Scions and Spartans
Sergeant Falt curses his Lord for the hundredth time since they set down on this rock. The rest of his squad is spread out in an assault formation hellguns scanning for targets. The grizzled sergeant hates being the first squad into the fight knowing as he does that the point men are the first to die. But so far all that they've seen is the shadows of their foes retreating into the veil of the mist.
"Whoever this guy is he's got the mutants by the nose," Gears mutters over the squad channel. The ten stormtroopers are sealed into their carapace armor, masks and all, making the helmet mounted vox-sets the only way to communicate. The sergeant nods to himself as the sounds of fighting suddenly grow loudly. What he sees brings him up short. Mutants lay in the street in crumpled heaps where they fell. A pile of them clog the doorway to a now battered building. The sounds of dying scum and lasguns reaches his ears before a grenade blast silences it all for a split second. Then screams come back even worse than before.
A body is thrown through a shattered window trailing its own intestines.
"What in the Emperor's name…?" one of the Stormtroopers mutters in awe.
"What is going on here sergeant?" a cold voice demands from behind the seasoned veteran. Falt whirls around to find the Inquisitor's acolyte staring him down with her chainsword drawn and purring quietly.
"Something is in there with the mutants, and I don't exactly fancy our chances against it in close quarters," he says flatly. The Acolyte merely grins, one that the Stormtroopers who have worked with her before are intimately familiar with.
"You have a grenade launcher right?"
The explosion sends the remaining mutants tumbling onto their faces screaming in pain as pieces of debris fly through the air at muzzle velocity. Hunter simply adjusts his aim, shooting the remainder before they can climb to their feet. Activating his photo-reactive plates he melts into the shadows never letting the muzzle of his rifle stray from the opening. One of the mutant's groans and pushes itself up on one arm.
The Spartan doesn't move to eliminate the threat keeping an eye on his motion tracker as a half dozen unknown contacts appear just outside. A searing beam of white light and a screech ends the stunned mutant's rise, and takes off its head. Hunter doesn't move as the contacts get closer. The first one enters, their armored form immediately highlighted red by his VISOR, a bulky rifle with a power cable attached to his backpack held in sure hands. Four more pile in behind him with the crimson lenses of their helmets gleaming in the low light. Each of them moves just as well as ODSTs that Hunter has served did and their armor certainly reminds him of those insane bastards.
But that's where the similarities end. Instead of the featureless black plating and silver faceplate their armor has decorations. A two headed eagle adorns their chestplates with a stylized "I" in the center of the eagle's chest. Their masks are carved to the likeness of skulls and the individual plates are trimmed in crimson. They speedily secure the breach with all the precision of a professional team completely unaware of the shadow watching their every move.
"Clear!" a voice calls in the Spartan's ear making his eyes go wide in surprise for a split second. Apparently he had accidental access to to their inter-squad comms. He pays close attention to the voice trying to place the rough accent knowing that every piece of intelligence he can gather is crucial to anything that he might do in the future. An eleventh contact approaches on the tracker. Enhanced ears catch the sound of heavy boots crushing the debris of the now pulverized wall. A feminine figure clad in a swirling greatcoat and fine, if dirty, armor plating.
A bulky pistol is held easily in one hand, coils glowing at the top emitting an all-too familiar whine: a plasma weapon on idle with the safety off. Memories of green and blue streaks slamming into human flesh, burning through battleplate and flesh and bone. The screams of the dying and wounded as aliens slaughter the innocent on a dozen worlds. The Spartan's grip tightens on his rifle imperceptibly.
"There's no one here ma'am."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that sergeant," a feminine voice counters the man's. Hunter doesn't even think, he simply shifts his aim to regard the woman first and glares into her eyes from behind his helmet. The soldiers stiffen in shock as the woman lowers the pistol to take aim at Hunter's hidden position. The Spartan Rises from his position and deactivates his active camouflage, willing to wager that she could see through it. Five weapons swivel around to regard him, their charred barrels indicating yet more laser weapons. The Spartan doesn't blink.
"Drop the weapon!" one of the soldiers barks out as his team spreads out behind him. The Spartan takes careful note of their positions as the woman steps off of the pile of rubble that clogs the unplanned entrance. Cold eyes stare into his faceplate as if she could see through it. The Spartan makes no reply to the demand. A Spartan never surrenders his weapon.
"Identify yourself." This he does respond to.
"Sierra-Bravo-2-2-6."
