(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Potentially nightmare-fuelling imagery ahead; phobic triggers of death and the dark are possible upon reading. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.)
- Chapter V -
Death? Dying? No ... screaming. Just the prelude, the prologue, the beginning. His eyes fluttered open and his reality was not his own.
It began with a mud roof, and it ended in New Alexandria. It flitted back to the roof of the ship, a smoky sky, an endless sea of stars. Here, there, everywhere and he was back again, somehow attached to his body and still floating around. Thinking was hard - there was only dreaming, recalling, remembering.
Carter. Emile. Kat. Six. Jorge. Noble in command, and then everything went straight to hell. Reach for the stars, Reach for Reach, and have nothing, only broken pieces, strange thoughts and little slivers of glass in his hands. He could still remember the broken mirror, his sliced palms, the medics asking what the hell he was doing. He was SPARTAN and he was destruction, caving in on himself when mind no longer said, "Yes." He could not accept an order and let his conscience get away with it - it snarled, roared, pounded in his head in defiance. Denial. He had killed, he was SPARTAN, he couldn't take it anymore.
Blood. Their blood, his blood. The bitch Halsey taking him away from everything he had worked for, he had hoped for. They would have been alive, all of them, if something had been done. Injustice, unfairness - the UNSC, ONI especially, got off without a hitch. They would not let go; he had been forced to flee. Run like an animal, run and hide, tail tucked and shame dogging his every move. A coward, his mind was gone, his thoughts, his thoughts, his thoughts ...
An AI gone rampant. That was what he saw himself as. He wished for that reality, to be something so easily disposed of. When he thought too much, felt too much, saw and knew too much, the UNSC would deactivate him. He would be dead, slumbering, gone and deleted, and he wouldn't have to be like this. The world wouldn't have to be like this. Code and data, erased, waved goodbye, and gone and forgotten except for a note on a record. Anonymity, history and nothing, no more.
They say in solipsism that the only reality is one's own. That, as soon as one dies, the world ends. Someone can only be sure of one's own reality, one's own deeds, what one's own eyes are showing. But what does solipsism say of those who can't figure out what reality is? Who have buried things in the dark, stuffed closets full of terrible things, and live only as fodder to be shot at? What was he, other than some sort of killing machine? Was he even born, real, with a family?
His parents were dead. That could have all been a lie. That could have just been a motivation, a truth fed to make him hate. ONI was very, very good at that, at manipulation and deceit and playing the heart like a harp. He burned, scorched, screamed at the landscape of his mind, beating his fists on the walls of his brain, his rage and frustration held back by formless visions. He could not move, he could not do anything! He just wanted to break something, to let go, to run into his so-called "parents'" arms and feel something good again. He was gone as they were gone, and he just falling, falling, the black hole open and wide below him. It would never swallow him up, just a void of torture, so lifeless and large that he wept at the sight of it.
Oh God, he wanted to go home. Even if home was a hole he could crawl into and die in, he wanted it. He wanted so badly to feel warmth, to be free of his insecurities, to never have to pick up a gun again. He wanted to float across the universe like a breeze, see the birth of every star, sing every joyous song and see every morning's sunrise. Negativity, positivity, the scale was frigging broken; yin and yang, as many of his home city had called it. That ever-swirling, ever black-and-white icon of balance, romanticized and stylized, now shattered and applying to nothing. What was the scientific word for it ... ? Entropy ... ?
He had to scream, but he croaked like a frog. He wept, stripped of all dignity. She wasn't Six, she wasn't Kat, Jorge certainly wasn't a woman - break, break, break! Break did his heart, his hopes. Death taunted him, waving its hourglass in his face, asking him why he hadn't given up. Why he had still clung on to life, to feeling, and why he was too much of a coward. The survival instinct, ever strong, continued to wax and brew, and it plotted against him. The shattered psyche of its host was a mere inconvenience, a simple obstacle to be overcome in time. The strength of the human spirit, the need to breathe and walk and breed and live, sang like a canary. As much as the SPARTAN hated it, it held up an iron wall, reinforced with the titanium that was his own secret will. Somewhere, in the back of that disorganized and cluttered mind, there was a want to see another day. The five senses would drink in all, his mind would be clear and free, and he could live out his life in peace. Then, when he reflected on how low he had sunk, how far he had gone, he would shudder and shoo such thoughts away. All in hypothesis, of course.
