New Mombassa
20:45, local clock
Damn, someone filled my head with packing foam, or something like that
Seconds after awakening, that was the Rookie's first thought. The inside of his close-shaved, stubble chinned head wasn't so much throbbing or aching, as it was heavy. There was a constant pressure that seemed to fill his whole cranium, exactly as if someone had drilled a hole through his badly dented and scraped helmet, and the ( probably ) chipped skull beneath, to pour liquid concrete in.
All of his body hurt, of course. His hands, from having been wrapped around the stabilization handles mounted near his knees so tight as his pod had been spinning wildly out of control. His legs, from being the first bit of him to take the freight-train hitting-you sized impact of slamming into the ground from a 80,000 ft. drop. His torso, from being torqued around after his pod had ricocheted off another one on the way down, despite his crash harness doing its best to hold him still.
It wasn't pain. It was different, and in that way, worse. The Rookie had experienced pain more than a few times over the years, mostly handed to him by the Covenant; he'd been blasted by close range plasma grenades, had once taken a Brute Spiker round to his pectorals, and had been grazed by Jackel Beam rifles. Some of that pain had come from his brothers and sisters in arms: he'd gotten pummeled by other ODSTs during sparring matches and the inevitable fisticuffs that comes with soldiers living with other soldiers.
And, then there'd been the pain from bad landings. Except, the Rookie hadn't had a bad landing. Ever.
Until now.
Ugh, son of a bitch. That EMP blast screwed everything up. Ow, Jesus on a skateboard-!
The ODST's jaw clenched, facial muscles flexed, and a hiss of air escaped between his teeth as he involuntarily reacted to the unpleasant sensation. It felt like it was actually slowing down his thoughts, and impairing his focus. That was deadly; it could get him killed real quick. Exhaling, and suppressing a grunt of discomfort, he groped around with aching fingers in the claustrophobia-inducing ( for anybody who wasn't an ODST, of course ), red-emergency-light-lit interior of the drop pod for a medpack, which he knew had to contain paid meds.
That's when he became aware of another sensation, and it wasn't any better than the first. For some reason, he was nauseous.
Not to the point of " Tear off your helmet before you fill it with chuke with you still wearing it " bad, but it wasn't good. There was this distinctly queasy, sickly taste at the back of his throat, along with a buildup of saliva. The reflex to spit up suddenly became pretty strong, and the Rookie couldn't place why.
The heck ? Like being seasick or some shit like that. Ugh,, must be tied to my head getting used for a gong. Who designed these damn helmets ?
Forcefully choking down some of what he presumed was bile, he finally found what he was looking for, tucked into its slot by his right knee. Tugging it loose took more effort than the Rookie wanted, but that didn't matter, because at least he had it.
Reaching up, he yanked off his helmet. Well, yanked was what he wanted to have done-in practice, he more accurately fumbled with the clasps and latches for an annoying few seconds, realizing he was woozier than he'd thought. Finally, though, the abused headpiece came off, and he let it drop by his boots.
Better it ends up with a trench put into its surface than my head, I suppose
Letting his head bump into the padded top of the seat, the Rookie mentally expressed thanks for said padding- his cabeza had taken enough of a battering-, before fishing out the anti-pain pills from out of the kit and putting them in his mouth.
Unclipping his canteen, he unscrewed it, and tossed back a few gulps worth of chilled water. It wasn't until that moment that he discovered how dry and sawdust-y the interior of his mouth was. Reflexively, he coughed, sending droplets of water flying out.
How long was I asleep, damn ? Mouth might as well be jammed with cotton
The Rookie swallowed anyway, licking off the excess water on his lips. The coolness of the water was better on the throat than the mouth, and after a few moments of relishing it, the Rookie took another swig. It was good to hydrate, and not only because it was conducive to your health.
Sometimes, you simply needed a good drink. And by drink, that wasn't exactly something beer-like, either.
Exhaling and inhaling several times, the Rookie knew the meds would take a while to take effect, albeit a short one. Still, he'd done what he could for himself. He'd have to hope and pray that nothing important had been damaged, because all he had was a medkit.
Ok, pills will kick in soon. Meanwhile, this pod is nowhere to be. I didn't crash here to hide in it.
Only a coward hides. Had to do something for the pain, but I have now.
Got to move
Bwoom !
With a razor sharp, but muted, roar, the outer hatch to the Single Occupant Exoatmospheric Insertion Vehicle ( SOEIV, also known as a drop-pod ) launched itself through the nighttime air, before clattering to a stop a few yards away.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then a pair of fingerless gloved hands appeared, grasping the yawing opened sides of the pod. They pulled, and a tall man, clad in well-worn, ash-colored ODST combat armor emerged.
