AN: I don't own Fallout or Halo. They belong to Bethesda and Bungie/Microsoft/343 Industries respectively.

Spartan-B124, exterior of Hoover Dam. 0923 Hours, October 5, 2552 (Military Calendar)

The roar of almost nine turrets and the continuous booming from mortar shells exploding and the never ending gunfire made for a near impenetrable din that barely drowned out the shouted orders of the Legion as it urged its raw recruits forward into the defensive position Alpha Company had put into place, a veritable meat grinder that never stopped but slowed, and only when fresh ammo was required for the big guns.

Brass casings littered the floor so thoroughly that it made for uneven and dangerous footing whenever a Marine jumped down onto the ground, some of the enterprising amongst them gathering the spent cases into empty boxes ready for recycling, a small ammo bench nearby that had the impossible task of replacing what the Marines were expending.

It had been two hours since the Legion showed up and in that time, Alpha Company's only injuries was a sprained ankle and a case of heat stroke, whilst the Legion had lost thousands of troops to the fortified bunker and to UNSC air support reaching deep behind their lines to tackle columns of reinforcements.

Scott had watched feeds from Longswords as they screamed down onto the Legion to drop anti-personnel munitions that shredded the formations and followed up with their main cannons, kicking up great plumes of dust and fire that consumed dozens of legionaries at a time. Additional strafing runs by Pelicans and Hornets had further shredded Caesar's Legion, directed by Scott to tackle the rear formations where he suspected the veteran troops to be with their better equipment, with some closer in support provided by three Scorpion tanks defiladed in the hills west of the Dam, a fireteam of Marines protecting each.

He kept one eye on such a feed as a Pelican came in low over some of the crimson clad slaves, nose cannon spewing its depleted uranium rounds and ANVIL-II missiles streaking out from beneath the stubby wings, and a rear mounted camera showed a fireteam of Marines dropping frag and incendiary grenades on whatever managed to survive.

Tara and Sasha had estimated almost three thousand legionaries dead, dying or crippled so far but there seemed to be no end to them, the space in front of Scott so thick with them he didn't even need to aim, just keep pulling the trigger and reloading with a very high chance of striking someone. His battle rifle clicked when the magazine ran dry and he inserted a fresh one with mechanical precision, resuming fire.

'Ammo count?' he asked Tara.

'Still good, Commander,' she said. 'Current estimates are eighty percent, and based on our current level of sustained fire the predication is we can continue to do so for another three hours before reaching twenty percent.'

'Air support?'

'Half are returning for refuelling and rearming and the other half are heading back out. We should have full air coverage within ten minutes.'

'Good,' Scott said. 'What's the situation with Delta Company?'

'Second Lieutenant Faust states all is well with only two wounded, both non-fatally, and scores of NCR casualties and fatalities. Shall I patch him through?'

'Do it,' Scott said. He waited for his radio to click as Tara hailed Delta Company's CO before speaking again. 'Lieutenant Faust, SITREP.'

'Everything's fine, sir,' Faust said, the rumble of explosions and gunfire sounding in the background. 'NCR showed up at dawn and refused to back down. We've been blowing huge chunks out of them ever since. Current ammo expenditure has us reaching critical levels in about four hours, but we'll pull back around the same time as you I think.'

'Understood, lieutenant,' Scott said. 'It's a similar situation here. Alpha has two wounded, neither from enemy action, and air support is wreaking havoc deep behind their lines.'

Faust chuckled. 'Always a good thing to hear. I-'

He was cut off by an abrupt explosion on his end, followed by shouted curses and orders as Scott called for another SITREP.

'Some lucky bastard with a missile launcher,' Faust eventually replied. 'Slipped through and got a lucky shot off, hitting a Scorpion in the turret and knocked it out of commission. Driver and hull gunner are down but not out. I've directed my air support to cover it while we get recovery operations underway.'

'Solid copy, lieutenant,' Scott said. 'Remember, priority is the wellbeing of your Marines, not the defence of Vegas. Will radio when our ammo levels reach the twenty percent mark.'

Faust acknowledged and signed off to direct his forces into a defensive position around the crippled Scorpion as the three attached to Alpha Company loosed off a salvo of rounds simultaneously to hit three large clumps of recruits each, hurling body parts high into the air while Scott and the Marines near him finished off whoever survived.

'What's up?' Hullum asked from beside Scott.

'Delta just lost a tank,' Scott said. 'The crew's okay and they're moving to cover it while they get it off the battlefield.'

'Any other wounded?'

'Two but they'll live. Rangers if I had to guess.' He looked at Hullum. 'Are you sure you want to stay? Without a weapon you're just an observer.'

'Nah, I'm good,' Hullum said, waving him off. 'This is the best show I've ever seen.'

His rifle had ran out of ammo within the first forty minutes of the Legion appearing and since then, he had just lain next to Scott, head resting on his arms, watching the display of firepower with interest and awe.

The Spartan shrugged and said, 'Okay, but we won't be done for a good few hours yet. Head inside and get some food if you want. The Legion's not going anywhere.'

UNSC Frigate Heavy Hitter, holding position above the city of Las Vegas. 1241 Hours, October 5, 2552 (Military Calendar)

The frigate hung in the air above Vegas, prow pointed south, casting its shadow on the city below as McNeal reclined in his chair, watching on two of the forward screens feeds of Alpha and Delta Companies engaging their respective foes as they began to disengage ahead of falling back, their ammo reserves depleted.

On the left one was Scott and Hullum and a platoon of Marines pouring fire into the Legion as Pelicans retrieved the three Warthogs and deposited them on the other side of the barricade, leaving behind a stretch of concrete carpeted in brass where it wasn't layered in blood and body parts. Using .50 calibre weapons in conjunction with high explosive mortar rounds did not make for a tidy battlefield afterwards it seemed, the only untouched patches of land free from blood or casings where the tyres of each Warthog had sat but even now, the blood seeped into them to fill what they missed.

The right hand screen showed Delta Company doing much the same, their area of operations in the exact same state with wide swatches of blood covering the dirt where it hadn't been churned by explosions, NCR troopers rushing out into the killing field to recover their fallen while others pushed forward to claim territory, emboldened by the lack of fire coming their way as Delta Company drew back.