But for now, his mind was in a blank, hazy filter. He could only watch helplessly as the tape of his memories replayed over and over. Their life, their death, his kills, the final terror of his prey. Man could not stand seeing so much hurt and destruction, and killers had to become hard. He had never relapsed until after Reach, when everything snapped and curled in on itself like a vulnerable foetus. Those ONI bastards knew nothing, too busy covering up and being heavy-handed with those who questioned too much. They knew nothing of that horrible, horrible feeling, a worm inside the gut that screamed, "RUN!" at every grenade and ship explosion. They knew nothing of how people purposefully missed, shooting off rounds to intimidate in hopes of not killing anything. They knew nothing of what ran through his mind when he saw the eyes - God, the eyes - of his targets. Windows to the last thought, the last breath, only to disappear when heads literally rolled. That bond, there for just a second, was the thing that made his humanity writhe and scream in disbelief and grief. He ignored it, yes, but one could only ignore for so long the undoings of a perfectly sound mind. To think of a time when he thought ... normally ... God, what was normal? Not jumping at every crack and snap in the dark? Not wondering how many headshots one made in a week? Not wondering if Kat would laugh at how a Grunt squealed as its gas tank ran out, crying and screaming for a breath, reduced to a crazy, suicidal charge?
He was not supposed to feel for the enemy. He was supposed to feel for his comrades, his brothers-in-arms. He was supposed to shoot, kill, rinse and repeat, covered in the blood and gore of God knew how many alien races. And even then, he didn't stop there - if a human target stared down at him, he was supposed to ignore that fact. From man or woman to just an object, just something to hit, and celebrate the death of. God, God, dear friggin' Lord. It played with his head so badly when he went from capping aliens to capping his own people.
He was going to be sick, but the bile held back. He had to stop being so morbid. He had to focus on shutting out the hazy images that flew past him. Everything was gone, so he, too, should be gone, retreating into the confines of his own mind.
A scream. Footsteps. Something ungodly roaring in the dark. Reach flashed by his eyes until he snapped into another reality, staring at the mud roof again. Only this time, someone else stared down at him, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. In the background, people were crying out, one particularly loud mother wailing about a lost child. His blood ran cold and he froze, the fall of liquid and sharp reek of urine following.
"No, no, please calm!" cried that blue-eyed person's voice - a woman by the sounds of it. "Please move! We must go! Must go, very much so!"
Someone called a name - Izabella. Her head snapped in response; it must have been her own. She whispered in broken English, soothing him as best she could, but it was no use. The violent state was throwing him back into that near-catatonic terror, his fight-or-flight switch flipping back and forth. He struggled, crying out in pain and frustration, but she would not let go. Another set of hands landed on his shoulders.
"Sir, please be calm!" cried an Arabic voice - it startled him, as he thought it was Spanish at first. The voices of his youth came back for just a second. "We are being attacked. We need to evacuate you from your current resting area so that we can deal with the threat with as few casualties as possible. You are seriously wounded - please, don't struggle!"
The ungodly scream of a wild creature. Branches snapping, smaller beasts crying. Women and children running, trying to shepherd the weak and young away from the monster. He saw its scaly form move through the trees, something human dangling from its mouth. He noticed now that the mother was no longer screaming, and that guns were clicking as they were armed.
"AIM FOR THE EYES AND HEAD! WATCH FOR THE VENOM AROUND ITS MOUTH!"
A fierce, strong voice, just like Kat's or Six's. He stared in awe at the blurry figures, then at the scaled monster skulking around in the dark. It was barely illuminated by a nearby fire, and snapped and shrieked in anger and hunger. A demon, he mused, that demanded sacrifice. Perhaps it had crawled out of his mind and was wreaking havoc on these women too.
Muzzles flashed. The monster screamed. It whipped a barbed tail and stomped at the earth, enraged that the lesser beings had inflicted pain upon it. It lunged forward with a snap, bits of fluid tar flying from its mouth, a glob smacking one woman in the face. She screamed and fell backwards, only to be caught in the creature's jaws and crushed. He saw this all as he was helplessly dragged, more muzzles flashing as they tried to force it back.
"IZABELLA!"
