Good day, viewers! Been quite some time since I've properly posted on this page. Though this chapter is a repost, I did this mostly to re-edit a lot of the dialogue and descriptions to make them flow better. If you read the last chapter and read the original version of it, you'll find the this is the case more so than the other re-uploaded chapters.
I do have a life update for anyone interested. I joined the Army earlier this year to give myself a renewed sense of purpose that I had been lacking for quite some time. As a result, finding time to continue this will be a bit more difficult than anticipated. The release of Halo Reach MCC on PC and Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2019 doesn't help. But I want to try anyway.
Keep in mind that, for the most part, I'm going to ignore Season 16 and 17 as well as most, if not all, of Season 15, as the plots for those seasons make me suspend my disbelief a little too much. And the whole time travel and deity stuff is very un-RvB in my opinion. I'm also not a fan of the WashingtonxCarolina relationship, as I see them more as best friends/siblings.
Reassemble - Part 4
Location: UNSC Zenith Command Bridge, Halcyon-Class Light Cruiser, New Harmony Low Orbit Staging Ground
Shipboard Time: 1500 Hours
Date: June 14, 2557
The command bridge was, as most people would say, a chaotic mess. Men and women in gray navy uniforms were running back and forth from station to station, trying to relay and decipher information that was coming to them on their comms network at a flash as the seconds ticked by. People were giving out orders, trying to make sense of the bloody mess that was happening on the surface of the now hellhole-of-a-planet New Harmony.
Just a mere hour ago, the Zenith received an alert transmission originating from the planetary capital, Solomon's Hope, relating to the attack on a nearby Army base caused by Insurrectionist forces. And it had only just started there. Soon enough another transmission came in about an Insurrectionist attack, and another, and another, until the point where the Zenith's comms was being bombarded by alerts and cries of distress.
Every person on the ship was bustled about, rushing between stations and computer terminals, all except for one man. The man was in his early fifties, with hair just barely starting to turn grey compared to its usual black. He wore a standard grey navy uniform and, attacked to his right sleeve, was a pin with an eagle holding a scroll, the rank of colonel, as well as the name 'Worthington' stitched just above his right breast pocket. He stood stock still on top of his command podium, hands clasped behind his back, hazel eyes scanning the blue data screens displayed in front of him. Behind the data screens were a set of windows and outside of those windows were five other Halcyon cruisers, seven heavy frigates, a trio of destroyers, and dozens of smaller craft, not to mention a pair of prowlers and even a small squadron of Sangheili-controlled Covenant cruisers.
"Colonel, another incoming transmission from Ocera Military Base," called out one of the crew members from below him, trying to shout over all the noise in the command bridge alone. The colonel turned to the crew member who caught his attention, a blank expression across his face.
"Patch it through to me," commanded Worthington in a strong, firm voice that sounded almost fatherly in some aspects. He turned back to the screen. The bright blue holoscreen flashed and a map of the base opened up in front of him. The base was located near the southern end of the largest of the planet's five continents, with wide windswept plains, gentle rivers, and dense forests broken only by a handful of imposing and majestic mountain ranges. To the UNSC it was known to be wide and open for military purposes, particularly tank and reconnaissance units. He could make out several outlined structures, including several barracks, an armory, command post, and vehicle depot. Multiple dots came onto the screen, several clusters of yellow points located around the facility and even larger groups of red dots scattered around the base interior, some located on top of nearby rooftops, the rest on the ground, many intermixed among the yellow dots.
"This is Colonel Worthington of the UNSC Zenith responding to your distress call," said the colonel, relaying through an open microphone in front of him. "What's your status, soldier?"
"This is Corporal Guillen of Charlie Squad, 4th Infantry Battalion," replied a young, panic-stricken voice, "requesting immediate assistance. Taking heavy casualties from Insurrectionist forces."
"Roger that, Corporal. What's your position?"
"We're pinned down on the west side of the facility in front of the entrance to the vehicle depot."
"Roger that Corporal, we are tracking your location now." The screen immediately zoomed in on the largest structure in base, the only one big enough to fit any sort of military war machine. Outside of the entrance was a small, proportionate amount of yellow blips. Further out was a much larger group of red dots, spread out in a way that formed a semicircle around the defensive UNSC forces. The colonel scanned the area before flipping through a cluster of information on a glowing blue data pad in front of him.
Giving a moment to analyze the situation, Worthington turned back to the map displayed on the screen in front of the command platform.
