Price of a Mile
Spartan B-226 "Hunter". A supersoldier designed by some of the best minds the UNSC could call upon in the fires of the worst war in recorded history and baptised in flames of the same. Proficient in a half dozen martial arts forms, skilled in the use of every weapon in the UNSC's arsenal and almost as good as with those of the enemy. But at his core he is a suicide soldier meant to jump into the maw of death and explode from the other side in the flames of whatever was designated as needing to be destroyed. He knows that most of his brothers and sisters from Bravo Company are dead. And he knows that he will join them one day but right now…
The photo-reactive plates of his armor swirl to match his background as he stalks through the winter laden trees. The soft crunching of snow beneath his boots and those of Squad-Two is near deafening in his enhanced ears but he knows that there are few ODSTs who could move so quiet in such armor and with so much gear. Moving at the head of the formation Hunter scans every place that a threat could be hiding with the muzzle of his Battle Rifle, occasionally he catches a glimpse of the Eldar teams that were sent to accompany his own on the hit-and-run strikes that they hope will be able to bleed the Chaos army a little more and increase their chances of surviving. A low mechanical grinding of rattling treads reaches through the trees guiding them in on their target.
Hunter is not surprised to see troops a little above mutants in quality following behind the same model of transports he's seen Imperials use in a straggling clump that vaguely resembles an advancing column. Wordlessly he uses hand signals to direct the squad of stormtroopers in position, grateful for the ease of changing from his training to the new signals due to their resemblance. The stormtroopers spread out easily leaving their slightly more heavily laden squadmate take a position near the center so that he has an unobstructed line of fire on the tank. The narrow tube of a single-shot rocket launcher is set on a wide shoulder and carefully aimed with years of experience. Hunter takes a deep breath and settles his rifle against the flank of the gnarly tree he has taken cover behind doing his best to steady his aim as he settles the crosshairs on the man holding a ragged banner high.
The Imperials wait quietly as their enemy stomps closer, their breaths forming clouds of white in the air above them. Not a single one suspects the death-dealers waiting in the trees, steady hands aiming their deadly weapons for the precise shot that is needed. At thirty meters the rocket bearer fires, the whoosh-roar of the rocket's engine shattering the silence. The warhead slams into the Chimera's flank and detonates sending a molten cone of metal through the fuel cell and igniting it. The tank is cracked in half by the ensuing explosion immolating those following too closely and spraying the others with hot shards of metal.
Hellguns scream spitting searing white bolts of light into the shocked cultists. The coherent light beams sever limbs, punch straight through torsos and take the life of the one on the other side. The snow melts around the stormtroopers as their weapons begin venting heat to avoid melting their barrels. Hunter's rifle booms in single precise shots always finding the heart or the head the banner bearer being the first to suffer his aim, a screaming corrupt priest carrying a massive book being the second. 9.5mm slugs punch through skin, bone, and brains with ease and quickly reap a terrible toll among the madmen and in under thirty seconds the whole group is dead. Without waiting for orders the Stormtroopers rise and sprint back into the trees, their task completed. By the time the heretic column can react to the fact that their vanguard was hit the Eldar will be in position to exploit any holes.
Inquisitor Reymose smiles grimly as the sounds of combat are carried to him on the wind. The walls of the monastery are empty of the ranks of warriors that they would normally have during a time for war. Instead the Sisters are out in force forming small fast-moving units to strike at the flanks of the advancing army to trim their numbers instead of waiting for them on the walls like a Guard General would have had them be. His plan is so far going off without a hitch using the Imperium's forces to smash the vanguard before retreating and letting the Eldar and their lighter units cut the enemy. Bleeding them slowly before retreating back to the walls. In this the stormtroopers are better suited than the Battle Sisters thanks to their training in the art of skirmishing.
For it is that: an art. Stay engaged too long and your forces can become encircled or outright destroyed an no matter how many of the enemy are dead if you are too you've lost. Disengage too quickly and you haven't caused enough damage. And then there is the when, the how, the where to hit each time. It's something that many commanders discard in this day and age: irregular fighters have often defeated massive armies simply by making them bleed over, and over, and over again.
"My lord, the Spartan's group has broken the western approach and is now withdrawing to the secondary point," Reymose's only companion, a vox operator, reports keeping one hand on the horn pressed to his ear. The Inquisitor nods and considers the situation. They've been bleeding all three prongs of the enemy's advance for the last few hours, taking a dozen men here or there to slow them down and weaken the final assault while suffering near non-existent losses in turn.
"Perhaps we can bleed them… but what of the demon in our midst?" he wonders aloud turning once more to regard the wrecked Rhino where he stored the Saint's sword. Where would the Demon be hiding? Those who call the Warp home can hide anywhere and the average man would have no idea of their presence. And as much as he would like to he cannot search every mind for fear of provoking the creature, or giving it access to his body as well. The Imperium can defeat any foe it faces on the field of battle but a fight for the soul? Who can truly guard against those poisonous but sweet words that seduced half of the Emperor's own sons?
Pale blue eyes take in the towering central building of the monastery and narrow ever so slightly at the chill that runs down his spine. A Demon hiding in the body of one of the Emperor's servants doing who knows what in a place of worship...generations of the Emperor's servants are turning over in their graves at the thought.
"Emperor of Man grant your humble servant the strength to banish the Demon from your house. Grant me the skill to root him out, the breath to curse him, the strength to cast him from the shadow of your majesty."