A great growl rumbled up in front of them. He was dragged backwards as something lunged, its muzzle long and beak-like, serrated teeth lined everywhere. They were like a formation of soldiers with guns a-glinting, wielded to fight back and tear apart with reckless abandon. Near-feline eyes stared back in cunning, in calculation, and the creature hurried forward with a wicked claw. It aimed, it struck, blood flew, and the blonde woman screamed. That mouth hung over him like the void in his dreams.
More gunfire. The beast winced back, his heart pounding wildly. The two of them were dragged back, the ground rough and bumpy, close to the fire where the enemy dared not tread. People were gasping and speaking, horrified, and rushing to his and her side in a mass. He flinched, holding up his arms, confused and overwhelmed. The nightmares in his head flashed, bared their teeth and grinned, and every concerned face was that of something else. Open-jawed squids, saurian abominations, prawn-like gas-breathers and whatever else he had fought stared down at him.
The fighting sounded hopeless. There was more than one or two - maybe even three or four. They spoke of the attackers in great fear, the stuff of legend that one wished wasn't real. Reloading was frantic, and those not careful enough were snatched up by the beasts to be eaten. Beside him, the blonde woman sobbed, her tears shining and fresh in the firelight. Blood covered her oft-stitched dress, and she clutched at her stomach wound, choking on bloody dribbles from her mouth.
She was no different than Six or Kat. She was as human as he was, and she was hurting. She tried to babble in Jorge's language - God, he wished the old SPARTAN was there to translate - and the Arabic man tried to calm her. He could only stare dully for a moment, then reached out a hand. He couldn't watch someone die ...
"H-hey ... "
She looked over at him, terrified and bewildered. The glassy gaze of shock was spreading over those perfectly sea-blue irises.
"It ... it 'kay ... 'kay? Jus' ... stop ... pan'kin' ... "
He was so tired, and the words were malformed on his lips. Yet, he managed a smile, and the Arabic man smiled approvingly. He gently, weakly rubbed her shoulder, never stopping with that weak smile. Slowly, he saw her calm down. That was good; if her heart rate wasn't as elevated, the blood wouldn't pump out and onto the ground as fast. She would be okay ... she just needed to be tended to. At least, that was what he wanted to believe. It would have been very depressing if she gave out there and then.
Both of them were surrounded by gun-toting women and adolescents. More wounded were dragged towards them, towards that blessed fire. He could tell from sound and footstep that there were three of the demons in camp - one close, the others far from the light. More and more visions flashed by him, good and bad, wanted and unwanted. His Six-Kat laid beside him, quiet, her breathing pained but slowing. Again he placed his hand on her shoulder, reminding her that he was there. He couldn't have comforted Six in her final moments, surrounded on all sides by the Covenant as the planet boiled away. He couldn't have comforted Kat as that Needler round pierced her skull, killing her so quickly she couldn't even have a last thought. The blonde, however, as anonymous as she might be, was lucky.
The gunmen were forced further and further back. One beast was slowed, apparently, but still pressed on with ravenous force. There were dead now, a horrible smell rising into the air. Rotting flesh's stink, unmistakable and triggering, and he convulsed with the unpleasant image of several splattered battlefields. No, no, his thoughts were going on him again! He was approaching a sensory overload, his mind begging to black out. But he couldn't leave the blonde woman! Would she even be alive when he opened his eyes next?
They were running out of ammunition. They would fall to their enemy if nothing was down. It was Reach in miniature, a Pyrrhic situation if they won, a complete disaster if they didn't. His companion's loud breathing had quieted down, and he heard the word "sedation" from the Arabic man. She would be fine. She wouldn't be like Kat, or Six. Gunmetal gleamed in the firelight, and the bodies of the monsters flashed in movement. He took a breath, trying to steady himself, and his eyes closed.
He did not want them to die. They were trying so hard. They were running and firing, trying to get back. The beasts only followed, eyes on a meal. They did not think - they did. Just what like he used to do.
He did not want to kill. But they were poor shots, and they did not know how to handle a gun. He could hear them swearing, yelping, unused to the kickback - they did not have his training. They weren't in sync with their weapons. They were more disorganized than a squad of recruits during a training manoeuvre. They were dying like animals, fodder born of inexperience. He had to protect his surrogate Six-Kat if they wouldn't; she had only just been calmed. He needed her. He didn't know her, but he needed her so badly. If she died, it would be another death to his name, a sin to carry to the grave. This would not be the lost cause that was Reach; if there was anything that was lost, it was his mind. Nothing else should fall while he still drew in air.