Once the Marines were gone, they'd have a clear shot all the way to New Vegas as Scott's plan didn't call for holding and fortifying each town along the way, but that was a distance of over sixty miles through harsh desert terrain teeming with hostile life before taking into account the hit and run tactics the Marines would soon be committing. Scott estimated they'd be able to cross that distance in as little as three days if they pushed themselves hard, and maybe as long as a week whilst under attack by Warthogs, Hornets and Longswords continuously.

The Legion only had half that distance to travel but reports suggested more than half their forces were dead and would continue to suffer even more fatalities as UNSC air support worked their devilish magic on the ill equipped foot mobile force.

The Heavy would play its part as well, launching missile and MAC strikes at the approaching forces to further thin out their numbers.

'Heavy Hitter, this is Sergeant Rimmer of Charlie Squad with a situation update ahead of planned missile strike. We have designated a kill box four hundred metres due east of our position, ready for grid smashing. It's crawling with troopers. Stand by to receive targeting data.'

'This is Lieutenant Donovan to Sergeant Rimmer, understood. We are standing by to copy targeting data.'

The NCR forces were bunching up around the entry point into the Mojave, their rear formations surging forward after getting word the enemy was faltering while those at the front, who had survived, were more than a little cautious at moving into an area hotly contested for only minutes previously and warned their reinforcements to go slow.

Donovan turned to McNeal.

'Sir, Sergeant Rimmer has transmitted targeting data for Archer pod strikes,' he said. 'Coordinates are locked in, awaiting command to fire.'

'Command is given,' McNeal said, nodding once. 'Fire Archers on designated areas.'

'Aye, sir.' Donovan turned back to his station. 'Sergeant Rimmer, targeting data copied and locked in. Missile strike will commence in T-minus five seconds with an extra twelve seconds of flight time.'

'Solid copy, Heavy. Seventeen seconds until impact.'

Donovan handed over control of launching the missiles to his terminal, the thirty missiles erupting from the pods in a cloud of exhaust before speeding off towards their designated impact points sixty miles away, tendrils of smoke leading back from them to the frigate until a stiff breeze blew everything away.

Onscreen thirty individual balls of fire ripped through the NCR lines and killed untold numbers of troopers, reducing them to nothing more than charred bones if they were lucky or vaporising them if they weren't. Rimmer whooped over the COM at the display.

'Damn, do I love me a fine firework display! Good effect on target, Heavy. That'll give them something else to worry about. Okay, we'll start falling back to Vegas. You keep an eye on our six, alert us if anything comes after us faster than expected. If they do, maybe discourage them with another missile strike or three? Maybe a MAC blast?'

That made Donovan look back over his shoulder at McNeal who shrugged and said, 'Helljumpers don't apply the word restraint to combat. To them, overkill is what they do on a slow day.'

The weapon's officer nodded and assured Rimmer he'd do his best to keep the NCR from sticking too close to him as McNeal opened a line to Scott at Hoover Dam.

'Commander, what's your status?' he asked once a link was established.

'Green, sir,' Scott said amid the clatter of gunfire and explosions. 'No friendly casualties caused by enemy action. Some instances of heatstroke and a few sprained ankles, but nothing for the medical staff to deal with.'

'Good to hear. Do you need additional support while evacuating?'

'Negative, sir, but I could do with knowing far how back the Legion line goes and for Sasha to give me a strength estimate.'

McNeal nodded to Franks who nodded back and typed in a series of commands, locking onto the head of the Legion's formations and following it back to wherever it terminated. There were no end of segments that Longswords had visited, large patches with little to no people standing or broken roads from the munitions tearing up the tarmac, but there were even more packed solid with legionaries. Franks' brows shot up when he looked at the distance from start to the eventual finish, a full five miles worth of bodies and all the materials they'd need to stay operational in a war of conquest.

When told this, Scott made no outward reaction he was concerned with the distance, nor did he flinch when Sasha reported her estimates said there were between fifteen and twenty-five thousand people bearing down on his position.

He simply and calmly asked for the same to be done for the NCR Army reinforcements.

'The situation with them is slightly better,' Sasha said. 'Only twenty-thousand troops at maximum though I am seeing several tracked vehicles with turrets working their way towards the Outpost, plus some Vertibirds.'

'Direct Longswords to intercept and destroy them both,' Scott said. 'Then redirect them to eliminate any and all bridges being used by the Legion before switching to saturation bombing of their forces. I'm also requesting Archer missile and MAC strikes on their larger formations to reduce their numbers further.'

'Against the Legion?' McNeal said. Using Archers against them seemed like overkill without bringing the magnetic accelerator cannon into consideration.

'Yes, sir,' Scott said. 'Short of destroying the Dam and their only nearby major thoroughfare, our best bet is to thin their numbers as much as possible. MACs and Archers are our best option after the Longswords and Pelicans.'

'Why not nukes?' McNeal half joked.

'Too close for safe usage. With the Legion line terminating only five miles from here, detonating a Shiva on top of them would eliminate the Dam, as well as severely damaging the Heavy and Vegas with the shockwave. The fireball alone would be five miles across and the shockwave can reach as far as two hundred klicks and still be damaging.'

'Oh,' McNeal said.

It took him a second to realise he was used to firing nukes during space combat where its effects, and the distances involved, were very much different than when used on the ground. In space, he could be a few thousand kilometres from a target at most, the very limit of his effective engagement range, not dozens, and even with vacuum enhanced loads nuclear explosions only lasted a fraction of the time they did in atmosphere. That, and the shockwave had a medium to travel through and hit something.

'Blowing the Dam would be my recommendation, sir,' Sasha said. 'Our ground forces will be hard pressed to tackle the NCR without adding twenty-five-thousand extra bodies into the mix.'

'But in doing so, we'd deprive an area of the power and water they so desperately need,' McNeal said. 'No, we'll leave it intact for now. Lieutenant Donovan, warm up Archer pods J, K and L, and start charging the MAC, make it a light round. Lieutenant Franks, find something for them to hit.'

'Aye, sir,' both officers said, jumping to their respective tasks.

'Archer pods J, K and L are primed and ready, awaiting targeting data,' Donovan said. 'MAC charging at maximum rate, light round loaded.'

'Targets found,' Franks said. 'I see two large clumps of legionaries of approximately five hundred plus each, a camp, and seven bridges of various sizes. Coordinating with Lieutenant Donovan.'

'Target their camp with the MAC,' McNeal said. 'Give them a real fright.'

