The Great Journey

A/N: I'm going to capitalize all weapon names, soldier ranks, etc. just for the sake of uniformity. Also, there's going to be more action than anything else for the next few chapters as the battle for Earth unfolds, but I'll get on to the meaty plot elements afterwards, don't worry. By the way, my Cancun trip was nice, but I was dragged on too many tours and didn't get to buy much. Sorry if that got in the way of this chapter, but I'll try to catch up. Honestly.

Reviews:

pzgr6: Muhuahua, yes, write more! And yep, schoolwork sucks. At least I don't have as much work as high school…yet. :cowers:

Master Chief's Biatch: As always, help is much appreciated. Thanks for the offer.

Khellendros: Hmm. Sounds familiar? Dunno, it was a random idea of mine. Perhaps it has shown up elsewhere as well.

Jounouchi Katsuya: Sorry, I don't know much about Predators, but I've read quite a few fics with Halo/Predator crossovers. I recommend Obsidian Thirteen.

YamiPaladinofChaos: Yes, ladies first. C'mon, even in war we gotta have manners.

ryu isaac: Yep, I reviewed your story, and nah, asking for advice isn't a bad thing, it's good actually. Don't worry about it.

Zerath: Sorry to say, but the final fight won't be coming for a long time…this is gonna be novel length and that fight is going to be near the end. Ahh, I give away too much:bangs head on keyboard:

nightdragon0: Yeah, it must be. Too bad it's going to be a while before we stop shooting at the Elites by accident. Just kidding…

Blitz Kitsune: Yes, I have read First Strike before, and I know that some Spartans are still alive, but I said most Spartans were KIA, not all of them.

NuclearMage: My bad, I forgot to clarify the fact that Mars is now a smoking, charred floating remnant of its former self. And, as for the issue with Reach…I think a lot of soldiers know, one way or another. Why else the Marines say "That's for Reach, you bastards!" when they kill some Covenant in Halo 2? Still, I should've clarified that too.

goldfish demon: Don't know yet, probably characters of my invention.

Tamarallion Arothlin: Wow, that's a long review. Ha, that's why I'm putting down a personal response here. Thanks for the advice on romance, too.

BrendantheJedi: Hey, I didn't say anything about leaving the Spartans out…but you'll have to wait a while to see them.

zelda–lover: FYI, Johnson has a wife, as you will discover if you have the Limited Collector's Edition of Halo 2 and have read the excerpts from "Conversations from the Universe." Also I don't want to do something with Keyes because of her rank. I feel it would be more interesting to be among the enlisted ranks or NCOs. I mean, romance in a combat situation has been used before (I think) but in a command situation, it would seem out of place to be. That's just my POV.

appledude211: Hmm…lots of people asking for Spartan romance. All right, maybe I'll add something between the Spartans, maybe not intense romance–just a show of caring or something, because even a sense a caring is relatively rare among the Spartans. And, like I said to BrendantheJedi, the others are coming.

corkscrew737: See my response to zelda–lover.

elitegrunt–117: You'll just have to wait to see what happens. I've given away too much already, sorry.

Much thanks to everyone listed above! You are not neglected just because I didn't say "thanks" in the personal response!

Shout outs to everyone else who reviewed: keystone, Ultra Sonikku, timthesoulmantaylor, Fhulhi the Crazy, Brian, Warior, Elijah, psyche, and virtual–reality, thanks for the support, compliments, and reviews!

Chapter 7: Earthbound

2210 hours, February 21, 2553 (UNSC Military Calendar) ♦ Elite destroyer Duty and Honor, uncharted Delta Halo system.

For the second time in his long and decorated military career, Sergeant Avery J. Johnson was scared. The first time, he had made the first encounter with the Flood on Halo 04 and had nearly been infected. Now, he stared into an army of the living dead–he couldn't count how many Combat and Carrier Forms there were arrayed in front of him.

The Sergeant's face was devoid of fear, however, as he emptied his Carbine's magazine into the wave of Combat Forms that had just leaped into the air. However, out of that mob of forty forms, only two of them dropped. He stepped back to reload as the special combat team opened up on the grotesque bipeds hurtling through the air. Half of them were ripped apart before their feet even touched the ground. The other half smashed into the deckplates, denting the metallic plates with a dull clang that was lost amid the chaos of battle.

