Chapter Three: Relapse

The tension was so thick that you could cut it with a plasma dagger. Marines had their rifles aimed at the metal door that the Covenant would try to breach, taking deep breaths and muttering comforts to themselves so they could face the combat that was about to take place.

Chief pulled a Battle Rifle off the weapons rack on the wall, and slapped an SMG to his hip. Taking a second Battle Rifle, he turned to Emile. "Here, your shotgun won't do too well at long range." He tossed the weapon to his comrade.

Emile caught it by the stock with one hand. "Thank you very much," he said. The Spartan looked longingly at his shotgun and sighed. "Don't worry, old friend," he told it, petting the weapon fondly. "You'll get your time to shine soon enough."

The Marines had set up a small barricade of crates, and the Marines that couldn't fit behind it were stuck behind the fragile glass screens that adorned the small room. Johnson was setting up a heavy machine gun turret with such a speed that showed he had been in this war since the start.

Six checked his DMR, and smiled when he was satisfied. "Cara, get combat-ready," he ordered his AI. Humorously, Cara emitted the sound of a sniper rifle bolt getting pulled back as Six joined the Marines at the barricades. Just the sight of one of the three massive, power-armored beings was enough to make any Marine have the will to fight.

"Have you ever notice how moral goes up when we're around?" Six asked, noting how most Marines suddenly seemed pumped and ready to go. "I guess that's because we're symbols of heroism and badassery."

"Actually," Emile said, pulling out the clip of his Battle Rifle. "It's just because no one wants to look like a pussy in front of a Spartan."

"...right. Which is kinda what I said, just in a different context."

"Less chit-chat, more preparing for an ass-whoopin'" Johnson snapped, passing the machine gun turret to a Marine and taking up an Assault Rifle. "Today, the Covenant come to our home. They've been pushing us around for decades, thinking that we are worthless imbeciles to be eliminated." The Sergeant Major was pacing behind the barricade, making eye contact with every Marine there.

"Maybe we are worthless imbeciles," he went on, "I know some of you are." Johnson shot a sharp glance at one Marine in particular. There were a few forced laughs, but that was it. "But we will be the imbeciles that will send them packing. We are going to send them home dead or close to it! We are going to put every last bullet into them! Then we'll use knives! Then our fists! I want any damn Elite baby born into a family where their parents are missing limbs or are dead altogether!"

There was a small roar from the Marines manning the barricade, and some from a few that had caught the speech over the radio.

"Remember your fallen brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and everyone else that the Covenant have slaughtered. Today is the day that the Covenant learn what they're really up against! What we can do when we band together! Men, when that door opens, all I want to hear is gunfire, and all I want to see is blue alien blood on the floor! Am I clear?"

"Sir yes sir!" the Marines chanted, feeling a wave of rejuvenation wash over them. Every Marine's eyes lit up with hatred and venegance. The only way that they would feel satisfaction was over massive alien bloodshed. The Spartans had nothing on Johnson when it came to moral.

Grinning, the Sergeant Major turned back to the Spartans. "You see, I know what keeps our boys and girls inspired. You, Chief, on the other hand, are a little quiet."

Chief shrugged, and nodded slightly.

"Sergeant! They're coming!"

A shower of sparks danced from the bottom of the door's seam, and slowly made it's way up. The Covenant were breaking through the doors. Once they had cut the lock, they could easily burst their way into the room.

"Weapons ready!" Johnson bellowed, pointing to the door. "Nothing but gunfire and alien blood!"

The Spartans shared some glances among themselves. This was the first combat they were going into since their last run on Halo. They had kept up on training, but the stress was starting to get to them.

"Six, I want you to focus on Grunts and Jackals," Chief said, looking down into the visor of the IV. He could tell that Six was rolling his eyes at the command. Six was the type that wanted the biggest kill. "I know it doesn't seem important, but you know what they're like when they get into a big group. Mainly, just make sure they don't throw any grenades at us."