Inquisitor Andron Reymose takes in the figure he had been speaking to over the vox with a wary eye. The figure is easily taller than the largest stormtrooper in his company by a full head in height, even if he is a little bit on the lanky side. The autogun held in his hands is of a reasonably advanced and elegant pattern. A golden visor covers the figure's face exposing nothing of the features within while the rest of his body is covered in green plates of what appears to be low grade ceramite laminated over a form of metal. While the Inquisitor is, by Imperial standards, a learned individual he is still just a human and thus has a limited well of knowledge to draw from.
The reactions of one Tech-magos Senioris Techla however are anything but reassuring. The, once, female Tech-Priestess seems to be just as stumped as he is about what exactly the stranger's armor is made of if the slight twitching of her mechadendrites are anything to go by. The man, for the Inquisitor can feel his thoughts, stands at rigid attention that puts any stormtrooper or Guardsman to shame. Every part of this man screams soldier, even his breathing is calm and collected and disciplined to the extreme.
This is the kind of soldier one sends into suicide missions and knows that he will come out alive on the other side, his objectives completed. The Inquisitor wants–no needs to know where he came from. To that order he had his command group secure the surrounding block, both above and below ground, in order to interrogate this exceptional individual. His men counted no less than fifty mutants in the hab and in the street, twenty of which had been dealt with in close quarters by either a pistol or blade.
Stormtroopers might be expected to achieve such feats but often they suffer debilitating injuries. This man is uninjured without even a scuff in the paint of his armor to show for the intensity of the fighting.
"So, I'm going to be blunt because doubt you'll appreciate any subtle attempts at getting into your head and I frankly don't have much time to spend on you. Who are you?" The figure doesn't move. Not a finger, not a slight tilt of his helmeted head.
"Spartan Hunter B-226."
"And how did you get here?" Hunter clams up slightly, his lips pressing together a little harder as he considers how to explain that he doesn't know how he got here. How does one explain suddenly seeing humans in possession of laser weapons and fighting mutants on a completely different planet than he was supposed to be on?
"I...don't know. I woke up in mid-air and my pod was barely working. Where am I sir?" The Inquisitor sinks back into his chair with a frustrated sigh.
"You are on Syran IV, a Hive world in the Imperium of Man. How do you not remember how you arrived here?" the Inquisitor inquires with an arched eyebrow. It would be easy to lie and say one doesn't remember how they arrived. Afterall, damning evidence can be "forgotten" in many cases simply because the right person decided that it doesn't need to be brought to light.
"I was stationed on the UNSC Dawn's Light and given orders to drop on New Syracuse. After landing I was to coordinate with the local forces and target enemy leadership. An enemy vessel made a jump just as my pod was leaving the ship and I was caught in the event horizon. Next thing I know I'm falling over your world in a mutant infested city," he reports in the clipped tone of a soldier. Reymose frowns at the obvious avoidance of using any actual names beyond his ship and the world he was supposed to be on. Muttering a brief prayer the Inquisitor exerts his connection to the Immaterium. The Spartan goes on guard seeing the man's eyes close and the temperature dropping rapidly in the room. Frost creeps across the edge of his armor triggering numerous warnings in his HUD.
Hunter's hand creeps towards the butt of his M6C still holstered on his thigh. Then his head explodes in pain.
"You have all been brought here for one purpose: revenge." That single sentence rings out through the air. Three hundred young children hang on the uniformed man's every word, their hearts burning with the fury of an orphan of war. Medals shine brightly on his void-black uniform a tall cap casting his eyes in shadow as he takes in his newest charges.
"You will be challenged here. Only the best will survive the training, and those of you who do will never be the same. But, I look out at all of you now and I see one thing that will win us this war and give you that thing you want: the will to win." Hunter strains his ears, burning every word into his heart. The fury of seeing his home burn in the window of the shuttle after seeing his parents and sister shredded by the crystal shards fired by the alien weapons smolders in his chest. His small fists clench at his sides hard enough to dig his nails into his palms.
"You are humanity's best hope for survival and victory. You are the sword and shield. You will be...Spartans."
"Move it! You lot couldn't kill a gut shot Grunt if this is the best you've got!" an instructor bellows as Hunter pulls himself up a frayed rope. His arms, lungs...his everything burns with the exertion but he's kept fourth place throughout the whole obstacle course. Hauling himself up the last half meter he rings the bell and slides down, pushing the burning sensation of the rope against his skin out of his mind. His legs shake underneath him as he forces them to sprint the final stretch. He crosses the line and is immediately accosted by an instructor.
"On your face recruit!" Push-up after push-up. Then burpees, flutter kicks. And worst of all...ten-count bodybuilders! Repetition after repetition until his muscles are jelly and they are sent to bed...after a two-kilometer run.