The twenty or so Combat Forms, all converted Elites, were just beginning to recover from their long jump when the Hunters opened fire on them. The beams they fired went straight through the ex–Elites and to the ones still standing several meters behind them. More packed in to fill the gaps in the Flood ranks, and they sprayed the Alliance combat team with their stolen plasma weapons.

A few of the unshielded Grunts were wounded as the plasma bolts burned through their armor to the flesh within. However, the Elites and ODSTs unleashed a fresh wave of their own plasma, bullets, and grenades, causing random limbs and appendages of Combat Forms to fly through the air. The Arbiter fired his dual Plasma Rifles until their side flaps opened to dump waste heat, not before baking a lone Combat Form to a crisp. 'Vadumee and 'Sonamee fought back–to–back, both using the elegant yet deadly Energy Swords to take a Combat Form out of commission with a single swipe.

Even though Combat Forms were being killed left and right, there were still hundreds packed in the hallway. They charged continually and there was no break in the wall of attackers. Already some Grunts had fallen, and some Elites had been wounded. The Hunters were directed to move in front of the softer Grunts, so they could take the Flood assault on their shields and near–impregnable armor.

Johnson crouched down to minimize his profile and fired his Carbine carefully, aiming for the chest portion of the ex–Elites that housed the Infection Forms. As he had discovered earlier, hitting the Infection Form that controlled its host's motor functions would quickly disable the Combat Form as a whole. To him, it was as natural to do as headshots with a sniper.

Viscous green blood sprayed as the Sergeant put another Combat Form out of commission. Ejecting the spent clip in his Carbine and slapping another one in, he zoomed in with the weapon's 2x magnification system to allow for easier "Flood headshots," as he mentally nicknamed them.

Flood forms rushed the combat team in a mindless torrent, regardless of how many of them died from attempting the same exact method of attacking their enemies. The infected forms fired Plasma Rifles and Needlers which their hosts had used, but since the fire was not concentrated it didn't cause much harm to the Alliance soldiers. Carrier Forms waddled around, detonating at random as Alliance soldiers fired on them. The explosions usually ended up killing more of their own than their enemies.

The Arbiter's Plasma Rifles began another cooldown cycle from the constant fire he had been putting out. Impatiently, he tossed them away, drew his Energy Sword, lunged forward, and cut a Combat Form in half in one graceful movement. The insides of the bisected Combat Form leaked out onto his hands. He shook the viscera off and proceeded to end another Flood form's life.

'Sonamee and the Spec Ops Commander took a brief rest from cutting apart Combat Forms, unsheathing their Carbines and using those to pick off Flood from a distance.

This repetitive cycle of Flood rushing and being killed in most imaginable ways went on for quite some time. The Alliance soldiers were taking virtually no casualties, due to the foolishness of their adversaries and the narrow hall which prevented them from being swamped.

Sergeant Johnson reloaded his Covenant Carbine again, noting the fact that he only had three magazines remaining. Empty clips lay all around him, and the bodies of Combat Forms were also covering the deck in front of him. The Sergeant's motion tracker showed a solid wall of red contacts in front, but that was obvious as the Flood were filling the entire section in front of him.

Impassively, the hardened warrior lifted the Carbine to his shoulder and continued to decimate the endless ranks of Combat Forms. As of yet, most of the forms were Elites, though a few infected humans were scattered among them, presumably from the In Amber Clad that the Flood had commandeered. Bodies tumbled and fell from the sustained fire he put out, but the holes he made in the wall of Flood were soon plugged up by more of the loathsome beasts.

The Alliance troops continued to pour fire at the mass of Flood forms, coordinating their fire in groups. As one group's weapons would overheat or require reloading, the next would step up. The method was quite ancient, dating back to the human medieval period when ranks of archers used the same strategy.

The Arbiter linked up with the other leaders, including 'Sonamee, 'Vadumee, and Johnson. All were covered in Flood blood and gore, including random limbs and tentacles.

"We can't hold them off forever," yelled Johnson over the clamor of battle, pausing to slam his last Carbine magazine home and pick off a charging Combat Form. "It may have seemed easy in the beginning, but our weapons are going to run out of ammo and battery soon."