Slowly, carefully he sat. Blinking, looking, he tried to assess the situation. He was told to lie back down and stay still, but the battle-bred instinct within him told him otherwise. If he screwed up something while moving, he'd back off; he could hold a gun now, at least. He stood up, legs shaking, the wet fabric of his trousers sticking uncomfortably. The monsters hissed as more gunshots went off; he approached the firing lines.
"G-give me ... that."
The young woman - mousy-haired, grey-eyed - looked back in shock. She spat a foul word, calling him stupid, but he clumsily grabbed her gun anyways. The creature approached, snapping black-dripping jaws, the young woman yelping for him to watch it. As the long, beak-like jaw of the creature reached forward, mouth wide, he levelled his sights. He breathed, focused, and mustered up as much will as he could. Though unwelcome was the feeling of his finger on the trigger, he had to think of his Six-Kat. He had to think of what these things had done to her, of how she had tried so hard to drag him away.
His Tyumen. His planet. His squad. His army. Him. All of them, gone. He wasn't helpless here; he was firing of his own free will, not because of some arrogant military bureaucrat. He was protecting his Six-Kat - he was holding onto something. If he did nothing then, then there would be no point in wasting the atmosphere's oxygen. He aimed for a tarry fang, oozing a dark liquid as profoundly as a severe wound dripped blood. His breath hitched, time slowed, and he fired the bullet with a click.
Squelch!
The roar was painful to listen to. Flesh tore as the tooth snapped right off, and the beast's tongue lashed about, licking at the wound. It snapped and shook its head, allowing Jun to aim for that wicked cat's eye. Again, bullet time seemed to kick in, and he fired off another round. It struck home, much to the gawking of the nearby women, and the beast dropped like a rock. The cockatrice might have been large and deadly, but there was nothing more potent like hot lead to the brain.
Women screamed behind him, and he turned in an instant. Bang went the gun, a bullet skimming off not one, but two fang tips. As venom splattered dangerously onto the ground, he reloaded, quick and practised in his efficiency. Again went a bullet to the brain, killing the cockatrice instantly. The women scrambled away, dragging their injured with them.
The last one was nowhere to be seen. He staggered to his feet, threatening to faint again, shivering in pain. The painkillers Jun had been filled with were wearing off, and his wounds from the gulper attack stung with a vengeance. His bit his lip, nearly making it bleed, and held his firearm aloft as best as he could. Where had the bastard gone? He could have just vanished into the bush - could he?
There was a growl. Jun turned, seeing the last cockatrice snarling angrily at him. The thing, now that he could concentrate a bit more, looked like a mix between a Jackal and a wingless dragon. It lunged forward, snapping its jaws and foaming grey-black. One of the women screamed for him to get down - the mousy-haired girl, actually - and Jun nearly fell backwards. His gun went off by accident, and a loud spitting sound could be heard.
A greyish-blackish glob landed near him, some of the goo splattering onto his leg. What followed was a blood-curdling scream from Jun, along with the feeling that his leg was being eaten alive. He writhed in pain, tears streaming down his face, and the visions of battles past flew at him like Hitchcock's birds.
KatJorgeCarterSixthey'redeadthey'redeadI'munderfirewelostcontact -
He fell.
Back into the void, into the sheer pain and icy grip he went, into that sickening, jolting cyclone that ate at him. It devoured his leg, it plagued his mind, and it came to form as a wyrm from some fairy tale. Only this time, he was the poor soul that failed in a sadistic tale, grabbed and dragged. Over ground, past and people screaming behind him, and his Six-Kat safe - hopefully. He screamed, wordless, primal and terrified as his demons hauled him off to eat. His leg was on fire, and it was creeping up, up, the flesh going, the stink horrible.
Then came gunshots. Frantic running. Feet padding after him that he couldn't hear. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear his squadmates calling.
Author's Note: Chapter One has been completely rewritten. Its original state was lost in an unfortunate swap with an earlier chapter I was editing. Please forgive me, on reread, if it isn't up to snuff with the old one. I will also be adding to older chapters to keep up with the word count it set, and announce in future chapters when I'm done with the edits.
Also, many kudos to user Martienne for helping reduce the italic load, and make the chapter less of a pain to read for eyes everywhere. Please stop by her page and leave a review, especially if you're a Church/Tex fan!