"Charlie Squad, be advised, we cannot provide support for the moment," he radioed back to the despaired trooper.
"Sir, I need reinforcements now. If the rebels break through to the vehicle depot they're going to get their hands on some pretty big guns and you'll have a much bigger situation on your hands," cried the trooper desperately through the speaker.
"I understand that, Corporal, but we don't have any available units in the -"
"Sir," interrupted one of the crew members below.
"Hold that thought, soldier. I'll get back to you ASAP."
The colonel turned his attention to the man who called out to him. "What is it, Gregoras?"
The man straighten himself in front of his superior before answering, "We have two available personnel in the immediate area that can assist, sir."
Worthington gave the officer a questionable look. "Available personnel? Which ones?"
Gregoras looked down to a nearby data pad and glanced at the information before quickly looking back up to the colonel. "Red-2 and Red-3, sir."
"Really? Where?"
"Only two-and-a-half klicks south of the base, sir."
The colonel's face brightened up at the statement. He swiftly turned his face back to the main screen. "Charlie Squad, I need you to hold out a little bit longer. Reinforcements are en route to your position now."
"Roger that, sir," replied Corporal Guillen.
Worthington turned back to Gregoras. "Transmit new orders, immediately. Objective: regain control of Ocera Military Base Vehicle Depot."
"Yes, sir," responded the bridge crewman before turning to a nearby command module. "Come in, Red-2, come in Red-3. Confirm new orders…"
The officer's voice faded as the colonel turned back to the screen. This is where things mattered. If they can't secure that station soon, the difficulty of the fight will be increased exponentially. No, this had to be done. This is where it counted.
Location: UNSC Ocera Military Base Vehicle Depot, New Harmony
Daily Time: 1504 Hours
Date: June 14, 2557
"Get down!" shouted one of soldiers of Charlie Squad. The squad ducked behind a concrete barrier as a rocket whizzed past them over their heads. The rocket slammed into the depot wall behind them, causing the troops to flinch and grip their rifles even tighter than before. One of the marines turned to look at the huge, black dent behind them before facing his teammates.
"Holy shit! This is bad, man. Really fucking bad," whimpered another soldier.
One of the squad members peeked his head over the grey wall, trying to get a good picture of the battlefield. There were bodies everywhere, a few Insurrectionists, but mostly other Army infantrymen. Rubble and debris lied scattered about, consisting mostly of pieces of wood, stone, and vehicle parts. Standing at a good twenty yards away, the soldier saw a large, very large, group of Insurrectionists, perhaps thirty or forty of them. Roughly five of them were standing on the roof, the rest taking positions on the ground. Each rebel wore a set of stolen sage-colored marine armor with various red pieces, supposedly to help distinguish between friend and foe. The marine quickly ducked back down as the rebels started firing their weapons again.
"Yeah, we're going to die," squeaked another squadmate, Private Kline. He hadn't meant for things to be this way and he sure as hell didn't want to die. He was only 18 and he wanted to do so much more. He was supposed to do his duty, live a full life, be what he wanted to be. But it looked like none of what he wanted was going to pass. It looked like he was going down the same way all his friends did, with a bullet to the chest and a slow, painful death.
They all looked at each other, trying to find someone who was at least a slight bit braver than them, but only found that their other comrades were just as afraid as they could be.
"Well, guys, this is it. It was nice knowing you all." They all nodded and closed their eyes, waiting for their inevitable destruction. Time seemed to slow down as their lives flashed before their eyes. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours.
"Hey, guys?" asked one of the soldiers.
They to their teammate. "What is it now?" asked Corporal Guillen. "Can't you see we're about to get killed?"
"No, guys, stop. Listen." The remaining squad members stopped what they were doing and sat there. Out in the distance, just beyond the gunfire and chaos ensuing around them, they could hear a very faint noise. It sounded almost like a whir, a very fast whir, like a revving motor. And it was getting louder, much, much louder.
The soldiers popped their heads above the concrete wall, almost completely ignoring the bullets and rockets flying past them. The troopers could definitely hear the noise now. They all turned their heads left. Some of the rebels stopped firing too, hearing the distracting whirring as well.
It got louder, and louder, and even louder as the seconds went by. Along with the whirring they could barely hear the scrapping of tires on hard pavement. Whatever it was, it was coming in, and fast.
