A/N: Enter the second group of characters that this story will follow!
Private Tim Farl stood at the gate to the 102nd Infantry Battalion's fire base. He was monitoring the gates, his first ever duty in the UNSC; he was a new recruit. His MA37 assault rifle was held loosely, it's recently polished surface catching the sweltering midday sun.
Tim polished everything; his boots, his weapons, his cap badge, he even polished his armour when he could get away with it. It made stealth considerably harder, but the UNSC issued camouflage paints that could stop the shine until washed off, which stopped the problem with a quick layer before every battle.
A Warthog jeep came hurtling down the dirt tracks leading into the fire base. Clumps of mud flew from the ground, churned up by the vehicle's wheels. Tim held his hand up, bringing the warthog to a stop inches from the gate.
"State your name, rank and purpose," Tim said.
"You don't need to bother with that stuff in the middle of a warzone," the Warthog's driver sighed.
"Regulations state that I do," Tim replied.
"Really, kid, regulations were written for peacetime," the driver said.
"Just give him the damn details," the Warthog's passenger said.
The driver sighed.
"Corporal Mike Enslow, 102nd Infantry. Returning from scouting mission," the driver stated.
Tim tapped at the console by the gate, updating the logs. He frowned as he saw the last entry was three days ago. Maybe the driver - Corporal Enslow - had been right about regulations.
Tim opened his mouth to speak, but the gate hissed open and an officer stepped out of the firebase.
"You four, report to the armoury," the officer ordered.
Tim snapped to attention and the Warthog crew and gunner stiffened where they sat.
"Yes, sir," they barked as one.
Tim was doubtful as to how good the officer was; he was leaving the gate unmonitored, which was definitely not regulation procedure. His mind once again snapped back to the corporal's comment on the regulations.
"Hey, kid, hop on," Enslow said.
Tim stopped himself before he could say how regulations limited warthog riders to three.
"Thanks, corporal," Tim said, climbing into the back of the warthog and sitting by the machine gun.
"No problem," Enslow said, starting the warthog back up and driving through the now open gate.
"What squad you from?" the passenger asked.
"Bravo Squad, 1st Platoon, Alpha Company," Tim answered.
"Bravo 1 Alpha?" the passenger said, shortening the name of the squad, "You must be our new replacement."
"Welcome to the squad," Enslow said, turning the wheel to the right.
"Uh, thanks," Tim said nervously.
"I'm PFC Jay Green," the passenger said, "quiet one back there with you is Private Sam Backster."
"Private Tim Farl," Tim said shaking hands with PFC Green as the warthog slowed to a stop.
The four Marines disembarked and headed into the armoury.
"Sorry about the thing at the gates, corporal," Tim said apologetically.
"No biggie. Everyone's like that at first," Enslow said with a smile.
An officer stood just inside the doors.
"Echo Fireteam, Bravo 1 Alpha reporting as ordered, sir," Enslow reported.
"Prep for combat. Captain Dwight wants 1st Platoon ready in," the officer said, glancing at his watch, "eight minutes."
"Yes sir," Enslow said, saluting.
The officer returned the salute, and waved the four members Bravo 1 Alpha in.
"How big is this squad?" Tim asked as he quickly grabbed some camouflage paint.
"12 men, like, every squad ever," Green said.
"Then how are we Echo fireteam?" Tim asked, confused at how E was the fifth letter, and five fireteams of four would make twenty.
"Because fireteams are consistent through the platoon. Having three alphas would get a little confusing," Enslow explained.
Tim thanked the corporal an rubbed paint over his rifle, giving it green and brown streaks all over it and stopping the shine. He took a moment to observe his comrade's gear; standard issue armour with their names stencilled on the back in black, helmets with eyepads and microphones, M6D pistols, nothing out of the ordinary. Enslow and Green had Assault Rifles like Tim, but Backster had a Designated Marksman Rifle.
Once they were geared up, Echo fireteam returned to the armoury entrance, where most of 1st platoon's three squads were waiting. After a minute or so, all 36 soldiers and the platoon Gunnery Sergeant were waiting for orders.
Captain Dwight, Alpha Company's OC walked up to the platoon flanked by a 2nd Lieutenant and thirty seven soldiers saluted.
"At ease," Captain Dwight ordered, then paused.
"As you probably know, the Covenant have ceased their attacks on the Gonzales Mountain area after special forces destroyed their base."
Tim had heard about that; rumour had it the special forces had been SPARTANs.
"However, they have started attacking the farms over on the west o the continent," Captain Dwight explained, "We just received words several towns are under attack, and you lot get the pleasure of defending the town Tically. Report to Pelican Bay 2, on the double."
"Sir, yes sir!"
LBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLB
Roughly half and hour later Tim and the rest of Bravo 1 Alpha were inside a vertical take off and landing droship nicknamed a Pelican. It's interior was lit red by the emergency combat lights and the stains on the floor taught Tim why it was nicknamed the 'blood tray'. The aircraft rattled and shook in midair as it descended into Tically.
The aircraft juddered one final time as it touched down, and the doors at the rear opened with a pneumatic hiss. Shafts of sunlight burst into the blood tray as screams of 'go, go, go' met Tim's ears. He got up from his seat and rushed off of the Pelican, rifle ready in his hands. His thumb pushed the safety catch off as his boot met the concrete road outside the dropship.