As if to emphasize his point, the commander of the group of Elites that had just stepped back from the battle, a Major Elite, strode up to 'Vadumee, tossing away his empty Needlers and drawing a Plasma Sword. Blood flowed from a gash across his chest, where a Combat Form had punctured his chest armor with a tentacle slash. He gave his report, panting slightly from the battle.

"Excellency, the weapons that my troops are using are beginning to run dry. And, judging by the fact that the Flood are pushing us farther and farther back along this corridor, it seems that others are encountering the same problem. What are we to do? Eventually we'll be forced back into the main chamber of this level. It is too spacious; once there, there will be nothing stopping the Flood from making a mass charge and overwhelming us."

The Spec Ops Commander shook his head despairingly. "As of now, there is not much we can do." The deck rattled, interrupting the Commander as the Hunters stepped up to take the fight to the enemy. The battle turned in favor of the Alliance for a brief moment, before a rocket streaked out from the Flood ranks, hitting a Hunter dead–on and splattering some horrified Grunts with bright orange blood. Quickly, an ODST fired a set of Battle Rifle shots that killed the launcher–wielding Combat Form, but the damage was done.

'Vadumee clicked his upper mandibles, which meant a human biting his lip in frustration. "Perhaps we can send in a call for reinforcements, if there are any more warriors aboard this ship," he suggested halfheartedly.

"We have very few available, due to the casualties we sustained while wiping the Brute vermin off this ship," 'Sonamee said regretfully. "What soldiers we have left are mostly stationed on guard duty. I will pull together as many as I can to assist us." The Elite turned away as he sent a transmission to his warriors.

"Well, in the meantime, I guess we'd better get back to work," muttered Johnson. Rejoining the ranks, he used the last of his Carbine rounds to save some Grunts from being mangled by two Combat Forms.

Discarding the empty weapon, the Sergeant unlimbered the MA5B Assault Rifle he had holstered on his back. It was an interesting story as to how he acquired the outdated rifle. The Commander of the Duty and Honor, 'Sonamee, had been in several Covenant ground ops. On a battle on the human world of Levi–Civita, he had led the Covenant forces to victory, and kept a Marine's rifle as a battle trophy and memento of it. He displayed it on a pedestal, along with twelve magazines for it arrayed around the rifle.

At times he even wore it at his side while in command of the Duty and Honor, even though most Covenant looked upon human weapons as inferior trash. 'Sonamee liked the feel of the Assault Rifle, and never abhorred the humans as the other Elites did. The Elite would only kill because those were the orders of his superiors, and always thought there was something not quite right about the High Prophets' teachings. Now, he had presented the rifle complete with ammunition to Johnson as a small token of his sorrow for murdering so many of the Sergeant's brothers–in–arms during his military career.

Now, as he gripped the familiar curves of the MA5B, Sergeant Johnson was glad to have it. Sure, Battle Rifles and SMGs were nice and slightly more advanced weapons. However, though the BR55's 9.5mm rounds packed a bigger punch and was more accurate than the MA5B, there was no selector switch; the Battle Rifle was only capable of three–round–burst fire. This, combined with a smaller, 36–round magazine compared to the Assault Rifle's 60, made the BR55 considerably less effective against the Flood. And the SMG, though it had a 60–round clip as well, had to be dual–wielded for power because of its relatively weak 5mm rounds, and dual–wielding doubled reload time.

Johnson slipped his hand onto the handle of the Assault Rifle, chambered a round, and squeezed the rifle's trigger. He felt a sense of satisfaction as the rifle spit bullets and rumbled against his shoulder. The Sergeant directed the fire at a Combat Form and fired thirty rounds of full automatic into the hapless ex–Elite. A smile quirked up a corner of his mouth as the beast flopped dead in a pool of its own gore.

Meanwhile, the ODSTs were in combat with a particularly determined mass of Flood, assisted by ten Spec Ops Elites. Both squads of expert soldiers, human and Elite, cut through their enemies with anything and everything they had. However, even the best of the best weren't of much use if their weapons were empty. All of the warriors were using their secondary weapons by this time, and those were running low as well.