In a sudden burst of speed, an olive-skinned, machine gun variant warthog burst out from behind a pile of oil drums, scattering the large metal cans all across the open complex grounds. The infantrymen and Insurrectionists jumped in surprise at the sudden appearance of a fully functional, armed, extremely fast, militarized vehicle.
From their viewpoint, the marines could make out a maroon-colored figure manning the tri-barreled machinegun turret on the back and a bright-orange man driving the jeep. They couldn't see their saviors faces, as they were wearing advanced, head-and-face covering helmets that had gold visors and were attached to their armor. From the looks of it, their armor was quite different from that of a standard marine or army infantryman, being in the shape of MJOLNIR Mark VI armor seen on the legendary SPARTAN-IIs, IIIs, and now IVs.
One of the Insurrectionists screamed as the warthog rammed full throttle into him, sending the now crushed rebel's body flying off the hood. Knocked out of their trance by the death of one of their teammates, the Insurrectionists began to fire at the infantry squad again, though most of their shots were focused on the military vehicle instead.
"Simmons, on your left!" shouted the driver. The maroon soldier twisted his body to the side, swinging the machinegun around with him to face the oncoming Insurrectionists. He leveled the sight down at the men on the ground. The warthog, however, just kept on rolling by, knocking aside more debris and wreckage.
"Suck it, Innies!" yelled the maroon soldier. He squeezed the twin triggers on the dual grips and the tri-barreled assault cannon let loose, spitting out an excessive stream of bullets at the reacting men. Six rebels instantly dropped to the ground, their chest plates riddled with puncture marks.
Ten of the remaining enemies ducked down behind what cover was available to them while the rest stood still, continuing their stream of fire. But that mistake would prove to be their undoing, for the maroon soldier the driver called Simmons kept his stream of fire up as the warthog continued barreling past. The rebels that were still on their feet fell the same way as their comrades, bullet holes punched all across their chest and blood pouring out in a slow but constant drip.
The warthog drove on and reached the other side of the courtyard in under a second. However, upon reaching the other side, it swerved and tumbled over as it tried to turn right. To add to the effect, one of the rebels started firing at the 'hog with a rocket launcher. The rockets didn't hit the jeep itself, though, but hit the ground below it, causing the vehicle to spin around even more.
The orange man rolled out of the driver's seat as the vehicle started flipping over and the gunner did the same, practically falling off of the gunner seat and rolling backwards to transfer the momentum.
The warthog crashed into a nearby warehouse with a loud smash, imbedding itself into the wall. At the same time, the two soldiers reached behind their backs and each pulled out a battle rifle. The Insurrectionists that had ducked down rose back up and started firing at them again. But the unexpected reinforcements were already moving. Simmons had taken cover behind a wrecked warthog and began suppressing fire on the remaining rebels. He instantly killed two of them, one with a chest shot and another right through the helmet. Simultaneously, the orange man kept sprinting across the open terrain, eventually getting behind a pair of crates. He also started firing at the Insurrectionists, focusing his fire on the men at the top of the building.
From around the corner of another building near the orange man, a squad of green and red rebels rushed out toward the two soldiers with yet another warthog bringing up the rear. The warthog came to a sudden halt and started firing at the maroon soldier, apparently unaware of the orange-colored man behind the crates. Simmons ducked down as the bullets bounced against the destroyed armor plating.
"Grif!" called out the red SPARTAN. The orange soldier turned to look at his pinned comrade before sticking his head out for half a second. He swiftly brought it back out of sight, trying not to get spotted by the newly-emerged threat.
Keenly aware that they wouldn't be able to hold out both battle groups, Grif held his gun in his left hand, reached down to his hip, and pulled out a frag grenade. The olive-skinned weapon rested in his palm as he weighed it. The soldier thumbed the red activation buttons on top of the fruit-shaped explosive and brought his arm back before chucking the fist-sized grenade up to the top of the building.
After a second or two of freefalling, the grenade bounced against the roof of the structure before resting in between the legs of one of the combatants. The Insurrectionist jerked his head down at the sudden realization of what was just thrown to him. But it was too late. Half a second later a loud boom was heard and the rooftop exploded with light, engulfing the team of rebels in heat and shrapnel for the merest fraction of a second before disappearing, replaced with a crater and a missing piece of the roof. The missing roof fragment fell downward and crushed the other ten Insurrectionists in a torrent of broken steel and shattered glass.
