride. He was a good man and someone he's learned to trust. And trust didn't come easy to a man like Jameson Locke.
A skinny boy of eight, covered in lice, plucked off the inner city streets of Jericho VII. Arrested by the local militia on a backward planet on an equally backward edge of the galaxy, for stealing food from a street vendor and arrested. The vendor had seen something in the boy and paid his bail. What awaited the child in prison was far worse than anything he might face in the street including starving to death.
The young boy was bright enough to understand the man had saved his life. He worked hard and never missed a day of school. On his seventeenth birthday, he left for college. No one was prouder than the street vendor was. But pride blinded him from the truth about Jameson Locke. The street had left its mark on the bright young man long before he'd learned to eat right and do well in school. A cruel streak burned into his skin by long lonely nights on the street, learning how to survive and that cruelty could get you what you wanted.
After college, the military beckoned. They offered the bright young black man, with stellar grades, not only a commission, but a chance at qualifying for a secret branch of the UNSC. The mystery of it and the idea he could qualify for something special, something no one else could achieve drove him to accept the offer.
Locke's attention turned back to the Spartan when he made the mistake of standing upright. The man had his back to him, but he could plainly see the baby in his arms and the black suit jacket.
Locke watched the Spartan take off running. Of course, he'd try to save the crowd by drawing fire. He smiled like a predatory wolf heading toward its prey. It's a smile he rarely allowed himself, but this was special. When the Spartan was approximately 300 yards from his position, Locke took a long breath… might as well have something to brag about.
"Freak," Locke whispered and squeezed the trigger gently.
The tranquilizer missile hit the Spartan squarely in the back of his leg, where it could explode most efficiently into his bloodstream. Nice shot, he thought as his muscles responded by locking up. He dropped to his knees. The bundle rolled away from him. Then he fell headlong his arms outstretched, reaching… the spring sun dimmed and went out.