"Can't you just give that job to the Marines?" Six whined, adopting his childlike tone. Sensing Chief's sharp glare from inside his visor, Six resented. "Okay, fine. I'll do it."

Chief nodded. "Good. Emile, you and I will focus on the Elites. I know that-"

The door blew off its hinges, sending shards of metal flying across the room. No one was wounded by the shrapnel, fortunately. Unfortunately, two Elites had entered the room, each dual-wielding Plasma Rifles and flanked by Grunts.

Bullets and plasma flew through the air, and the Spartans snapped into action. Six brought his DMR to bear, and lined up a Grunt that was dawdling at the back of the group. He fired, nailing the poor little whining methane sucker in the head.

Emile was firing away at one of the Elites, but he was having some difficulties. He had never really be the type of person that used scopes. His favored weapons were the ones with blades or took shotgun shells.

"Damn," he muttered, when his rifle clicked. The Elite's shields had been at the point of breaking, and now it was crouching behind the door, safe from human fire. Emile ejected the empty clip, and tossed it at the Elite just for spite. Instead of reaching for another clip, he grabbed a grenade.

"Grenade out!" He pulled the pin at tossed it toward the door. The grenade made it farther than the clip, and rolled past the door.

Muttered alien cries were heard, followed by an explosion. The Elite staggered out, purple blood gushing from several wounds on its body, and it was missing its left arm. Emile took the pistol off his hip, and shot it in the head. The lifeless corpse fell on top of the dead Grunt slain by Six.

The surviving Grunts had been using the glass screens closest to the door as their cover. The glass had long since shattered in the firefight, but since they were roughly the size of an average human, they managed to squeeze themselves behind the bases of the screens.

The loss of one of their leaders had almost been too much for the little Grunts, as they began to freak out. Their whimpers could easily be heard above the gunfire. Then, they reached the decision to make a suicide run.

Six was ready when the three Grunts came running out of cover and down the middle of the room, each one of them wielding two primed Plasma Grenades. He aimed his DMR, and fired off three shots in rapid succession, adjusting his aim each shot. Each shot went through the cranium of a Grunt.

Unfortunately, the Grunts had made it close enough that when they were killed, their grenades landed just close enough to the Marines' position.

"Get down!" Johnson ordered, running and diving to the side where the Spartans were. The rest of the Marines went the opposite way, some of them retreating up the stairs. The six grenades exploded in what would have been a beautiful display of blue lights, if said display hadn't completely destroyed the barricades and the one Marine that hadn't made it out of the blast radius.

But, save for the alarm ringing out across the station, there was silence. Four Marines went to recover the charred body of their fallen comrade, while the rest went to try to salvage anything useful from the dead aliens. Intel, weapons, whatever.

"That was fun," Six muttered, swapping out his old magazine for a newer one. "They over did it a bit with the last bit. Giant explosions of blue plasma has gotten kinda old for me."

"Nobody cares about your critiquing," Emile muttered, taking the opportunity to reload his weapon. "We only care about the number of aliens that you kill."

"Speaking of killing aliens," Chief cut in, "there's still one more Elite out there. We only took out one." He motioned to the remains of the first Elite...or what was left of it.

Emile sighed and tossed his Battle Rifle to a Marine. "I'll take care of it," he told them, pulling his shotgun off his back. "After all, I need to give my primary firearm a chance to shine before it starts to feel lonely."

He carefully walked out into the middle of the room, sweeping his shotgun left to right. No hingeheads in sight. Emile looked toward the door that the Covenant had blasted through. The only rational option was that the lone Elite was still back there, hiding it out.

The Spartan approached the door, drumming his fingers on the shotgun's pump. Despite his self-proclaimed badass status, walking toward a door where there might be an eight-foot all alien equipped with plasma weapons that were meant for you was a little unnerving.