'Aye, sir,' Franks said. 'Plotting in course correction to point us at the camp.'

McNeal nodded as he spoke to Scott.

'Commander, be advised, there'll be a MAC strike in your vicinity within four minutes. I'd leave the Dam as soon as possible if I were you.'

Spartan-B124, exterior of Hoover Dam. 1249 Hours, October 5, 2552 (Military Calendar)

The din from the Legion hadn't let up in all the time they had been fruitlessly throwing themselves against Alpha Company's fortifications, still shouting and hollering to press forward in the glorious name of Caesar even as their bodies were torn apart by machinegun and mortar fire, now under fire by just Pelicans, Hornets, mortars and the three Scorpions as Captain Miles' Marines packed up their gear ahead of pulling out.

'All units, be advised,' Scott said over TACCOM. 'MAC rounds have been authorised on our position and will be coming down inside of four mikes. If it's not secured by then, we're leaving it behind.'

Around the Spartan, Marines froze momentarily as they took in Scott's words then redoubled their efforts when they recovered, strapping boxes of ammunition into place on trailers hitched to Warthogs or secured them onto the back of Mongooses or hefted them into the troop bay of a waiting Pelican.

'What's a MAC?' Hullum asked.

'Do you know what a coil gun is?' Scott asked back.

'Yeah, I've got a gauss rifle back home.'

'Imagine that where the slug is ten metres end to end and six hundred tons, and gets fired at almost Mach 90.'

It was Hullum's turn to pause and then let out a low whistle in amazement as Scott grabbed a box of ammo from the floor and dumped it into the back of his Warthog.

'I'm guessing it's loud,' Hullum said.

'Pretty much,' a nearby Marine said. 'I'd cover your ears if I were you, mate, and take cover.'

The Lone Wanderer nodded as the last pieces of supplies and equipment were loaded onto their waiting transports and the remaining Marines mounted up, Scott jumping into the driver's seat again with Hullum next to him and half a dozen Marines crammed into the troop compartment, sat atop boxes and weapons and clinging to the roll cage for dear life as he accelerated sharply and began navigating the tight turns that led from Hoover Dam to the ruins of Boulder City and the Mojave Wasteland beyond that.

'MAC strike in sixty seconds,' Donovan warned over the COM.

'Acknowledged,' Scott said. 'We're leaving the immediate vicinity of the strike now.'

The road wound up and down, left to right, and Scott manoeuvred the Warthog along it like he had been driving them for years, stopping when the cliffs disappeared and the hilltop where the main Legion camp was located came into view, one of the Marines asking to watch as the whole place got levelled by the MAC.

'Are we in any sort of immediate danger here?' Scott asked Tara.

'Not from the shockwave or debris,' Tara said. 'Our hearing, maybe, and dust inhalation. Otherwise, we're fine.'

The Spartan nodded and brought the Warthog to a halt, half the Marines jumping out and half standing up in their seats, and all of them turned to look at Fortification Hill, Scott and Hullum included.

The MAC gun, or magnetic accelerator cannon, was the UNSC's most powerful non-nuclear weapon currently fielded, ranging from the ship based designs, which fired six-hundred ton slugs at thirty kilometres a second to produce a TNT equivalent of nearly sixty kilotons upon impact, to the gargantuan super MACs mounted on orbital defence platforms which fired a three-thousand ton slug at four percent the speed of light. The resulting kinetic energy for that reached well over fifty gigatons, more than enough force to vaporise whatever ship happened to be unlucky enough to be on the receiving end and retain enough force to destroy a second ship afterwards and cripple a third.

Use of them against ground targets was rightfully and rigorously regulated and only authorised in extreme measures, or like now when the resulting shockwaves wouldn't hit anything of major importance. There was a worry it might damage Hoover Dam but the concrete it was made from had been set over 350 years ago, and was probably hard enough to shrug off a direct hit from the Heavy from point blank range.

Scott had only called in five MAC strikes against ground based targets over the course of his career but it was enough to imprint a lasting impression on him regarding what to expect. He craned his eyes eastward towards the hill Caesar's Legion was occupying, watching a timer on his HUD Tara had helpfully placed there as the numbers ran down to zero. As with Lanius, even his enhanced reflexes couldn't keep up with how quickly the top of the hill turned into a giant plume of dust and fire and debris as the slug touched down on the ground, whatever kinetic energy hadn't been transformed into thermal energy sending out a powerful shockwave that made the dirt beneath his boots reverberate.

The MAC round had taken one two-thousandth of a second to get from the Heavy to the Fort and the sonic boom arrived shortly after, slamming into the backs of everybody's heads to rattle their teeth before the shockwave from the point of impact slammed them in the other direction, sounding oddly muted as their ears tried to cope with the ear splitting crack of a MAC firing in atmo.

Two of the Marines and Hullum were bowled over by the blast, landing heavily as a wall of dust followed the shockwave out to engulf them all in a thick and impenetrable shroud seconds later, making all of them but Scott cough as the dust made itself known in the back of their throats.

'Everyone okay?' Scott asked once the dust began to settle, coating everyone with a very fine and brown layer.

'What?' Hullum shouted at him as he was hauled upright.

'Okay,' Scott repeated. 'Are you?'

'Yeah!' Hullum said loudly as he stuck a finger into his ear to clear it. 'I can hear bells ringing!'

He flashed Scott a thumbs up as the Marines dusted themselves down and checked each other over, climbing back into place on the Warthog as a hazy cloud remained on top of the Legion camp, now nothing more than a crater in the ground with only a few hints something had been there previously.

Spartan-B124, outskirts of Las Vegas. 1502 Hours, October 11, 2552 (Military Calendar)

'They just keep coming!' Joey cried as he depressed the trigger of his rifle, expending every bullet in a full auto fusillade. 'They're just don't stop!'

'Cram it, trooper,' Mitchell yelled back. 'They ain't making your job of aiming too hard, so quit with the bitching! It's fish in a barrel.'

The NCO fired a full magazine as well alongside the rest of Alpha Squad, Scott, Hullum and Heyman, all of them backed up by a dozen Securitrons, a slew of turrets and elements of the militia House was trying to raise, but even this didn't seem to do anything to ward off the massive amount of khaki clad bodies the NCR was throwing against them. It seemed that no matter what the UNSC could throw at it, the bodies just melted away and more took their spot to replace them.