"Contact left!" Sergeant Falt bellows as he spins behind a tree a moment before searing red beams of light skewer the space he occupied a moment before. Hellguns shriek angrily and spit a blinding white barrage in return taking a brace of heretics with ease. The swarm of madmen ignores their losses and presses on trampling their wounded in their eagerness to close the gap. The Spartan calmly begins dropping the enemy with single shots, that deceptively advanced autogun of his claiming a life with every booming report. The rest of Squad-Two peppers the enemy with bursts of supercharged las-fire sending bodies tumbling into the snow with uncanny accuracy.
It's not enough to stop the maddened headlong charge. Twelve of them make it through the storm of las and slugs. Falt snarls angrily and whips the but of his rifle into the first one's head snapping the skull back. The Hellgun is swiftly brought to bear once more and pumps a searing beam through the man's heart. Only half of the heretics are dealt with by Stormtroopers...the rest lay bleeding at the Spartan's feet.
"Move! We need to get back now!" Gears snarls as his weapon vents superheated steam into the air.
"Affirmative. Pull back...I'll buy you time," Hunter declares slapping a new magazine home. The stormtroopers stare at him for a moment in shock. Sacrifice is an honored and frequent theme in the Imperium but for one man to give his life for his comrades...it is always a difficult thing to contemplate.
"We're not leaving you to–"
"You're not leaving me anywhere. In all honesty you're slowing me down here. Cut me loose." The Sergeant blinks taking in the cold toneless voice, the utter confidence, as if he has already done it. That featureless golden faceplate turns to regard the stormtrooper giving away nothing of the younger man's expression but he can easily imagine the fierce flames of determination burning in his eyes.
"I'll be fine sergeant. Spartans never die." The armored form blurs as the camouflage suite in the suit's plates change to suit the environment and sprints off in an explosion of snow. The squad stares at the trees where their comrade disappeared into, dumbfounded by the sudden spike of speed displayed before them. The booming report of the Spartan's weapon reaches their ears moments later along with the screams of the cultists and their decision is made.
"Pull back to the monastery and pray. Pray that the Emperor is with him."
Hunter spins around a beam of white light and repays the cultist with a 9.5mm slug to the shooter's throat. Blood and bone explodes from the wound as the projectile shatters the spine on its passage through and then proceeds to punch a neat hole through the next man's body armor. The next three men fall in quick succession to single shots in vital areas, the Spartan wanting to be as efficient with his ammunition as possible. Super-human muscles propel him through the trees as he avoids a stream of bolter fire coming from the hull mount of the lead Chimera.
He mag-locks the battle rifle to his back and draws his pistol as he sprints around the vehicle in an arc. Lasfire heats the air around him and melts the snow at his feet but none of the shots are even close to hitting. The hatch on the transport's turret is flung open and a gasmask wearing crewman pops his torso out. Three shots cough from the pistol taking him in the chest and sending him tumbling to the turret's floor only a half second before Hunter leaps onto the side of the tank itself. A primed grenade appears in the Spartan's hand and is promptly thrown into the still open hatch a moment before the hatch is slammed shut over it. The charge's detonation is muffled by the layers of armor but the Spartan has already leaped clear and killed four more cultists.
A second grenade is flung effortlessly into a cluster of cultists that were packed a little too close together. Flesh, fragmented armor and blood is thrown in every direction yet not a single drop hits the Spartan's shimmering armor plates. A storm of shurikens rips through the trees and shreds another squad like fruit in a blender. Green armored figures appear silently from the shadows blades already hissing in anticipation, while crimson and white armored alien women charge screeching from the trees. Chainswords and naked blades cut through flesh and bone with startling ease even as pistols shriek in accompaniment. The Spartan can't help but admire the smooth transitions of the alien warriors, their supple forms seeming to dance through the sluggish mutated humans.
Then his inner competitiveness rears its head and his own efforts are redoubled. Cultists and mutated spawn fall to the soot streaked snow in bloody heaps in an ever increasing fashion. More and more of the slim alien soldiers emerge from the trees heralded by the wicked aim and power of their chosen weapons. Lasfire fills the air amidst the storm of screeching shurikens yet few actually strike.
"It's almost like fighting with my brothers and sisters again," Hunter muses as he takes cover behind a stalled transport to reload his weapons. A thunderous roar silences the battlefield for a moment and a spray of red mist splatters across Hunter's faceplate. He doesn't hesitate to wipe the mess from the smooth surface and immediately notices the corpses of one of the green armored aliens. Or, what's left of it anyways. The once smooth and strong chestplate is shattered exposing the white bone of the ribs beneath the flesh. Parts of the armor litter the snow all around the body, and one of the red jewels decorating the upper portion has begun to glow with a throbbing inner blue light. Intrigued, and silently shocked, for a moment he takes a peek around the still idling Chimera.
"Oh fuck…" he mutters to himself. Three massive figures stride through the smoke and flames wreathing the convoy. Crimson armor decorated in the same eye aching symbols as the cultists covers their towering forms in great slab-like plates. Snarling and laughing demon heads are wrought into the plates where the writing doesn't reach their eyes glowing menacingly. Incense smoke spills from the censors hanging at their hips and the exhaust vents of their reactor-backpacks. Horns rise curling from their helmets giving them a more demonic appearance aided by the crimson glowing lenses in place of eyes.
Their hands clasp monstrous weapons, bolters he remembers them, and direct the savage volleys of explosive rounds into the fading Eldar troops. Shurikens spark off of or simply get lodged into the impossibly hard armor plates. The Spartan feels his heart sink ever so slightly at the sight of the three colossuses advancing on him, their lips spewing litanies of hate from whatever unholy book they cling to.
"Come face us alien scum! The Dark Gods thirst!"