The kill-house rings with the sharp reports of MA5K assault rifles. The now slightly older children move through the simulation with the precision of veteran Marines. Short bursts hammer armored dummies in precise triplets. Hunter's eyes scan every corner, every crevice knowing that the others will be punished if he misses one target. He stacks on either side of a door with the rest of fireteam Delta. The Spartan trainees move fluidly, the largest of them booting the door open savagely.
Hunter is the first one in, rifle up and spitting lead at the first three targets he sees. His teammates are hot on his tail, even as his rifle jams. Without pausing he rips his pistol free of its holster on his thigh, thumb already clearing the safety as he brings his second hand up to support the weapon letting his rifle hang from the sling. The M6C spits heavy 12.7mm slugs into the final target pulverizing the head.
"Clear!"
Broken Arrow shudders under the Spartan's boots as he dashes for the drop-bay. The Charon-class frigate groans as another volley of pulse lasers hammer her armored superstructure. A low vibration tells him that a salvo of Archer missiles is screaming through the void in reprisal as he rounds the final corner into the bay. His olive green SPI armor sets him apart from the void-black of the ODSTs already waiting there. The Spartan snatches an MA5C from a rack on the wall and jumps into his pod hammering the door switch. He locks the rifle into its position next to his chair as the harness descends over his shoulders.
The door locks closed with a hiss of compressed air and is swiftly shot from the belly of the frigate. The wounded frigate turns to face its enemy fully firing its MAC at the corvette before it can target the SOEIV pods. The two ships batter each other with the grey UNSC vessel narrowly coming out on top before a plasma salvo from a bulbous frigate strikes it amidships, boiling it in half. The pod shakes with the strain of reentry and Hunter grits his teeth–
Plasma fire streaks past Hunter's head as he leaps into a shell crater. His breathing is even as he emerges from cover for the briefest moment, MA5C shattering merrily. A pair of Grunts squeal and die tripping up an Elite. With a burst of speed Hunter charges the tall alien. He propels himself into the air and plants his titanium armored knee into the alien's jaws snapping at least one mandible with the impact. The alien stumbles back and roars in pain, not noticing that his shields have shattered as well. Thirteen 7.62x51mm FMJ projectiles punch through the armor plating protecting the alien's torso and pulverise the hard flesh on the other side. With a roar of primal rage Hunter flings himself headlong into the remaining aliens ignoring the plasma fire scorching portions of his armor.
His rifle roars in tune with his rage as he ruthlessly guns the aliens down. When the magazine runs empty he lock the rifle to his back and draws his pistol and knife. He moves so fast that the aliens haven't a prayer of acquiring a target. His body becomes bathed in the blood of a half dozen shades.
Hunter grunts as he bends his knees absorbing the impact of landing. A Jackal squawks before the Spartan's foot lashes out and kicks it from its perch on the Scarab's back. He absently chucks a primed grenade into the passage leading into the walker's command center and clears the outside with bursts of his MA5C. The grenade detonates with a satisfying crump leaving three crippled Elites and a half dozen dead Grunts. Single shots finish off the larger aliens and leave him to face the Ultra in command of the Scarab alone.
The alien snarls and ignites its sword with a flick of the wrist. The Spartan squares his shoulders and locks his rifle to his back. He draws his knife, twelve inches of high-carbon steel shining in the light of the holo-displays.
"I'm going to enjoy this…"
Inquisitor Reymose opens his eyes as the Spartan rises from his position on one knee. The tall man shakes away the residual pain and draws his pistol in a lightning quick motion that shocks the unaugmented humans. The Inquisitor is not surprised to be staring down the supersoldier's pistol and instead settles for studying the man behind the gun. His glimpse of the man's memories tell a wild tale, one that wouldn't be out of place in a fantasy novel.
But, a man's soul has no way of hiding the truth when the Inquisitor comes calling. Shaking off the residual wariness of using his powers he stares into the Spartan's eyes. Here is one that can match the most stalwart of Imperials in his will and conviction from a time before the Emperor brought enlightenment to the realms of Man. The interesting armor, the use of autoguns, lack of typical Imperial iconography, all of it points towards a distinctly non-Imperial individual. But after seeing his thoughts and his memories Reymose can confirm that he is not a heretic, merely a man out of time.
Reymose nearly snorts aloud at that thought. Whoever would believe him if he told them that the Spartan is from a time before the Emperor. The ones that did believe him would immediately try and burn him for an aberration against the Imperium or in retaliation for his kin's failure to keep mankind intact before the Dark Age. And so, instead of what his puritan brethren would have him do and burn him to less than ash, he gives him a simple proposal.
"I want you to join me."