A score of Legion troops were in place as well, isolated patches of red in a sea of brown doing their best to kill the NCR as the NCR tried to kill them and as both sides tried their best to breach the UNSC's line at the gates of Vegas. Scott had hoped something like this would happen when drawing up his plans to defend Vegas, forcing the two groups to operate in one location simultaneously where they had two choices, team up against a common enemy or fight each other without considering other options.

He had hoped for there to be more legionaries but between the bombing campaign by his air support and missile strikes by the Heavy, the Legion's fighting force was both severely reduced and lacking an intact transport route to use. Careful targeting had eliminated every major bridge the Legion crossed and intense bombardment had killed thousands. The initial tallies from Sasha came up with for total losses were astounding, estimating between seven thousand and fifteen thousand KIAs and WIAs, with just as many forced to take an extra long route just to get to the front.

But as effective as the air campaign was, it was equally as draining on the supplies the Longswords and Pelicans needed. Each dropship was down to just two reloads for their ANVIL missiles and every Longsword was completely out of missiles and bombs, relying solely on their cannons to engage targets. Some of the slack was picked up by the Boomers, the xenophobic tribals, who agreed to loan their assets to the fight once again which saw the arrival of their antiquated bomber flying high overhead. Some of the Marines had been surprised to see it initially but now it was a common sight, swooping down low to deliver its payload of napalm and high explosive.

The drone of its four engines was lost beneath the clamour of battle but the roars and bangs of its payload being delivered weren't, a sudden pillar of smoke and fire rising up behind the outer wall of Vegas signalling that someone's day had just gotten worse.

One such column rose up as Scott panned his scope over the crowd before him, mechanically pulling the trigger in such a target rich environment that precise aiming wasn't exactly needed, except when a high ranking legionary or an NCR officer was seen. He swept down to look at the space being carved out by the forces under his command, a twenty metre swatch of land drenched in blood and brass casings and discarded weapons from failed NCR pushes on the gates of Vegas.

The cost for them was disproportionally high, losing dozens of men and women in exchange for expended ammo on the UNSC's part, not even managing to inflict a single worthwhile casualty on Alpha Squad. The closest they came was a single round bouncing off the chest armour of Joey, winding him and causing a flurry of raspy curses to erupt from his mouth.

Hullum and Heyman were similarly unharmed, Hullum dressed in his usual combat armour while Heyman was wearing his best suit of power armour, the Enclave model that had created the initial spark of friction between himself and the Lone Wanderer, and both men were armed with light machineguns taken from Heyman's personal armoury and equipped with two-hundred round magazines, each man spraying a full auto onslaught of 5.56mm rounds into the invading army.

While Heyman's expression was hidden behind his helmet Hullum's was plainly visible, bordering on bored despite the gunfire getting tossed his way.

A round bounced off of Scott's helmet and redirected his attention, feeling another strike him in the exact same spot as he swept the battlefield for the shooter. It had too much of an impact to be a rank and file trooper and was too accurate to come from anything but a precision weapon.

'Sniper,' he warned over SQUADCOM. 'They like headshots, so be careful.'

His shields glowed for a third time as another round hit them, striking his chest, and he panned over all the areas with unobstructed views of himself and the others that weren't anywhere near the street level fighting. That pretty much eliminated anywhere on the ground floor of the buildings, and maybe even the first floor, so he scanned every floor above that for muzzle flash indicative of a sniper.

Practically every building in Freeside was gutted from fire and fighting, some converted to emergency aid stations for those too wounded to fight on but too unstable to evacuate right away, but the majority were simply used as cover by both the NCR and the Legion as they fought one another and the UNSC. Scott suffered a fourth bullet before seeing the glint of scopes and the flash of gunfire from the top storey of the King's School of Impersonation, its neon broken, firing bursts of his own into each window he saw light from.

No more sniper fire came his way.

'I never realised a battle could be like this,' Heyman said after a few minutes, swapping an expended drum for a fresh one. 'The NCR can put up a load of gunfire but this is something else.'

'This is nothing,' Mitchell said. 'You should see what a whole battalion can do from an entrenched position. We can mow Grunts down like they're nothing.'

'Grunts?'

'Squat little alien bastards,' Mitchell said as he drew, primed and tossed a grenade in one fell movement. 'The Covenant likes to use them as cannon fodder.'

Scott directed a flight of Hornets hovering nearby to unleash a missile barrage on the bus gate where a number of Rangers were entering, shredding them and the repurposed vehicle to nothing more than scraps and tatters, then at the King's old headquarters when more sniper fire made itself known.

He asked if anyone needed a break when his mission clock came up on an hour, the total time elapsed since both armies made it to Vegas and began their assault, but was met with a chorus of negatives from the Helljumpers, and Hullum and Heyman, then hailed the Heavy as it hung in the air above them all, looking menacing and occasionally training its point defence guns on the crowd below.

'Situation update,' Scott said once a link was established. 'Strength estimate?'

'Numerous, Spartan,' McNeal said. 'We've got hundreds pouring in to replace the ones that are lost, and there are two camps being set up to serve both sides. There's one for the NCR at the old farms south of here, and the Legion is spreading out to the east, primarily in the old caravan HQ House was garrisoning his militia in.'

'And elsewhere?'

'Three ancillary skirmishes are forming. One's near Hoover Dam, another north of Sloan, and one between the two camps. They're all shaping up to turn into battles in their own right, Spartan, not just small scale engagements.'

'Which side has the most troops?'

'Well, the Legion has sent more troops into the other three battles than the NCR but there are more troops coming out of the west, so given enough time the balances are going to tip.'

'Understood. Keep me appraised of any major changes.'

'Will do, Spartan. Keep up the good work.'

Scott acknowledged and signed off, turning to Heyman as a barrage of mortars ripped through dozens of troopers in the blink of an eye and turned them into bloodied meat and asked, 'What will they do once the light level drops?'

'Who, these guys?' Heyman said, gesturing at the fight.

When Scott gave him a flat stare back he said, 'The NCR will fall back most likely, shore up their numbers and try to come up with a new plan, maybe send the Rangers out to look for weak points in the wall around New Vegas. The Legion will probably try to do the same, provided they've still got enough numbers to keep fighting. Why?'

'Planning ahead,' Scott said. 'Our ammo levels can't sustain this level of combat for much longer. Another day, maybe, perhaps two, but not three. Once we're depleted, there won't be much to stand in their way.'