Helljumper Private First Class Derek Knight stood shoulder–to–shoulder with an Elite in the midst of this squad. The two were scything through various Flood forms with the combined power of Knight's Shotgun and the Elite's Energy Sword, arguably the two most effective weapons against the Flood. Private Knight was pausing to reload and had just slipped the first eight–gauge shell into the Shotgun's receiver when three Combat Forms leapt at him and his partner.

The Combat Form flying through the air seemed different to the Private. It was bulkier and more muscular than any form he had previously seen, and its head wasn't like that of an Elite's or human's. Its skin was darker than the typical sickly green of the Flood and had an almost furry texture to it. Well, it's going to die all the same, he thought.

As soon as the first form landed with a thud in front of Knight, the ODST quickly pulled the pin on one of his frag grenades and tossed it in the general vicinity of the Combat Form. There was a flash, a column of flame and shrapnel that the Flood form disappeared in. Knight was shocked at the sight he saw through the clearing smoke. Rather than flop dead as it should have, the monstrosity just staggered for a moment and stumbled backwards, even though its lower body was badly mutilated.

The Elite next to Knight stepped up and ran another one of the strange Combat Forms through the chest with his sword, and pulled the weapon out with a squelch. This time, the only result was the appearance of a gaping hole in its chest, and the beast momentarily stopped in its charge, but refused to die.

Knight hurriedly shoved shells into his Shotgun, backing up slightly to gain more time. The Combat Form he had grenaded ran towards him with limbs flailing, and he put three shotgun blasts into it. The parasite–controlled beast finally fell under the barraged of eight–gauge buckshot, though it made an effort to stand back up before a fourth shotgun shell finally killed the Infection Form within. Strangely, judging by the area where its tentacles were jutting out, the parasite had taken up residence inside its host's stomach region, or what would've been the stomach region if the host was a human.

Still, why the hell didn't the shotgun pellets kill it? Knight wondered. That sonuvabitch…thing, whatever it is, must have a really thick hide. Looking up, the Helljumper saw the Elite he had been fighting with finally dispatch his foe with a series of sword cuts.

"Look out!" Knight yelled as the third of the bizarre Combat Forms came up behind the Elite. The alien warrior turned just in time for the Combat Form to lash out a tentacle, hitting the Elite with a harsh crack. The force of the blow knocked out the Elite's shields immediately and sent the alien spinning to the ground.

"Take this, you bastard!" The Private charged, then skidded to a halt, brought his Shotgun up to his shoulder and fired point–blank into the lumbering Combat Form. Swiftly Knight pumped another round into the chamber and fired again. The low booming of the Shotgun was drowned out as the Combat Form gave an unearthly death scream, then slumped down with most of its upper torso torn apart by the eight–gauge shot.

The Helljumper hesitated for a brief second, then knelt down next to the Elite and dragged him back to a safer location behind the front Alliance ranks. A week ago, he would've shot the alien in the head without a second thought. In fact, he had come close to doing that during the early times of the alliance with the former Covenant soldiers. Now, however, he checked to see if the Elite was still alive.

It turned out that the Spec Ops soldier was just unconscious. Had Knight not yelled out a warning, however, the Combat Form would've cracked the Elite's spine. The Elite's chestplate was fractured and there he was bleeding slightly, but there was no life–threatening damage as far as Knight could tell. The Elite groaned, indicating that he was coming around.

"Take it easy," advised the ODST. "You took a nasty hit there, from whatever that thing was. I think some of your ribs might be broken, but you might want a medic to look you over…if you have any medics, that is."

The Elite nodded. "I thank you for your assistance, human. I am in your debt, but I hope there will come a time and place where I will have the chance to repay you." The alien dragged himself up, clutching his chest, but not giving any other sign that he was in pain.

Typical Elite bravado, Knight mused, having been briefed before on how the Elites were very proud and committed warriors. He watched the Elite stagger to a group of white–armored Grunts, who proceeded to patch the wounded soldier up.

Now I've seen it all…medic Grunts. Knight paused guiltily in his thoughts. What am I doing, standing around? I'd better get back to fighting, and whatever that Combat Form was, it was damn tough. I'd better warn the other Alliance guys about it before somebody else meets our new friends. However, before he could open up a COM channel, a scream reached his ears over the continuing clash of battle. A scream from a familiar voice–a human one.