A red dot appeared on his motion tracker, confirming Emile's suspicions. The Elite was behind the door, and was most likely preparing for another attack. He would have to act quickly and quietly to sneak up on the...you know what? Why bother? Emile wanted a straight fight.

"Hey, split-chin, get out here!" Emile shouted, shifting his shotgun down into a causal stance. He let go of the pump and reached up for his kukri. He spun the knife around a few times, enjoying the feel of the weapon in his hands. While guns were great and all, it always pays to have a good knife at your side. "If you don't come out, then I'm coming in! And trust me, you don't want that!"

Six and Chief shared looks of confusion. "What the hell is he doing?" asked Six. "Why didn't he just sneak up on it and take it out?"

"It's Emile," Chief replied. "You know him. He's keen about killing his enemy face-to-face, rather than just shoot at them from behind a barricade."

"...that doesn't sound very efficient."

"It's not."

"Come on, show yourself!" Emile shouted again, this time his voice bounced off the metal walls. "Fine, screw you, too!" He took out a grenade that he'd swiped from a Marine, and pulled the pin. "Suck on this, motherfucker!"

He tossed the grenade, and the explosive went right through the open door. The grenade exploded, sending up a huge cloud of smoke and sparks. Other than some minor damage to the room, nothing seemed to have changed.

Emile slowly lowered his shotgun. Could he have been wrong about the Elite being in there? No, the dot on the motion tracker was moving. Two blue glowing spheres flew out from the smoke. "Get down!" Emile shouted, diving to the floor as one of the grenades sailed dangerously close over him. It landed just out of range, but Emile still felt the rush of heat when it went off.

The second grenade landed right in the middle of the Marines' barricade. The troops elicited cries of fear and horror as they scrambled out of the grenades range. When the second plasma grenade detonated, the screams turned to those of pain and death.

Chief, Six, and Johnson had safely made it out of the blast radius, but there were many Marines that weren't that lucky. Six dug around in his pouch and produced a can of biofoam, which he tossed to the medic, who used it on himself before attending to the wounded.

Emile pushed himself up, just in time. The Elite came barreling out of the door, dual Plasma Rifles in hand. It aimed the first of its twin weapons at the Marines that were still on their feet, forcing them into cover again. The second one was point at Emile, who was out in the middle of the room, in the open.

Streams of blue bolts few out of the alien weapons, the first hitting an unfortunate Marine in the shoulder and the second began to drain the Spartan's shields. Emile figured that his shields would hold up longer enough, and ran at the Elite.

When he reached it, he slammed the butt of his shotgun into the Elite's hand, knocking the Plasma Rifle from it. The alien roared at the human, and swung its other weapon at the Spartan's head. Emile ducked, and fired point blank range into the Elite's chest.

It roared in pain, using its free hand to clutch its stomach. The shotgun blast hadn't completely hit it; the shields had stopped most of it, but a few stray pieces of buckshot got through. Small trickles of blood began leaking from the small holes in the alien's torso.

The Elite raised its Plasma Rifle at Emile, but the Spartan jumped into the air and spun around, kicking the rifle out of its hand. Emile followed through with another kick, catching the Elite in the chest, right where he'd shot it.

Staggering back, the Elite flicked its wrists, activating the plasma daggers on its wrist. Emile raised an eyebrow, seeing as how he had never seen plasma daggers on an Elite Minor before. But he said nothing as he tossed his shotgun aside and tightened his grip on his kukri, and waited for the Elite's next move.

With another roar, the Elite charged at Emile and stabbed with one hand and swung with another. Emile sidestepped the stab and brought his hand up, catching the Elite's wrist in his fist. He grinned evilly behind his visor as, in one swift motion, he brought his blade back and thrust it into the Elite's chest.

The blade sunk into a gap in the armor, in a place fatal to humans but not as bad for Elites. The alien doubled over in pain, and Emile yanked the kukri out, raised it above his helmet, and slammed it into the Elite's head.