'What's the plan then?' Hullum asked.

'Hopefully I can persuade the leaders of both armies to go back where they came from,' Scott said. 'Given all the losses they've suffered so far with so little to show for it, they might be hesitant to keep going.'

'And if that fails?'

The Spartan shrugged.

'The Legion I'm not worried about. There's so few of them left in the Mojave, and so few intact roads for them to take to get here, Captain Miles can recapture her original position with ease and hold it. Between our quartermasters and your ammo mills, we can build her supplies back up.

'The NCR, though, is the issue. They've got more troops than us, more resources to call on, and proper justification to wage a war against the Mojave. We can't hope to hold them off forever, even with fully restocked supplies, but their capital is several hundred klicks from here and hidden behind several large mountain ranges.'

'What the hell does that have to do with anything?' Heyman asked.

Scott looked at him and said, 'If the massive casualties so far don't give them reason enough to fall back, the threat of Shady Sands being obliterated by a fifty megaton nuke might.'

Spartan-B124, south of Las Vegas. 2357 Hours, October 11, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Heyman led Scott and Hullum south towards the NCR's field headquarters, situated near Camp McCarran on some old farmland crushed beneath thousands of boots and covered by tents and carts and troopers, sticking to the shadows as they avoided roving patrols. Scott had driven them down in his Warthog, hiding it half a mile from the outermost perimeter behind an old ranch house, ready to slip into the camp and negotiate a ceasefire.

Two soldiers had the unfortunate luck to stumble across the team and both were now dead, necks snapped by Scott and Hullum and pockets emptied of anything useful by Heyman. They all carried suppressed weapons, an M7S for Scott and modified marksman carbines for the wastelanders Heyman had adjusted himself, mounting crude but effective suppressors onto the rifles.

They weren't there to facilitate the engagement of multiple targets but to eliminate a sentry too far away for any of them to reach, a role they had yet to fill. Scott wanted it to stay like that as even a suppressed weapon made noise, loud enough that it'd be noticeable on such a silent camp on such an elevated level of alert, and as the gates leading onto the farm turned base grew closer he figured the chance of them being used grew closer too.

He was trained to hope for the best and plan for the worst, which given the local calibre of the NCR Army would amount to nothing more than roving patrols inside the camp, maybe some trained dogs, and high intensity lights at key points. The guards he could deal with, exploiting the holes in their routes and using shadows to his advantage, but dogs and lights were another matter.

The hounds had much better hearing than that of a human, smell too, so they might be able to hear the subtle rasp of dirt being crushed beneath his boot or pick up a faint smell that didn't belong, or just a hint that grabbed their attention even for a brief second which might be more than enough to alert their handlers something was amiss, before considering the chances of Hullum and Heyman would be detected.

Both were wearing a skin tight suit made of some black synthetic fibre, an orange faceplate completing the ensemble, but that only made them harder to see and not harder to hear or smell. Unless they were airtight as well as skin tight, and both men went through a rigorous decontamination procedure, there was nothing to be done against the smell of their bodies as they sweated from the tension and exertion.

The lights posed a more direct problem if there were any, the sudden lack of illumination alerting whoever was nearby something was wrong in one way or another. Unless they regularly went off, or it was noted they were faulty, they'd have to stay on.

To find that out though, first the team had to enter the camp and standing between them and it was a lone sentry, a single trooper, and Heyman waved Scott forward to deal with her. The Spartan nodded and stole towards her, and the first she knew of his presence was when he grabbed her in a chokehold, hand clamped over her mouth to stifle any screams as her air supply was cut off.

Within a minute she was unconscious and left slumped against the gate she had been dutifully guarding, hidden deep in shadow. Another minute after that and they were inside the camp's perimeter, crouched behind some barrels of water and sweeping their eyes over the mass of tents and people, figuring out their next move.

'How do we go about this, Commander?' Heyman asked.

'Avoid patrols and direct confrontation as much as possible,' Scott said. 'The officers in charge won't likely listen to us if there's a raging firefight going on all around us. We make it to where they're billeted, get past the guards, talk them down.'

Hullum and Heyman looked at each and nodded, Heyman gesturing for Scott to lead on. He nodded once back and set off, staying low and slow as he weaved through the warren of tents towards the only permanent structure, an old farmhouse, sporadically holding up his fist to signal for the others to halt as a patrol came by, waving them forwards again once the coast was clear. The most serious obstacle they encountered was the pipe that ran from Lake Mead towards Vegas, Scott's weight making the rudimentary ramp put into place squeal and groan in protest with such a racket it was deafening in the silence.

He dropped to a knee on the other side and shouldered his SMG, sweeping it across anything and everything in case a curious patrol was coming their way, drawn by the noise, but there was nothing. He lowered it again and moved forward towards the house, the officer's quarters for the NCR Army.

There were only two guards on duty, both troopers armed with service rifles, flanking a single door though when Heyman told him there was another door on the other side, Scott guessed the security detail would be the same for that one as well. A single light hung above both men, illuminating a patch of dirt a dozen metres across in front of them with a weak orange glow.

It did nothing to help them see the intruders who trained their guns on the guards, stepping closer and closer before pausing on the very periphery of the circle, scattered light picking up the shiner parts of Scott's armour as he ordered the guards to drop their guns and get on the floor.

They balked to start with but complied when the Spartan stepped into view, appearing to them like a ghostly wraith materialising before their eyes, Hullum coming forward to grab their guns and put them out of reach before training his gun on them.

'I've got them covered,' he said to Scott and Heyman. 'Go on, try and talk them down.'

Scott nodded and pushed past the Lone Wanderer into the building, a squat, single story affair with a musty interior hidden behind a rickety door, every available foot of space inside given over to housing the senior officers of the army, the regimental and division commanders, plus the supreme commander of the entire NCR Army, a woman called Cassandra Moore who either knew of Heyman or had previous dealings with him if the flash of recognition that preceded her cold, angry stare was anything to go by.

She and the rest of the officers were rounded up quickly enough and made to kneel in the centre of the room, Heyman's Pip-Boy casting its green glow over them all alongside the harsh white light of Scott's helmet torches, all of them angry at the intrusion.

'What do you want?' Moore spat at Heyman as he stood before her, rifle hanging loosely in his hands.

'Well, it's nice to see you too, colonel,' Heyman said. 'Though I guess it's general now. No surprise who they'd choose to replace Oliver.'