He took a few steps forward, leaving the pod behind him. It was sitting at an angle, its exterior badly charred and roasted from the flames of re-entry, as well as dented from all the collisions and crashes. SOIEV's always made only one trip, ever, but they could take one monumental beating while they had their one shot ride.
The ODST who'd ridden it down was simply glad it hadn't lived up to its other name: "Flying coffin ". He'd come to Earth to kill Covenant, and he had the tools to do so.
An M7S SMG, its top mounted red dot sight glimmering like a gemstone, was cradled in a dual handed grip.
Hanging off his right hip, the grip of an M6S handgun poked up, as it comfortably rested in its holster, surrounded on either side by the rest of his belt gear: M9 Frag grenades, a serrated combat knife, the now-partially-used medkit, and pouches of spare ammo for his guns. It was all gear no ODST would drop without.
None of that counted for anything without the soldier carrying it being aware and alert, though, and the Rookie was already scanning. The denseness of his head was still an issue, but it was fading, and that made things easier.
Ok, let me get my bearings-
What the- ?
Through the visor of his helmet- no ODST would dare to leave his/her pod without putting their helmet on first-, he'd looked up, and been greeted by-
Rain.
It was raining. Sheets of the wet stuff were falling all over him, pattering and tapping endlessly on every hard surface they landed on, including his helmet.
Did I land outside ?
Everything around him was covered in shadows. It was too dark to make out anything other than vague outlines and shapes of his surroundings, so the Rookie activated VISOR mode, and swept his gaze around again.
He actually hadn't landed outside. Instead, he seemed to have come down in the front lobby of some kind of building. All he could see around him was ruined and broken concrete, with rebar and metal internal skeleton poking out. Most of it showed clear signs of plasma slagging, and energy blast marks.
What this place had been before the Covenant had used it for target practice wasn't obvious anymore. The Rookie had seen enough of their handiwork to know by now. This place, was a quarry now. Rubble and broken structure, everywhere. Nothing but ruins. Even with VISOR mode, the Rookie couldn't tell where he was, exactly.
In a city filled with Covenant, dumbass. That's first and foremost right now
I know, but where ?!
Had he ended up between two buildings, instead ?
Icewater trickled into his veins with a prickly sensation, and he held his M7 tighter, shouldering it. He'd been in plenty of hotzones before, but then again, they were usually exactly that- hot. There was usually already gunfire/plasma bolts in the air by then. ODSTs generally landed in the middle of the fight, not on its edge.
Walking forward, his boots tramped across a concrete surface. Those boots had spent most of their working existence slogging through mud, or crashing through heavy jungle foliage; now on hard rock, they clacked loudly as The Rookie made his way ahead, muzzle up.
There seemed to be nothing and nobody still alive, anywhere. Ample amounts of destruction and devastation around, but nobody, living or dead, was anywhere around. No remains, even.
Nothing.
Son of a- This is a ghost town. Is it ? New Mombasa, one of Earth's tether cities, all cleared out. Nobody's left.
And there's nothing left of them. Did the apes eat them ?! God, they'd better not have.
For a handful of seconds, The Rookie thought of what he'd seen and heard about what the Jiralhanae- the Brutes- were known to do. It was enough to send shivers racing through him-
WrrrmmmmmmmMM
There was no mistaking that sound; it was a Phantom dropship, and it was on the move. And it was close.
Shit. Company's coming.
Stopping where he was, the Rookie quickly pivoted to where the sound was coming from. It was already loud, even through his helmet, and it was getting louder-
- and a piercing beam of white light stabbed down barely off to his right, as a Phantom soared overhead.
The bulbous,boom-tailed, eggplant colored craft's pale blue running lights sparkled brightly as it shot past. It wasn't moving at full speed, but it wasn't crawling either. As if it was patrolling a place the Covenant were sure they'd already secured from top to bottom, and inside and out.
That was close.
The Rookie didn't move for another few seconds, listening to the Phantom's engines fading as it cruised away. Some piece of him wished like crazy that he'd had a Jackhammer double-barrel rocket launcher right now: It'd have put some nice holes into that lumpy purple flier.
That Phantom being where it was at all proved something: The Covenant had New Mombasa locked down. They owned the place, and now their Phantoms were roving around, searchlights on, watching for anybody and anyone who might still be on their turf.