God, that's Private Bradley! Damn–not him! The Helljumper took off towards the direction of the scream, making sure his Shotgun was fully loaded. To his surprise, another Spec Ops Elite started running with him. As he dashed to save his comrade, Knight glanced at the Elite questioningly. The Elite couldn't see the Helljumper's face due to his helmet visor, but interpreted the human's question anyway.

"You saved one of my brothers, human, and now I shall help save one of yours," was all that the Elite said. Knight nodded in appreciation, elbowed a few Grunts out of his way, and saw what had caused the scream.

Elsewhere, Johnson had just blown the limbs off of a Combat Form with his Assault Rifle when an alarm sounded in his helmet. A screen showing squad status popped up in the lower–left corner of his HUD, which showed the biosigns, location, rank, etc. of each ODST squad member. As he watched, the list automatically scrolled to Pvt. Bradley, C. Bradley's biosign indicator flashed red, and Johnson knew the trooper was in grave danger. He turned until the arrow next to Bradley's name was pointing straight forward, and dashed off.

Private Knight neared to see another one of the new Combat Forms standing over a Helljumper, holding a Brute Plasma Rifle. The hunchbacked beast was just about to fire when Private Knight cut its plans short with a 3.5" shell to its stomach area. The Combat Form dropped like a rock, the Infection Form inside literally torn apart by the cone of Shotgun pellets. The Elite that had he had been running with provided covering fire with his two Needlers. Without pause, Private Knight removed the fallen Helljumper's helmet and felt his neck for a pulse.

He found none. The ODST had suffered the fate that Knight had saved the Elite from–a broken spine. The Private hung his head in sorrow for his fallen brethren and closed the Helljumper's still–open eyes. He was jolted out of his reverie when another "normal" Combat Form charged him. The Marine ducked just in time as the creature's tentacles lashed out. He put a Shotgun shell into its chest, dropping the beast, and quickly dragged the other Helljumper's body behind the lines as he had done with the wounded Elite.

Once he was behind the thin line of Alliance troops once more, he grabbed the dead soldier's dog tags and tucked them away in an empty suit pocket. Knight propped his friend's body against a wall, keeping it safe from the Flood…if any of us are safe from them, he thought bitterly. He stood and reloaded his Shotgun, looking up to see Sergeant Johnson approaching.

Johnson jerked his head towards Bradley's body. "He's dead, son?"

Knight swallowed a lump in his throat–you're a soldier, dammit, at least act like it–and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Johnson sighed, then knelt down next to the corpse, looking for dog tags. Finding none, he looked to Knight and understood where they had gone. "Take it easy, son," he said, guessing that the Marine had just lost a friend. "This is war. We always lose buddies and make some sacrifices. God knows how many I've lost." He paused for a moment, then continued. "Come on, soldier. You're an ODST, tough as nails. Are you gonna crack and go soft on me now?"

The Helljumper glanced at his friend's body, and his gaze snapped back to Johnson's visor, which was glowing in the beam of light Knight's suit was emitting. "Sir, no sir!" he announced, pumping his Shotgun to emphasize his point. "Just ready to kill some Flood and get revenge, Sarge."

Johnson's eyes hardened, but of course Knight couldn't see that. "Kill, yes. Revenge, no–this war isn't about revenge. It's about winning. If I'd been going for revenge for all the friends I've lost, I would've been dead by now. Just stay focused." An explosion rocked the deck between the two Marines. "Too much chit–chat gets you killed. Let's just earn our pay, soldier."

The Helljumper saluted and took up his position in the Alliance defensive line. Johnson reloaded his Assault Rifle, pulled the charging lever back and stepped back into place as well, next to the Arbiter.

"Avoiding the fight, Johnson?" the Arbiter mocked, grunting as he cut apart some Infection Forms with his sword.

Johnson snorted. "Huh, as if! I'd probably see you Elites turning tail and running with your asses on fire before Sergeant Johnson backs away from a fight." He sidestepped a Combat Form that had vaulted towards him, shoved his MA5B into its back and fired. A hole appeared in the Combat Form's front as the armor–piercing bullets cut through it.