'Are you here to kill us?' Moore said. 'Because if you are-'

Heyman cut her off with a wave of his hand and said, 'If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead already. We're just here to ask you to leave the Mojave, and take your army with you.'

'And why should we do that?'

'Commander?'

All eyes swivelled to Scott as he brought up the casualty estimates for the NCR Army Sasha had drawn up, ready to reel them off to the assembled officers.

'Because of the five thousand or so casualties and fatalities you've suffered so far,' he said. 'Between air attacks, missile strikes and ground engagements against our forces, you've lost almost two regiments for very little in return, just one Scorpion tank that's been returned to service and three wounded Marines who are expected to make a full recovery. You're also bleeding troops to tackle the Legion in three other battles for control of Hoover Dam and the major routes into the northern areas of the Mojave.

'Your current losses are far higher than when you fought the Legion and this conflict isn't even two weeks old yet. At your current rate, you'll have lost a full division by the end of the month and continue haemorrhaging troops at an unacceptable rate next to ours.'

'But we can still defeat you,' Moore said. 'We're able to wound your troops. That's all I need to know.'

'You should know he can wipe Shady Sands off the map entirely, too,' Heyman said. 'His ship that's hanging high above Vegas has nukes that make the ones used in the Great War look like firecrackers. How big is the fireball on one again, Commander?'

'Eight kilometres,' Scott said. 'With the shockwave capable of destroying wooden structures as far out as two hundred klicks.'

'You're bluffing,' Moore said.

'It can also be launched within seconds of me giving the order, and capable of reaching its target within a few minutes. That's not enough time for you to radio home and warn them, or even if I waited for you to send the alert it's too short a timeframe to save anyone within ten miles of the point of detonation, and the Heavy has three of these nukes.'

He looked at Moore and waited, watching as she tried to figure out if he was lying or not, and when she determined his claims were true he waited while she tried to gauge whether he was cold enough to order the utter destruction of three major cities with the NCR. She came to the conclusion he was cold enough to order the atomisation of hundreds of thousands and realised her options were either keep the attack up and condemn civilians to death, or retreat back home with her tail between her legs but without losing anyone else.

The sagging of her shoulders made it clear what her plans were and Scott nodded to Heyman who squatted down before Moore.

'Mr House won't even hold this little incursion against you,' he said. 'He's willing to keep supplying power and water to the NCR at the same prices, but only so long as it doesn't happen a third time. You've used up all his patience.'

Moore nodded lethargically even though there was still fury in her eyes, Heyman standing up and away from her to stand next to Scott.

'You have until 1200 hours tomorrow to implement your retreat,' the Spartan said. 'Failure to do so without adequate reasoning will result in the destruction of your major population centres.'

The general just nodded again, signalling her agreement to the terms and conditions and the understanding of what would happen if she failed to abide by them, Scott and Heyman departing shortly after with Hullum joining them, all three casting their eyes northward to where the Legion camp was.

Spartan-B124, east of Las Vegas. 0012 Hours, October 12, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Heyman's approach with the Legion was more direct than the NCR's, directing Scott to drive straight up to the main gate where a dozen or so legionaries were stood guard, all high ranking and armed with machetes that were drawn the moment they saw the Warthog approach.

Scott slowed when he saw that and placed a hand on his pistol as the compound grew closer. It had once served the Crimson Caravan Company during the NCR's expansion into the Mojave, then Mr House had claimed ownership to house and train his militia inside, and now it bore the banners of the Legion, a golden bull on a crimson background.

He brought the Warthog to a stop a dozen metres from the guards and got out, joining Hullum and Heyman as they walked closer to the main gate. Initially, the legionaries on duty drew their weapons and began advancing but stopped when Heyman said he had an offer for the acting legate, one that would end the war quickly. To the Spartan's surprise, the decanus agreed and stood to one side, gesturing for them to head inside.

'I got a bad feeling about this,' Hullum whispered to Scott as they followed Heyman into the camp.

'Bad how?' Scott whispered back.

'Like he's gonna do something really stupid, or we're the ones who're gonna have to do all the hard work.'

'Sounds about right.'

They followed Heyman and the decanus who had let them in into the centre of the compound where an imposing figure was stood waiting, wearing a close approximation of Lanius' armour with an equally big sword strapped to his back, arms followed across his chest and a disdainful glare on his face.

'Profligates,' he said, spitting something onto the floor. 'Why shouldn't I order the execution of you and those who follow you, worm?

'Because you'll lose a shitload of guys trying to take us down,' Heyman said. 'And I mean a shitload. That, and if by some miracle you actually manage to defeat all three of us, not only will Mr House send every Securitron he has after you but the ship that's hanging overhead will unleash every weapon it has down on you.

'So do everyone a favour and listen to me for a second.'

The legate eyed Heyman for a long moment then nodded, saying, 'Speak, worm.'

'You're after Vegas, for some reason, and you're throwing everything you can against it,' Heyman said. 'Only problem is, you're losing every single person you send for little to nothing in return.' He glanced back at Scott. 'What was the estimate, Commander?'

'Twenty-three thousand troops lost and thirty-nine bridges destroyed, all to inflict zero casualties on the Marines, without taking into consideration the troops being lost tackling the NCR's forces in the region.'

Heyman fixed the legate with a condescending smile and said, 'To take New Vegas is going to cost you. A lot. That is, if you can even take it in the first place. And if you do, considering how many people you'll have lost, then the NCR can turn the tides and be the ones to overwhelm you under superior numbers.

'What is your point?' the legate said, impatient.

'My point is, there's no way that you can take control of Vegas in a straight up fight without losing in the end. You expend your forces to overwhelm the Lieutenant Commander's forces, the NCR will overwhelm yours and head east, into the now undefended regions of Arizona, and eradicate every last trace of you.

'Personally, I wouldn't have a problem with that. I think you're all a bunch of savages who should be wiped off the face of the Earth, but I figure you have to throw even the most repulsive dog a bone every now and then so I'm going to give you a chance, just one chance, to take over New Vegas fair and square with no more bloodshed on either side.'

The Courier fixed the legate with a solemn stare as Scott and Hullum gave him more incredulous ones at the audacity of the plan, if it could be called that.

'Yep, something stupid,' Hullum said.

'It's not over yet,' Scott said.

'A chance?' the legate said.