Within the time it took the grenade to explode Grif brought his right hand back to his rifle grip and grasped it tightly. The first two of the green-and-red colored soldiers came around the side of the crate and the orange SPARTAN bore his sights down on the unsuspecting men. He managed to line the shot up perfectly, one of the rebel's head completely obscured by his partner. Grif squeezed the trigger and a burst of bullets shot out of the barrel. The two Insurrectionists fell almost instantly, their heads running with blood.
The last three rebels came around the corner just after that, looking to avenger their dead brethren. They would never get the chance to. Grif let go of his rifle with his left hand and curled it into a fist before swinging it at the closest Insurrectionist. His gauntlet connected with the side of the rebel's helmet, cracking the reinforced protective plate. Even if the blow itself didn't outright kill the man, the broken armor certainly would at it embedded itself in the rebel's skull. Before the others could react, the orange soldier spun around counterclockwise and smashed the butt of his rifle into the second-closest rebel soldier. He fell down from the sudden strike and the orange SPARTAN brought his rifle back up at the final squad member. He pulled the trigger once more. The muzzle flashed for but a single burst and the marine dropped dead, a trio of puncture marks across the side of his head.
Unfortunately for him, if the warthog gunner hadn't noticed him before, he sure did now. Grif turned toward the military vehicle to find the triple-barreled minigun pointed directly at him and stood stock still, having completely forgotten that the jeep was even there. His life seemed to flash before his eyes and tt seemed as if Grif wouldn't be able to escape from this fight with his life, despite the fact that he managed to get out of situations like this one in missions past.
"Grif, duck!" called a voice from behind him. The orange soldier and the machine-gunner turned to find Simmons with a rocket launcher in hand, twin barrels pointed straight at the light armored vehicle. Grif immediately jerked his head down and dropped to a prone position, aware of what would happen next. After all, Simmons had a rocket launcher again.
A large crack went off as the rocket zoomed right over his head and into the hood of the warthog. Upon impact the vehicle exploded in a bright reddish-yellow light, killing the crew with it. Once the light dimmed all that remained was a burning hulk of metal that looked like it had been destroyed by a wrecking crew with any and every damaging armament at their disposal.
Grif stood back up and turned his head toward the destroyed vehicle before looking back at his teammate. "You couldn't have done that sooner?" he asked.
The maroon soldier just stared back at him. "No. You got in the way," he replied.
"Well why didn't you shoot it before?" hissed Grif.
"Because A: I didn't have it before, and B: I was under fire, you idiot," rebutted the dark-red soldier.
"Well, where did you get the rocket launcher from?" he questioned now.
"Just picked it up from one of the dead rebels nearby," Simmons supplied. He tossed the now empty rocket launcher to the side and the two armored soldiers strolled on over to the infantrymen by the vehicle depot, who had been hiding behind the same concrete wall the whole time. The troopers began to emerge from their hiding spot, scanning the area for any more rebels that could be lurking nearby. Content that they were alone, one of the soldiers ventured on over to the pair and saluted. Simmons saluted back and they both brought their arms down.
"Thank god you guys came," the army soldier sighed in relief. "We thought for sure we were dead." He paused as he saw that it was only the two men and his squad with him. "I thought there'd be more of you."
"Nope," piped Grif. "Only the two of us. Why? We not good enough?"
"No, sir," the soldier stammered out. Realizing his mistake, he backpedaled. "I mean yes sir."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," smirked the orange soldier, immediately losing interest in an future remarks the infantryman had to say. He turned his head toward Simmons. "I think we did pretty well, Simmons."
The maroon soldier looked back at him. "Yeah, except for your reckless driving."
Grif turned the rest of his body so it was facing Simmons. "Reckless? Dude, if you were the one driving we wouldn't have even made it to the battlefield."
"But still, why did you drive like that?"
Grif sighed under his helmet. "Simmons, sometimes you just have to go for style points. And that leaves me with a score of 27 to 5."
Simmons scoffed at the statement. "What? You're not going to count that one time at Eudemon? That tunnel sneaking thing in the eroded caves?"
"What? No! Command told us to do those flanking maneuvers. It doesn't count if command told you to do something specifically."
"Well, at least I have more kills than you," retorted Simmons.
"That's because you keep using the mini-gun. And the rocket launcher."
"Yeah, well every time you use the rocket launcher you almost kill yourself. And you keep missing with the mini-gun. How do you even miss with a mini-gun? It's a fucking mini-gun."
Before he could retort, however, another soldier ran up to them, interrupting the conversation. "Sirs, Colonel Worthington is on the line. He's requesting your attention."