The Arbiter didn't reply and merely continued making mincemeat out of the mindlessly charging Flood horde. Johnson killed a pair of Carrier Forms, slapped a full clip into his rifle, and popped the pods spawned by the carriers. He turned his attention to a human Combat Form that had just slaughtered a Grunt squad with a Shotgun, killed the beast and the Infection Form that tried to dive into the Combat Form's chest and "revive" it.

Suddenly, his squad monitor beeped a warning again. This time, two of the Helljumpers' names were flashing a crimson warning. Once again, the Sergeant turned to the source of the commotion and ran to assist the ODSTs.

Five of the bizarre new Combat Forms stood over the two Helljumpers, who lay on the floor in a pool of red blood. With his practiced eye, Johnson surveyed the scene before charging in. Both Helljumpers had burns covering their suits, indicating that they had been hit with plasma fire, and the five Combat Forms held plasma weapons–so that made sense. He fired a few rounds to goad them charging him, then hurled three plasma grenades towards the creatures.

The grenades were thrown with great accuracy, each finding a form and adhering to it. The Combat Forms disappeared in a brilliant sapphire flash. Four were reduced to green dust and floating fragments of skin, the fifth body was thrown forwards to Johnson's feet. He backed up, pulling the carcass of the Combat Form and the Helljumpers using his suit–enhanced strength, and took few seconds to have a look at the new enemy.

He noticed many of the same differences as Private Knight had, but he also recognized the head of the beast, even though it was slightly disfigured from the grenade blast. The head seemed small in comparison to the hulking, muscular body, had small beady eyes, and a vaguely simian look. It was an infected Brute.

A chill swept through Johnson's body. Those Brutes were as strong as a Combat Form before they got infected. I don't want to know how much muscle they got now they've been taken over by those damned parasites.

Regardless, the Sergeant kicked the infected Brute's chest in, making it useless from the Flood's standpoint. He noticed that the two Helljumpers' names had been grayed–out in his squad display, and knew they were dead. Johnson took the dog tags from the dead soldiers, rested the bodies up against the wall where Private Bradley lay, and shook his head sadly.

Tearing his gaze away from the three dead ODSTs, he hit his rifle's magazine release and slapped a fresh one into the receiver. Stepping over a batch of dead Grunts, he began to fire upon the Flood again with surgical precision, dropping five Combat Forms in quick succession by killing their Infection Forms.

"Squad! Regroup around me!" he barked into the squad COM channel. Johnson hoped that fighting in a group would prevent any more human casualties in the battle, if they were to win it at all. He rolled to one side as a volley of needles whizzed past, then put another Combat Form down by cutting off its legs with armor–piercing rounds.

Looking behind him, the Sergeant saw the hallway open up into a huge chamber that they had passed through before meeting the Flood, a mere ten meters from where the Alliance were holding position now. He knew that if the Alliance strike team was forced back into the cavernous room, then they were finished. The Marine noticed the surviving Helljumpers approaching on his motion tracker, rapped out a quick order for the squad to reform up front, as Johnson was slightly behind the bulk of the action.

The Arbiter, 'Vadumee, and 'Sonamee were helping their Elites create an impromptu wall by piling the countless bodies of Flood Combat Forms as a barrier. A fanatical group of Elites with swords met the Flood head–on to create a distraction for the workers. The Arbiter would've joined them, but his own sword had very little energy remaining. The Elite grunted as he lifted two bodies, setting them down around one of the four remaining Hunters. This would protect the near–invincible Hunter from the "Hunter-killer": Rocket Launchers and Fuel Rod Guns.

Johnson and his ODSTs arrived to helped stack up the bodies. There was no shortage of the Flood corpses, so before long a solid barricade of the dead was in place along the width of the hallway. An ODST was grabbing one last dead Combat Form when it rose and struck him in the chest. The Marine reeled backwards, shields flaring. The Helljumper managed to bring his Shotgun up and kill the beast, and the squad medic came over to patch him up.

The patter of feet behind Sergeant Johnson caused him to turn, and he whirled around, ready to fire. The pugnacious Sergeant barely stopped the impulse to fire when he saw that the feet belonged to twenty or so Spec Ops Commando Elites, their silver armor standing out in the gloom of greenish Flood-infested air. He lowered his rifle and waved the Elites forward gratefully. The Elites nodded to him, a sign that they had somewhat deserted their superior attitude towards other races, and strode onwards.