'Yes,' Heyman said. 'Just one chance. Come out the victor and New Vegas will be yours, wholly and totally. I won't stand in your way, the Lieutenant Commander will pull his forces back and leave you alone, and you can turn your attention on taking out the NCR Army.'

The legate fixed Heyman with the same look of disbelief as Scott and Hullum, perhaps more so considering his position as head of the Legion.

There was a long pregnant pause before the legate spoke again, asking, 'What would this chance be?'

'A fight to the death,' Heyman said. 'Your best fighter against ours, winner takes all.'

'And there's the part where we have to do all the hard work,' Hullum said.

Scott just let out an exasperated sigh inside his helmet and shook his head minutely, knowing he would be the chosen champion for New Vegas. The legate seemed to guess this as well because he turned to look at the Spartan, eying him up carefully.

'Why should I fight such a coward as him?' the legate said. 'He hides behind technology to win.'

'Then not only will you gain control of Vegas when you win, but you'll also get the satisfaction of knowing that your wits and skills are superior to the technology that led to humanity's downfall, that you and every legionnaire under you are destined to be the true rulers of the wastes, not weaklings like the Brotherhood or the NCR.

'Should you lose, you'll have to give up and go back home, and never return with thoughts of conquest.'

'That is... acceptable,' the legate said. 'Very well, profligate. I shall fight your chosen champion and when I win, his body and yours will be strung up outside the gates leading into our new capital for all to see what happens to those who try to stand against us. Come.'

He span on his heel and marched towards a fenced enclosure in the middle of the compound, a sizeable number of legionnaires already clustered around it, waiting for the show to start, and Scott, Hullum and Heyman followed him over. The legate accepted his mask from a centurion and donned it, moving to stand in the middle of the arena, ready for Scott's arrival.

'No guns,' the legate said. 'Melee and unarmed weapons only. Your champion must fight with at least some honour.'

Scott paused to look at the legate for a moment then shook his head in exasperation again, handing his battle rifle and SMG to Hullum before entering the arena himself. The legionnaires surrounding it crowded in, wanting to get a good look at the fight upon which their very fates rested. If their legate won, the city was theirs. If the Spartan won, they would have to go home.

Despite the enormity of the situation, the legate seemed at ease with one hand on the hilt of his sword and a cocky posture, like he knew he could beat the armoured opponent before him. Scott had seen it many times before in Covenant Elites, the split lipped aliens waiting in the middle of an open area as he warily approached, a deactivated energy sword in one hand and a lit one in the other.

They would toss the hilt at him as a challenge, inviting him to engage them in a sword fight.

He would pick up the proffered weapon, as if contemplating the idea.

A sniper would then obliterate the head of the Elite, as punishment for foolishly thinking honour held any place in battle

This time there was no sniper backing Scott up, just Hullum and Heyman who would be staying well clear of hostilities. All he had was his training, experiences, and an eight in blade tucked away in its sheath. That and pragmatism. Lieutenant Ambrose and Senior Chief Petty Officer Mendez hadn't trained him to fight fairly or with flair or restraint. They had trained him to win. That meant showing no quarter and taking out his opponent as quickly and efficiently as possible, not treating the whole thing as a showcasing of how brutal he was.

Based on everything Heyman had on the Legion and his own observations, they were as brutal as they were obsessed with proving they weren't weak and in a culture where strength was often the determining factor in who was in charge. That meant the cruellest of the cruel were usually the ones commanding the troops, as much at home tearing enemies apart on the field of battle as they were torturing them for fun and sport afterwards.

Scott expected the legate would try to make this fight drag on as long as possible, cause as much pain as possible, to reinforce why they were in charge and why everyone should listen to them, and start by driving his sword through Scott's shoulder to render his whole arm inoperable, maybe even sever it completely, before slicing through his hamstrings to reduce him to a crawl and to impale or remove his left arm as well.

After that, he would kick and berate the Spartan for his reliance on technology, maybe impale him through areas not immediately fatal, perhaps make him beg for death, then deliver the final blow.

Maximum brutality, maximum violence, grossly inefficient.

To start with, the sword was far too long to be of practical use in a quick and close quarters brawl and too heavy, requiring too long to swing back and too long to swing forward and liable to leave the wielder off balance if they failed to make contact. A better option would be to use it like a pike or lance, skewering the opponent, or only against lumbering foes like super mutants who couldn't dodge as nimbly as a human. That wasn't to say it was useless weapon. Scott was sure that if a person was unlucky enough to be caught by the blade, they would be seriously wounded. He was also sure the sword was not the right weapon for a one on one fight in a nice wide open arena.

A hectic battlefield, maybe, but not a duel where both sides could move around.

As a result, he wasn't worried about going up against the legate. He just planned his motions and waited.

The legate drew his sword and brandished it high, letting out some war cry to raise the morale and spirits of his troops, then lowered the monstrous weapon and charged, intending to drive the point into Scott's right shoulder and render his arm inoperable, maybe severed completely.

The Spartan stood still as time seemed to slow.

He was larger than the legate by a clear foot, putting his shoulder at around head height and by extension his hand if his arm was held straight out and level. The tip of the blade was coming straight for his shoulder and behind it was the legate, face contorted in a murderous snarl about three feet from the tip.

Scott fixed his eyes on the point as it crept closer, watching as the distance between it and his shoulder diminished. Then, as it came within mere millimetres, he turned to the right and stepped back, just enough so that the sword would miss. As he did, his arm flashed up to the knife tucked away in its scabbard on his chest, comparatively tiny next to the legate's sword but infinitely more adept for a close quarters brawl.

It felt like it weighed nothing, it was less than twenty centimetres long, and could just as easily be used in a slashing motion as it could in a stabbing one, which is exactly what Scott was planning on doing. He brought the knife out and reversed his grip so the blade was pointing away from him, and as he did that he brought his arm up so it was level with the legate's head and span on his heel. Fast.

The knife swung about in a deadly arc that ended with it slamming into the legate's head, punching through the metal plating and bone like it wasn't there to strike at the soft tissue beneath, going in at an angle because Scott's reach was longer than the average person by a wide margin. He had aimed for the legate's spinal column. He had hit him in the side of the head instead.

It had the desired effect because the legate seemed to just crumple to the floor like someone had cut the strings controlling him, sliding off the Spartan's now bloodied blade with a spurt of blood and without a single sound.

