June 9, 2560
Spartan Jameson Locke had been in better situations, he could say that much. Some Brute punk had taken his helmet and chestpiece (and very nearly took his life with it), leaving him at an extreme disadvantage against the Banished forces swarming the Ring. Luckily, he had been trained to survive impossible odds without a thousand pounds of armor, otherwise he wouldn't have lasted as long as he had.
What Locke's training couldn't help with was the fact he only had a single magazine left in his Sidekick, and he hadn't seen any replacement ammo (or even replacement weapons) in three days. The Banished weren't very willing to give up their guns, and any weapons he did scavenge would run out not long after.
When he happened across a small supply depot, with only eight Grunts and a Jackal Skirmisher on standby, it seemed his luck was about to turn. Waiting for one of the diminutive soldiers to wander away from the rest of its fellows, Locke acted quickly, slamming his pistol into the back of its head-once to take it down, and then twice so it wouldn't get back up. When a second Grunt began turning his way, Locke quickly placed a bullet in its head, which caught the attention of the others. Locke was able to headshot three of the other Grunts-but he missed the second one, requiring him to shoot at it a second time.
"Damn," he muttered, ducking behind cover. A quick glance confirmed that the Jackal was approaching him now, and armed with a Needler.
"Human hiding," the Jackal squawked to the remaining four Grunts. "Kill human, or Kig-Yar kill Unggoy."
Locke waited until the first Grunt reached his position, then emptied half his remaining bullets into its face. Once the Grunt's head was no longer recognizable, he took its plasma pistol and began firing at the remaining soldiers. The Jackal was quick to react, leaping atop a supply crate before unloading needles in Locke's direction. The Spartan grabbed one of the Grunts to act as a meat shield, tossing it away before it exploded into pink mist.
Locke began charging his plasma pistol, the shot dissipating the Jackal's shield, before rushing forward and slamming his gun into its head with enough force to smash its skull open. As the Jackal collapsed, he barely had enough time to head heavy footsteps behind him, leaping aside as an energy sword sliced the air where he once stood.
"You fight like a demon," the Elite taunted, "but you look just like a man. You'll die like one, too."
Acting quick, Locke picked up the downed Needler and fired several shots at the Elite; the exploding needles made his shield flicker, but it was still active. As the Elite swung again, Locke reloaded and moved in the opposite direction, hoping the Elite didn't have any ranged weapons. Turns out, the Elite didn't need any, as he was able to hop over the structures around the depot, and landed right in front of Locke.
Before he could kill the human, however, a Warthog barreled out of nowhere and slammed into the Elite. If that didn't knock the shields out, nothing would. Locke emptied the rest of the Needler into the Elite's head, which moments later burst into a cloud of pink mist and gore. But he still needed to investigate who was driving the Warthog.
It didn't take long for him to find out, as the driver exited the vehicle moments later, Sarah Palmer taking off her helmet with a wry smile. "You look like crap," she remarked, although she didn't look her best either. Her hair was jagged and uneven, evidence of some attempt to try and cut it on the field. She'd only received her new Celox helmet seven months earlier, yet it looked decades old by now. "It's been a few weeks since I've seen another Spartan, Locke."
"Likewise." The two stepped towards each other and clapped hands. "So, have you been operating solo too, Palmer?"
"Not for a while. I was part of another unit; a few marine squads and another Spartan-Brick, I think. We picked up whispers about a small Banished refinery and thought we could ambush it." She pressed her lips together, clacking her helmet against her thigh. "Turns out our info was a little out of date, because that 'small refinery' was massive, and we were instantly spotted by a patrol."
"I heard about that," nodded Locke. "Was it as bad as the propagandist made it out to be?"
"Six of our marines got vaporized by a Hunter within minutes," answered Palmer, leaning against a storage rack. "Brick managed to kill it, but its buddy took him by surprise, overloaded his armor's shields and fried him from the inside. I led the survivors to a gorge where they could run without Banished twerps following them and bought them some time." Her expression soured, no doubt anxious about what happened to the survivors, before turning to Locke. "Anyway, what's your story? I heard some guy, Hyperius or something, took your helmet."
"He did, but from a guy called a 'Spartan killer' I can tolerate my helmet getting taken," replied Locke, watching as the sun began setting over the Halo. "Since then, I've been tracing any UNSC landing sites on the ring. Have you seen anyone from Infinity since the attack?"
"Not since we evacuated. Miller and Roland were getting people outta there, and Lasky…" Palmer's grip on her helmet increased, the sturdy construct creaking under her grasp. Then, she looked up. "I almost forgot, the Master Chief's been unaccounted for since then, too. You reckon he's still around?"
"He's gone MIA before and came back just fine, so I'm not too worried," shrugged Locke, spotting a few weapons crates in the passenger seat of the Warthog. "In the meantime, we need to stay alive until he comes back."
He pulled out three magazines, putting one into his Mk50, and a CQS48 Bulldog with a few extra bullets. There were also two grenades, which he placed in the floor of the vehicle before dumping the box out. Palmer had put her helmet back on and was climbing into the gunner's position; it made sense, she had her head and chest covered and he didn't.
Locke took his seat in the driver's side and pulled out of the depot, making sure to keep his eyes peeled for any Banished patrols. As the M12B drove by a comms tower, they could hear it transmitting something.
"Attention all humans, stand by for an important message: if you look up at the night sky and see a Pelican, no you didn't. The weight of all your crushing, humiliating defeats is causing you to hallucinate things!" Normally, neither Spartan could stand the voice of the Banished propagandist, but what he just said caught their attention. "An equally important message for all Banished: if you look up at the night sky and see a Pelican, fix that!"
"You hear that?" asked Locke.
"Loud and clear," replied Palmer. "Let's thank our gas-breathing friend for the heads up."
She then turned the Warthog's chaingun and unloaded on the comms tower, which was soon blasted to pieces. After that act was finished, she turned her HUD to scan for any UNSC aircraft as the duo drove onward. Eventually they spotted a Pelican flying overhead, in an area where Banished air control was at a minimum.
"That's gotta be our missing Pelican," commented Palmer.
"Unless the Banished are using our hardware, which they never do," agreed Locke, tapping into the vehicle's console to try and contact the Pelican. "Unidentified Pelican, identify yourself
"This is Echo-216," replied the Pelican's pilot. "I'm detecting UNSC tags directly below us. Is that you?"
"Affirmative. Spartans Jameson Locke and Sarah Palmer reporting."
The pilot put his headset away, but they could still hear him shouting something in joy, and a few moments later a new voice responded. "Status report.
Locke was fortunate he didn't wreck the Hog in surprise, and instead brought it to a screeching stop. "We have limited ammunition, and our armor has been damaged over the past six months."
"Understood. We've located your helmet, Spartan Locke."
"We got it back from Hyperius, let's just say he wasn't wearing it right." That voice wasn't the Chief or the pilot, and the two Spartans shared a confused glance.
"I appreciate that, Chief. So, what's our next move?"
"We finish the fight, and drive the Banished off this Ring," was the very simple response. "Blue Team, rendezvous at FOB Charlie. Chief Out."
The Warthog followed Echo-216 as it changed trajectory. Palmer fired a few celebratory shots into the air, no doubt alerting nearby infantry to their location, but she was obviously too enthused to care. Locke himself was too pleased to bring that up. The duo were filled with a renewed sense of determination, even a shred of optimism, as they followed the Pelican into the setting sun.