Its hunting season for them
Grrrrmm, grrr, rrrf
A new sound suddenly reached from, from somewhere out in front. A guttural, growling sound, like that of some-
Jiralhane ! No doubt; the apes are here !
By now, the Rookie had moved far enough away from his pod to have reached an area where there was plenty of light, and he could now see that there was a street in front of him. Normally a typically beautiful city main boulevard ( unlike the mountains, which were uncomfortably quiet ), this one was strewn with cars and trucks that had been abandoned in a split few seconds. Their doors were yawing wide open, and their headlights were still on. The pouring rain was rinsing them down, making them look like they'd emerged from a wax mold.
Overhead, street lights- the one that were still working, that was- flickered and illuminated the raindrops falling past them.
They also illuminated the pack of Brutes walking by.
Having turned his head to the right as soon as he'd gotten close to the road, the Rookie saw the group of the fur-covered, towering ( slightly over 8ft tall, to be exact ), bulky bodied aliens lumbering down the street.
Their cobalt blue armor shimmered under the glow of the street lights, and looked molten from the falling rain washing off their bullet-dented plates. Their movements were heavy and deliberate, but they were covering ground quickly. Covered by open faced helmets, their heads turned left and right, as their amber eyes glared around hungrily for someone to fight.
Or, knowing them, to eat. The Rookie found his breathing slowing of its own volition. He was not afraid; he was in survival mode.
Held in their giant, baseball-mitt sized and three fingered hands, were the vicious-looking Spike Rifles that every UNSC solider had a healthy wariness for; the guns could fire white hot spikes of metal that didn't do any flesh it hit any favors. Or even solid metal, for that matter. On top of all that, the crescent shaped blades fixed to the rifles' muzzles could lop off limbs with frightening ease.
Oh, and don't forget how they can easily lift you with one hand, and then use that hand to crush your throat like drinking straw.
He stayed very still, as the pack of Brutes marched along. So far, they'd showed no signs they'd seen him, but Brutes were more perceptive than most gave them credit for. If they hadn't seen him yet, that didn't mean-
Don't. Move. Too many of the bastards. 2 or 4 I'd take on, but there's got to be 8 of them !
A finger slipped around the soaked trigger of his M7, and he exhaled slowly. Any second now-
- but then the pack rounded the corner, and was out of view.
It was at that point, that the Rookie sensed his pulse slipping back down to a lower ( and probably healthier ) rate.
Great. Peachy. Whole town's overrun with Brutes
Yeah, and there's nobody left alive around here except me. Wow. I am blessed.
He let the M7's muzzle drop, still standing where he'd been. His situation's subpar state was now fully obvious: He was alone, in a city where the only ones alive were aliens who wanted him dead- and not simply by shooting him, but by chewing his ribs like a goat roast.
Another day in the office. Could be worse; I could've become a priest. Or a lawyer.
With a definite level of caution, the Rookie advanced out onto the road, still facing the direction the Brutes had vanished into. Boots splashing through pools of rainwater that had gathered where they could, he took cover by the rear section of an abandoned orange #550 Scuderia StarSpeed M-12R.
Nice ride. Least its not a relic. Whoops, I mean a classic car.
Taking a glance over the top, he found nothing moving. He waited for another few moments, aiming the M7, but still nothing.
Standing up carefully, the Rookie backpedaled a bit, slowing pivoting to face the other way. He tipped his head back, and looked up at the upper levels of the buildings lining the street. A crashed Banshee strike fighter was protruding like an eggplant with struts attached to it from one of the rooftops, wisps of smoke curling upward from its mangled fuselage.
Fires crackled and danced from the windows- what windows were left, of course- and dangling billboards sparked and sputtered as trickles of electricity pulsed through their torn apart circuitry.
Rain kept falling, and there was no movement to be detected, anywhere. If there were any locals or UNSC soldiers left alive at all, anywhere, they weren't here. There was nothing but the evidence of the Covenant's handiwork.
Scum-eating bastards, the lot of them. Every last one of them who set foot on Earth needs to die. Preferably by my own hand
Might as well bring the Insurrectionist rebels too. Get all my enemies in one basket. Where's a Shiva nuke when you want one ?
Anger rose in him now, but not enough to muddle his focus, or his awareness. He took a final panning glance around, checking for any sign of the Covenant, but there was none. None at all.
He was determined to find the enemy, and meet them on his own terms.
Got to get going. I have to find the squad. If anybody is still alive , its them.
Even Mickey. Somehow I think he's weird. Like he might flip. Anyway, that's not here or now
The Rookie's mind was made up. He knew what to do.
He set off at a brisk walk.
Into the city of silence.