Scott kept his blade in position for a second longer as time restarted then lowered it, looking down at the now dead legate. Form versus function. Brutality versus efficiency. Warrior versus soldier. The answer was clear.

A deathly silence fell over the arena as the legionnaires registered the events that had taken place and let the enormity of what had happened sink in. Their legate was dead which meant they had lost the battle for New Vegas, which meant they had to go back home failures, which was not good.

Scott used his blade to point at the nearest centurion, the same one who had not ten seconds ago handed his now dead commander his mask, and said, 'You're in charge. You've got until 1200 hours to implement a retreat back into Legion territories. Failure to do so will result in the destruction of your army by forces under my command, and the destruction of Flagstaff by a thermonuclear device.'

Spartan-B124, interior of Lucky 38 Hotel and Casino, city of Las Vegas. 1200 Hours, October 12, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Neither the NCR nor the Legion chose to test the resolve of New Vegas' defenders or call their bluff of the annihilation of their most populous cities by a fifty megaton device, ordering the retreat of their forces within hours of being told to leave. By the time Scott's deadline rolled around, the rearmost units of the NCR and the Legion were ten miles away and increasing, followed by a mixture of Warthogs and Securitrons keeping pace to make sure they really were going.

Scott half listened to the radio chatter of the Marines as they trailed behind the two armies, looking down at Freeside from the cocktail lounge and the state it had been left in after the Battle of New Vegas, the streets drenched in blood and littered with discarded weapons and spent brass casings that the New Vegas Militia was combing through for items of value and importance, weapons primarily plus anything that had survived unscathed.

The streets of Vegas were completely different, free from battle damage and filled with revellers rather than sombre soldiers picking up after a fight, celebrating they were still free and intact and able to continue with their lives.

'Okay, so,' Heyman said as he read from a clipboard, the current tally of what the NVM and the Marines had recovered from Freeside. 'We've got a couple hundred pistols and service rifles, just as many shotguns, a few thousand caps, a few thousand denarius and aureus, a few thousand dollars that weren't destroyed by blood, more ammo than we can accurately count at the present moment, and no major casualties on our side.

'All in all, I'd say we came out of this war rather well, don't you?'

'We killed fifty-thousand people in the space of about a week,' Hullum said. 'Levelled Freeside near enough, and put a serious dent in your relationship with the NCR. How is that well?'

He and Hullum were sat in their usual seats in the lounge, a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Rum and Nuka on the table between them alongside a few packets of cigarettes, as they went over the preliminary reports of what they had gained and what they had lost. So far the loss column was very bare, detailing only ammo expenditures on the UNSC's part and a few casualties but no fatalities, while the gains column was overflowing and still being added to.

Scott gave the battle scarred streets of Freeside one last look then ambled over to Hullum and Heyman as the latter said, 'Well, the majority of the ones killed were legionnaires, Mr House can rebuild Freeside into something better, and the NCR chose to invade the Mojave of their own choice. They reap what they sow.'

'Are you going to keep all the guns?' Scott asked.

'Some,' Heyman said. 'The rest we'll sell back to the NCR at slightly inflated prices. Enough to hurt, not enough they'll say no. We need to fund reconstruction, after all.'

The Spartan shook his head as the elevator arrived, Amy stepping out in her usual skimpy negligee. She sauntered over and sat down in Heyman's lap, taking the clipboard from his hands so they were free to grope her body as she put on a pout.

'When are you going to be done?' she asked, feigning a hurt tone as she wrapped her arms around her employer's neck. 'Everyone's partying and celebrating but I'm all alone while you sit up here and get drunk. When can I show my appreciation for what you've done?'

'Soon, baby doll,' Heyman cooed. 'Mr House wants us to finish up here first, make sure everything's okay, then I'll be free to receive whatever appreciation you have to offer.'

He caressed her breast and gave her kiss before gesturing for the call girl to get up and go, giving her a gentle slap on the backside to speed her along. Amy let out a soft squeal and winked back at Heyman, and gave Hullum an equally flirtatious one, vanishing behind the elevator doors as they closed.

Once she was gone the room's Securitron rolled over and came to life, Mr House assuming direct control of the machine to address the three men himself.

'Gentlemen, may I say congratulations on successfully defending Vegas,' he said. 'You managed it without causing too much damage, less than I predicted, and kept costs to a minimum. I estimate Freeside can be returned to its original state inside of a month with improvements made in two, and the NCR will not make another attempt to take control of the Mojave for a long time.'

'And the parts we need?' Scott asked.

'Scouts are already being sent to the potential sites,' House said. 'Once they are sure the locations are secure, your engineers can go in and assess for themselves if the facilities will meet their needs.'

'Good.'

'On a more troubling note, one of my satellites from before the Great War has detected a surge of an unknown radiation and the presence of a huge mass, material unknown, presently heading towards the Earth.'

Scott frowned and said, 'When did you pick this up?'

'Fifteen minutes ago,' House said. 'I've spent the time since verifying this is not an erroneous reading brought about by two centuries of decay and radiation bombardment. There have been previous instances where my satellites had sent me false readings.'

'Would you like us to check it out?' Scott offered, and when House replied with an affirmative he hailed the Heavy, holding position high above New Vegas. 'Sir, Mr House has picked up the presence of a mass heading towards the Earth, material composition unknown, and would like if we can check this isn't a satellite malfunction.'

'Understood, Spartan,' McNeal said. 'We'll head out. Lieutenant Franks, take us out of the world. Lieutenant Donovan, start charging the MAC and prime all Archers. Lieutenant Tyler, bring the reactor to seventy percent. We may have a sister ship to Zeta on our hands.'

Everyone could see the frigate as it lurched forward away from the city, its remaining engines struggling to push the 4,000 ton ship against the pull of the Earth's gravity and the drag of the atmosphere but it moved off, climbing higher and higher until it was impossible to spot. Only Scott and maybe House could track the ship, the Spartan by way of a waypoint Tara was painting and House by whatever radars systems he had.

The minutes ticked by and a sense of unease started whispering in the back of Scott's head, as though what the Heavy was going to find would be very bad for all parties. He listened to the bridge chatter as the four officers called out their various reports but then it went utterly silent when the contact was first found and then identified.

An icy ball formed in Scott's stomach as he listened to Lieutenant Franks utter a short curse and prayer ahead of calling out the contact.

'Sir, it's an assault carrier. The Covenant are here.'