All of the Commandos carried a heavy assortment of alien weaponry, and at least half of them had portable plasma cannons strapped to their back. They could be deployed quickly and had an incredible fire rate compared to other plasma weapons. It was comparable to the human M297 Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW, a man–portable LMG with bipod that spewed powerful .30 caliber AP slugs at 800 rounds per minute from a 250–round belt. It required barely any setup time at all if the user chose to fire with the bipod, but also could be fired without setup because of its cleverly built design. Johnson briefly wished he had an M297 on hand, then tossed the worthless thought aside.

The Arbiter felt a knock on his shoulder armor and whipped around to see the twenty Commandos arrayed in battle positions. 'Sonamee and 'Vadumee also turned. "So. You are our reinforcements, are you not?" asked the Arbiter, already guessing the answer.

There seemed to be no leader among the Commandos; all were in the same rank level. One of them spoke up nonetheless. "Of course, Excellency. We were notified of your predicament by the Captain of the Guard."

The Spec Ops Commander nodded appreciatively. "We are very grateful to you're your assistance. Many Grunts have fallen already, as well as a significant amount of Elites–and humans," he added, glancing at the row of three dead Helljumpers. "Those plasma cannons will certainly help in stemming the onslaught of Flood warriors. Set them up along the barricade we have constructed."

The Elites glanced at the wall of bodies, some of which were still oozing blood, and grunted as if this were an everyday occurrence. They propped the plasma cannons up on the makeshift fortification and begin showering the Flood with the deadly plasma charges. Row after row of the beasts fell, neat lines stitched across their bodies marking where the Elite gunners had swept the guns along the enemy. Johnson, his Helljumpers, and the other Alliance soldiers opened up as well. Sheets of plasma and bullets ripped through the air, so thick that anyone who standing parallel to the Alliance troops' fire would see an almost solid mass of blue plasma and orange projectiles. As if this torrent of destruction wasn't enough, the Hunters fired as well.

It was a while before any Alliance soldier could see the effects of this devastating fusillade, which was, simply put, the utter annihilation of most of the remaining Flood. Once plasma weapons overheated and projectile weapons required a reload, the amount of fire slackened off while the plasma cannons continued firing in staggered groups to prevent them all from overheating simultaneously. The cannons paid the price for their high fire rate with a high overheat rate.

Sergeant Johnson's Assault Rifle's ammunition counter ran down to zero as he dispatched a zealous Combat Form that had risen twice after falling. He threw his last plasma grenade and watched it vaporize a group of unfortunate Carrier Forms. Johnson watched with contentment as the carriers detonated and took even more with them. This is more like a spectator sport, he thought as he watched all forms of Flood being cut down like corn before the reaper. Even the new Brute Combat Forms couldn't take the withering amount of fire that the Alliance plasma cannons and small–arms were producing.

Some human Combat Forms struggled over a mound of dead Flood that had accumulated in a hill of sorts during the course of the battle. Johnson and an Elite gunner promptly cut their plans short with a combination of 7.62mm rounds and an unrelenting barrage of plasma.

With their enemy dropping like flies, Alliance soldiers soon began to take a more relaxed stand towards the fight. The number of active Flood forms was quickly dwindling under the fortified turret positions. Johnson was careful not to relax, as complacency lay on the road to defeat. He ordered his squad to be on alert for something unexpected and they gave affirmative responses. The Sergeant depleted his sixth Assault Rifle clip, ejected it, and put a new one in its place.

However, Johnson let the plasma cannons handle most of the opposition, conserving his ammunition for that unexpected move he felt that the Flood were about to make. His sharp dark eyes darted across the combat zone in front of him, watching and waiting for the slightest change in battle dynamics.

The move came just as Johnson had anticipated. All of the remaining Flood pulled back for a few minutes, congregating near the end of the corridor, and charged the entrenched Alliance team en masse. Combat Forms led the charge, firing weapons wildly and waving tentacle–covered limbs. Carrier Forms waddled up behind them, and crowds of Infection Forms scuttled along the walls and ceiling, heading for their would–be prey.