Tim looked around. The sky in the distance was bathed with a red tint and smoke was rising from the ground like steam from a kettle. The buildings along the road were once simple houses, turned into burning wreckages missing their top floors. Soldiers were rushing forwards, rifles firing. Silhouettes of short, stubbly figures with conical armour of some kind and tall, broad figures were standing at the end of the smoky street. Blobs of green and blue light were being flung towards Tim and his comrades.
A beam of violet light lanced through the soldier next to Tim, and the man fell to the ground, instantly dead. Tim dove behind the wreck of a car in fear. Heat washed over him as the alien's weapons slammed into the other side of the car. He tried to clear his mind and think. Grunts and Elites, shooting plasma. The car would be melted through in no time. He needed to take action.
He reached for his belt, looking for his grenades. He found them in no time and pried one loose, raising it and pulling the pin. He sprang to his feet and hurled the grenade, sending it spinning in cartwheels through the air towards the Covenant position. The grenade landed perfectly at the feet of an Elite leading a Grunt squad forward. Tim allowed himself to think that his instructors would have been proud. The grenade detonated in a conflagration of fire and shrapnel.
"First blood - me," Tim said to himself, proud of his first kill.
He ducked back behind the car, and for a few seconds he knelt there, unnoticed by the Covenant. Then an explosion shot the car into the air and hurled him back a full two meters and singed his eyebrows. He lay sprawled out on the ground for a moemtn before rolling onto his front and grabbing his rifle. He raised it to fire, but was distracted by a strange screeching sound.
"Banshees!" someone yelled.
Tim couldn't recall what Banshees were off of the top of his mind, so he just fired at the Covenant infantry, blowing through a grunt's arm. He adjusted his aim but was pulled to his feet and into a building before he could fire. He struggled, but stopped when lines of blue plasma and green explosions covered the road where he had just been.
"Thank you," he said to whoever had dragged him inside.
"I couldn't exactly let you die in your first firefight, could I now?" Enslow replied.
Tim remained silent, unsure how to reply to that. All of Echo fireteam was in the building, half a dozen soldiers were dead in the street, and the rest of Bravo 1 Alpha were out of Tim's sight.
"We've lost the street, haven't we?" Green asked Enslow.
"Yep," Enslow replied, "Along with the rest of the block."
"Huh? The block?" Green said.
"Radio report told me that stealth elites took the streets further into the block," Enslow explained.
"What's the plan, corporal?" Tim asked nervously.
"We're going to have to sneak back to the UNSC lines," Enslow said.
The corporal led his three teamates out of the building and into it's garden, a small square of fenced in grass, with a barbeque gathering dust in the corner. The grass near the door was singed from the plasma bombardment of the street. Enslow ran up to the fence and rammed it, knocking out a few of the planks making it up. Green and Backster started helping, and Tim copied their example. Within seconds there was a hole in the fence wide enough for the fireteam to head through.
The soldiers repeated the maneuver until they reached the final fence before the next street. After a brief conversation, Backster gave Enslow a boost so he could see the next street.
"We're fucked," Enslow muttered once back on the ground, "I saw about forty grunts, bunch of jackals and four or five elites, setting up camp."
"What do we do?" Tim whispered, heart racing.
"I don't know, god damn it!" Enslow whispered
"Should we call for support?" Backster asked.
"Worth a try," Enslow shrugged before whispering into his microphone.
"What did they say?" Tim asked.
"They said support is on the way," Enslow whispered.
The soldiers waited for a while, and were met with the sound of gunshots. They bashed through the fence to see six figures firing at the covenant, sprinting from cover to cover as they did so. The figures were all incredibly tall, seven feet at the least, and running faster than most gold medal sprinters. Green armour covered their bodies, their eyes hidden by golden visors.
One of them, a DMR wielder and most likely a woman (Tim couldn't tell all that well through their armour) jumped over a car and kicked a jackal backwards into an elite, sending them both tumbling. Another ducked an elite's punch and rammed a grenade into it's throat, before kicking it back into a group of grunts.
"Who are they?" Tim asked, awestruck.
"Spartans," Green breathed.
Backster seemed unfazed by the SPARTANs, and he simply took a knee and started firing at the grunts and jackals the supersoldiers missed, sending rounds through their heads and hearts with accuracy that would have been impressive if it weren't for the SPARTAN with the DMR consistently hitting her targets between the eyes while moving. Another SPARTAN was somehow getting reasonable accuracy with dual M7 SMGs, guns infamous for being inaccurate and hard to control.
Fireteam Echo advanced in a loose line, firing in a pattern so they all had to reload at different times. Tim almost mucked it up, but his boot camp training had just about got him through. With a squad of six SPARTANs supporting them, the soldiers easily pushed the Covenant into retreat.
"We... we did it," Tim said once the last fleeing Jackal was cut down by a SPARTAN's rifle.
"The Spartans did all the hard work," Green said.
"You cleaned up after us and drew attention and fire," one of the SPARTANs, obviously the leader of the group, said, "You were useful."
Tim looked at the giant supersoldier. His armour was composed of green plates over a black bodysuit, and his helmet's golden visor reflected everything the SPARTAN saw. A number - 174 - was printed in white over his heart, and a greek Delta symbol was on his right shoulder.
"Corporal Mike Enslow, Bravo 1 Alpha, 102nd Infantry. Thanks for saving us," Enslow said, holding out a hand.
The SPARTAN shook it.
"Chief Petty Officer Salim-174, SPARTAN Delta Squad. Thanks for the assist."
A/N: Thanks for reading, please leave a review. It'll save a pony's life.