The red soldier looked over to his partner. Grif just shrugged. He turned back to the one who interrupted them. "Alright, we're coming."
Location: UNSC Ocera Military Base Command Center, New Harmony
Daily Time: 1510 Hours
Date: June 14, 2557
There wasn't much to say about the command post beyond the fact that it was a wrecked hellhole, along with the rest of the base. To call it anything less than that would be a major understatement.
Simmons stepped into the ruined structure and scanned the area, clearly aware that it was secure, but still precautious nonetheless. The room was what used to be a work room full of desks, computers, and monitoring stations. But with the assault on the base it looked like anything but a work room, with knocked-over desks, scattered chairs, and broken hardware. There was even a gaping hole in the wall to his left, probably caused by a rocket misfire.
Grif pushed past the red soldier, causing him to stumble a little. Simmons stepped over to his right and balanced himself. He turned to his partner and glared at him through his visor. "Grif," he whined.
The orange soldier looked back to Simmons. "Dude, it's secure."
Simmons continued to glare at him before commenting, "You know, one of these days you're just going to walk right into a room, think it's secure, and get riddled with bullets."
The pair continued to walk to the other side of the building. "Simmons, we have motion trackers. I'm pretty sure I'd know when there's an enemy in an adjacent room."
"Not if they aren't moving, you idiot," retorted the maroon soldier.
"Ugh. Will you just stop complaining already, Simmons?" hissed Grif. "Every time we do just about anything it's always 'oh, it's too dangerous', or 'that's against regulation', or 'you can't keep that much food in your room'."
"But it's true," he retorted, "you can't just keep thirteen boxes of Oreos, seven skittles bags, twenty Hershey's bars, and a giant gummy bear all in your room. Not only is it against regulation, but we barely have enough space for it in our room. And it's still stinking up the place."
"Okay, okay, I got it! I'll get rid of the damn things. Just stop your fucking complaining, alright?"
"Fine, then," grumbled the red as they reached the other side of the building. A trooper stood off to the side of an intact monitor and saluted to the approaching soldiers. Simmons saluted back and waved him away. The soldier left for the other side of the command center, jogging slightly to quicken the pace.
The orange and maroon soldiers stared at the blue monitor with a solemn Colonel Worthington staring back at them. They saluted and the officer saluted back. Both men and the navy commander lowered their arms in unison. A brief silence fell before Grif asked, "You wanted to see us, sir?"
"Yes, Private, I did. I have new orders for you. Specifically from ONI."
The two reds looked at each other, confused by the colonel's previous statement. They turned back to the screen. "What do you mean, 'specifically by ONI'?" asked Grif.
"Exactly what I mean, Grif. ONI has given me the call to transfer you to a new battlegroup. You are needed elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" questioned Simmons. "Sir, you look like you could use our help down here right now. Can't ONI get someone else?"
"No, Simmons. ONI has requested the both of you specifically."
"Why, sir?" asked Grif.
"I can't give you specifics. All I can tell you is that your new objective is involved with the death of the Director of Project Freelancer as well as his Insurrectionist associates."
"Wait, wait, wait," said Simmons, holding a hand up in the air. "Did you say 'Director'? And 'Project Freelancer'?"
"Affirmative, Private Simmons. They said you had some experience with this man and his military project."
"You have no idea, sir," implied Grif. "Simmons?" he asked. The maroon soldier turned to face his friend.
"Yeah?" asked the armored man.
"This looks like it's shaping up to be a really, really big op. I don't know if we'll be able to pull off a mission this big."
"You won't," commented Worthington.
Grif looked at the blue screen again. "Sir?"
The colonel sighed. "You two won't be able to handle this by yourselves. That's why command has decided to rally you up with another battlegroup, another team." He looked at each of them in the eye. "A pelican will be coming to pick you up shortly. It will have all of your gear and personal belongings in it."
"Thank you, sir," replied Simmons.
"Alright," said the grey-haired officer. "Godspeed and good luck, gentlemen." He brought his right arm up and saluted. The soldiers saluted back to him until the screen went dark a few seconds later.
The Reds began walking away from the monitor when Grif asked, "Who do you think going to be part of this team?"
"I don't know, man," he answered, "but I hope it's Spartans."
"Nah, we're not good enough to be hanging with Spartans."
"Then who do you think will be part of this team?" Simmons asked back.
"I don't know," Grif shrugged," but they're probably a bunch of badasses who are more competent than us."