"Pour it on 'em! Let those slimy bastards have it!" Johnson ordered, and opened fire in a full-automatic spray. The Alliance soldiers fired as one, and the Sergeant could've sworn that the deck rumbled beneath them. Though forms were being slaughtered endlessly, the survivors were not deterred from reaching their goal. Carriers exploded and threw others towards the Alliance, Combat Forms were killed by anything from grenades to misdirected friendly fire. The Sergeant laughed as a Combat Form tripped over another fallen beast and fell into the Energy Sword that it carried.

Twenty, fifteen, ten–as the lingering Flood forms came closer to the barricade, fewer and fewer of them were left standing. Finally, only seven Combat Forms were still on their feet, five meters from the Alliance line. One by one, they were killed off by the accurate fire of their opposition. The final Combat Form, a reanimated Elite, leapt in the air, crashing down right in front of Sergeant Johnson.

The Sergeant pumped forty 7.62mm slugs into the wretched creature, watched it fall, and opened his visor. Oblivious to the foul stench of lifeless Flood that assaulted his nostrils, Johnson jumped onto the wall, spat on the body and shot it again. "And the crowd goes wild! That, ladies and gentlemen, is how it's done!" He took off his helmet and whirled it around his head as a euphoric sign of victory.

The Arbiter started to clap suddenly, a gesture of approval that seemed to apply to both Elite and human cultures. The applause grew louder until it filled the narrow hallway. Elites, Grunts, and ODSTs alike celebrated–not only for Johnson, but for their whole cause. Sergeant Johnson took a bow, and stepped down from the Combat Form he was standing on.

'Vadumee strode up to Johnson. "Well done, human, well done indeed! I doubted your abilities, even when the Arbiter had told me you were a formidable fighter. I see that I had made a terrible mistake, however. No, all you of humans should be congratulated for your skill! We fought with unyielding spirit and hatred as enemies. Now, united, we shall be the greatest force the Covenant has ever seen!"

"Amen to that." More cheers and applause followed, quite of style for the stiff–necked demeanor that the humans had come to associate with the Elites. Slowly, the team dispersed, but a token force remained in case any of the bodies came back to life. Later, a disposal unit would be dispatched to cart the bodies off, place them into waste disposal pods, and launch them into space to be vaporized by the ship's plasma torpedoes.

Sergeant Johnson was walking away from the scene of carnage when he passed the three fallen Helljumpers being loaded into slings by their surviving comrades so that they could be saved for a proper military burial, on Earth…if it wasn't turned into a cinder, of course. He paused a moment, watching them.

The Arbiter came to stand beside him. The veteran soldier knew the thoughts that were running through Johnson's mind. "Do not worry yourself too much, human Johnson. We have all lost brothers today, everyone in this room. And I–"here he broke off, gesturing at the twenty or so Elite bodies–"have lost many more than you on this day."

Johnson knew that the Arbiter was telling the truth, but that wasn't exactly what he had been thinking about. "Yeah, I know…a lot more of you died today than my Helljumpers. But there are so few of us left." He turned to face the Elite, his unusually bright eyes bleak with a deep sense grief etched into them. "Listen, I've been in the Corps a long time. I've lost a load of buddies, more than all the Alliance guys that were killed today. Forty, fifty, hell, maybe even a hundred friends I've lost. I don't even know why I'm so caught up now over three dead leathernecks I hardly even knew. But my other friends, they were all fighting and dying against the Covenant, killed for reasons they didn't even know."

He swiped his arm across his face quickly. Damn, if some of those buddies could see me now, crying like a two–year–old who stubbed his toe on the doorframe. Yep, that's me...hell-devil Johnson, who eats nails for breakfast…crying. What am I coming to? The Sergeant turned away, embarrassed to be crying in front of a fellow soldier.

The Arbiter didn't know how to respond. He was a soldier, not used to comforting anyone. And the Elite felt a slight sense of guilt, knowing that his kind had brought much suffering upon the humans. Humans like this one.

The Elite warrior was about to say something when the floor gave a sudden jolt and a faint rushing sound was heard. A Slipspace transition.

Johnson turned, cracking a smile despite his tears. "What are you looking so sad about? Better get ready for another fight, Arbiter. We're goin' to Earth."

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and the deviance from Johnson/Arbiter views (the brief portion of the chapter described through PFC Knight's eyes).

This chapter is dedicated to all of America's brave servicemen and women, fighting and dying abroad for their country.