It was powerful thrust, as the blade penetrated the metal helmet of the Elite. The alien's body went limp, only supported by the knife it its head. Emile placed his boot on the Elite's shoulder, and pulled his kukri free. He held it up to the light, and shrugged at the amount of blood and brain fluid on it. "Eh, it'll come off," he muttered, turning back to his comrades. "I got it," he said, motioning to the Elite.

Chief and Six shot each other a look. "Yeah, we noticed. We just wish that you had got it before it killed the Marines." Six nodded toward the medic, who was limping as he and another Marine were moving a body alongside two others.

"Well," Johnson muttered, pulling out a cigar. "We lost five, they lost five. That's not that bad of an outcome." He put the smoke in his mouth, and offered one to each of the Spartans. They all shook their heads. "Oh well, your loss. These are the good old-fashioned types. The best quality around."

"Okay, Six, Emile, we're moving out," Chief said, taking the two Assault Rifle clips from the medic, who had taken them from the dead Marines. "We need to push the Covenant off station. Any other boarding craft as of yet?" he asked, looking over at Six.

Six shrugged. "How the hell would I know?"

"I was talking to your new AI."

"Oh, then why didn't you say so?" Cara asked, her cheery voice came over the radio. "So far, there's been engagements popping up all over the station. The largest concentration of Covenant are occurring near the hangers, so it safe to assume that they are the main point of entrance."

"Then that's where we're going," Chief said matter-of-factly. "Johnson, stay here and keep them out of the bridge. We're going to cut off their entrance."

Johnson nodded. "Understood," he replied, around his cigar. "Normally, I would go with you, but without the Spartans here, someone needs to keep the Admiral alive." The Sergeant Major reached over and ripped a Battle Rifle out of a Marines hands. As it turns out, it was the same Marine that Emile had handed the Battle Rifle to.

Chief nodded to Johnson. "Good luck."

"Likewise, Spartans."

"Let's move."

"How many?"

Six looked around the corner, and down the hallway. There was an Elite Major toting a Concussion rifle, surrounded by three Grunts. The little aliens yapped to each other, and the larger simply barked out a single command silencing them. "One Elite, three Grunts. Are we sneaking up on them?"

"Six, We're Spartans," Emile replied. "Every single one of us has Hyper-Lethal slapped on our records. It's just four puny aliens, and you ask if we are going to sneak up on them. No. We just going to go there, shoot them the fuck up, and walk away in slow motion."

Bringing up his DMR, Six lined up the crosshairs on the back of the closest Grunt, targeting the methane tank. "So, shoot first, ask questions later?"

"Pretty much."

"Done." Six squeezed the trigger, and the Grunt fell as the sharp crack rang out. The aliens whirled around, and brought their weapons up. Well, the Elite raised it Concussion Rifle. The remaining two Grunts screamed in panic and jumped for cover.

Chief motioned for Emile to get the two Grunts, while he raised his Assault Rifle at the Elite and fired. A spray of bullets slammed into the Elite's shield, and the Elite began to return fire. "Six, give me a hand," ordered Chief, as he ducked down to avoid a barrage of brightly colored plasma bolts.

"On it!" Six swung his rifle over toward the Major and started pumping out bullets. The alien attempted to jump out of the way of the bullets, and it was soon dodging left and right as Chief finished reloading and added to the assault. Two shotgun blasts and two Grunts heading into the afterlife, Emile was in on the action.

The Elite, having no other choice other than to go out swinging, let loose with his Concussion Rifle. Red plasma bolts flew in every direction, and nearly every single one of them missed. One did it its intended target.

"Shit!" Six cried out, as the one bolt of plasma hit him right in the helmet. He dropped his weapon, and clutched his head, before falling to his knees, and then on his face.

Cara the started shouting over the comms. "Six is down! Six is down!"

Emile whipped his head around, and saw that the blue-armored Spartan was laying face on the ground, his shields broken and crackling around him. He wasn't moving; out cold. Well, that happened a lot sooner than he thought it would. How many does this one make? Five?

With a final shot from the shotgun, the Elite jerked back and purple blood sprayed from its upper right shoulder. Emile slung the weapon onto his back, and he and Chief ran over to Six's side. Chief went over the basic routine, checking pulse and all.

"He seems fine to me," the Spartan II said, rolling Six over onto his back. "Looks like his shields took most of the blast. At least his vitals are still online," he muttered, bringing them up on his HUD. "He should be fine, just give him a minute to get back into it."

Emile huffed and walked back over to the dead Major, and swiped the dead Elite's weapon. "I think this will do nicely," he said to himself, and began searching over the Elite's body for extra ammo. "You know, I'm really starting to worry about Six."

"Why's that?"

"Well, he's the one who takes most of the bullets. If he dies, then who's left to fill that role?"

"...Shut up. For a moment there, I actually thought I was beginning to see some emotion coming from you, Emile," Chief noted, rising from Six's unconscious form. "He's fine. No major injuries, other than getting knocked out."

Emile shrugged. "I don't know. It is Six we're talking about. He could start going crazy again. Didn't we determine that it was getting injured that caused Six's mental problems?"

Chief replied with a small nod. "Yes. We did." Neither of them really liked to bring that subject up. Chief reached down and gathered up Six's body in his arms, and propped the unconscious Spartan against the wall. "Cara?" he asked, tasting slight disdain on his tongue as his mouth formed the word.

The AI tried to force a smile as she appeared on the comms screen on Chief's HUD. "Reporting for duty? How can I help you?" Her virtual eyes were wrought with worry; she really feared for Six's state.

"How is he?" Chief asked. "Six is fine, right?"

"His vitals are normal, and his shields took most of the impact," Cara replied, clasping her hands behind her back and looking down at her feet. "It was a direct headshot, so his face suffered some slight burns, and his armor is a little banged up." Now that she pointed it out, Chief did see the dent in Six's chest plate. "That won't impair his armor's functionality, but it does make his armor a little less aesthetically pleasing."

"Suits him well," quipped Emile.

Chief cast the Spartan III a long glance, but then a curt nod. "Cara, is there anything that you can do to wake him up? We really need to get moving. We could been up to our neck in Covenant any minute." As if to punctuate his sentence, a muffled plasma explosion could be heard from the floor above them.

Cara rubbed the back of her neck. "Well, I suppose I can. His brain is a little shook up from the plasma bolt, but there should be no permanent damage. Let me just..."

A few seconds later, Six began stirring. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was and what had happened. It didn't take long, and after about thirty seconds of waking up, he was crawling over to his DMR and standing up.

"...so, I got knocked out?" he asked, looking at his allies. "That hingehead knocked me out."

Emile nodded. "Shouldn't be that hard to figure out."

Chief looked Six up and down. "Are you okay to fight?" he asked, in the same tone a parent would to their injured child that wanted to play sports. "Cara and I agree that you're fine, but just a little shaken up."

Six shrugged. "I guess so..." he trailed off, slowly looked off to the side.

"Um...Six?"

"What?"

Chief gestured to the door. "We need to get going."

Six nodded, and walked over the Covenant corpse toward their objective. He suddenly stopped, and cast a glance over his shoulder. "How many Marines do we have with us?"

"None," Emile replied, popping in a new battery for the Concussion Rifle. "It's just you, Chief, and baby makes three." He frowned at the statement. Why in the hell did he just refer to himself as a baby?

Six looked forward again, and started walking. "That's what I was afraid of."

A/N: This chapter was beta-ed by the following: Dejae

Stoneificaunt: Thanks for the reviews! They're really appreciated.

Happy two-year anniversary of Halo 4's release! Also, only five days until the release of the Master Chief Collection!

Peace out!