Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't posted in a while, over four months by my reckoning. The reason for that has been twofold:

1. I've been hard at work over in my job (pretty much to the point where it drains me some days). In fact, I was stuck on 12-hour night shift for the last month, so that put a further drain on my writing.

2. I'm working on another fanfiction. As some of you have seen, I've been working on a StarCraft fanfiction featuring some of the more underappreciated characters in the series after the events of the games. It's a one-shot series and features a race that is rather minimal on details of day-to-day life. The way they express their emotions is also rather vague, leaving much to interpretation. I've had to do a lot of worldbuilding because of this.

Alright, now that we've got all of that out of the way, this is once again the largest chapter to date, over 13k words. I won't spoil anything yet, but I can tell you this is very action heavy.

The first half of this chapter is inspired by 'Star Wars: Republic Commando Theme (Vode An) | EPIC VERSION' by Samuel Kim Music.


Location: Insurrectionist Base, Praetor Northlands

Time: 1407 Hours

Date: June 24, 2557

The assault began almost as soon as Carolina had made the call, with mass missile barrages carpeting as much of the base as feasibly possible, but especially concentrated on the front entrance and the outermost buildings.

The six Pelicans that made up the All or Nothing's dropship compliment had all been waiting behind the mountaintops just beyond the sights of the base's anti-air batteries. Each was outfitted for heavy assault, carrying both missile pods and squads of former Freelancer personnel. Two of them held M808C Scorpion MBTs, up armored, while the remaining four had the newer M12B Warthogs attacked to the rears of the transports. The loads were straining the engines as they were, however, but it gave the pilots all the incentive they needed to drop their cargo as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

Once the hail of explosive death had finally subsided, the VTOLs swooped down from above to deliver their cargo, the lighter, more nimble 'Hogs landing first, with teams of soldiers pouring out after them to mount the vehicles as quickly as feasibly possible. Once that had been done, four of the Pelicans swept off to opposite sides of the base, going into holding pattern twenty or so meters outside the perimeter and otherwise carrying whatever reserves were needed.

Just as the lighter ground assault vehicles were ready to begin moving forward, what few defenders were on the walls finally began to return fire, machinegun nests lighting up the attackers with impudence. Rounds pinged off ground and armor alike, spraying into the Pelicans as they regained altitude as well as the LAVs and squads they had deployed.

Their fire was abruptly cut short as the roaring booms of two cannons overrode their noise, the top of the defensive wall going up in smoke from the detonation of ninety-millimeter high-explosive rounds. The M808 Scorpion tanks rumbled past the Warthogs, toward the gate, shielding the infantry squads with their bodies to the best of their ability. As they advanced, the singular crewmen that acted as both drivers and primary gunners of the MBTs fixed their sights on the front gate, partially battered but still standing upright. In unison, the tanks fired once more, blasting the doors and further renting them open.

By then, the gate had taken damage to the point where it was barely standing as it was. The tanks rumbled forward, treads digging into the snowy ground. They rammed into what remained of the obstruction, flattening it with their combined weight, and made their way into the plaza beyond.

Beyond the now demolished entrance to the base, rows upon rows of warehouses could be seen, many of them having suffered at least small amounts of damage from the initial bombardment. There were about half a dozen rows of buildings before the main structure that made up the part of the base that was in the mountain. Even though the attacking UNSC and former Project Freelancer forces had only been on the ground for a minute at most, already there were hostile forces emerging from various locations, taking defensive positions, and returning fire. They brought an assortment of weapons, from pistols and SMGs to SAWs and turret machine guns. Many of the shots pinged off the sloped armor of the tank hulls, but a few managed to get through, leaving rents and tears in even their thick armor.

The tanks fired back with impunity, the first one destroying a nearby barricade where a small squad of Insurrectionists were forming up. The second one targeted a balcony of a warehouse to the right roughly a block down the central road, destroying what would've been a gauss turret emplacement had the defenders been given more time.

Behind them, the Warthogs and deployed squads moved in and fanned out. Among them were Wash, Tex, Caboose, Doc, Lopez, Donut, and Junior. One of the Warthogs veered around to them, revealing to be driven by Grif, with Simmons taking gunner spot on the back.

"Alright," Wash announced over the radio, "let's sweep and clear the area. Tex, Caboose, clear the warehouses to the left. Lopez, Donut, same thing to the right. All of you take squads with you. Doc, Junior, you're with me. We're going to advance down the lane in a column, clearing the base of hostiles as we go."

He turned to look at the Reds driving the armored jeep. "Clear the street to the left and take the other Warthogs with you. Bring a squad or two with you to cover your blind spots."

The team was about to acknowledge when several loud cracks forced them to seek cover. They ducked behind the nearby tanks. Two of the silver-and-black Freelancer foot soldiers weren't so lucky, taking rounds in both the chest and head. Another one got nicked in the side and fell next to them. Doc quickly scrambled forward and dragged the fallen man behind cover before using his scanner to check for the damage. It hummed as it bathed green light over the wound.

Wash peeked his head out from just over the Scorpion's hull. Further back into the base, to the row just before the cliffside, he could make out two teams of snipers, all prone to the point where they were barely peeking over the edge of the rooftops. The tanks would've returned fire were it not for another three squads of Insurrectionists emerging not even twenty meters away from them. At least two of them were carrying railguns while another held a rocket launcher.

The tanks fired at the emerging squads, making half a dozen of them disappear into red mist. The railgun and rocket users remained unscathed, instead mounting their weapons on the concrete barrier before them.

Before they could fire off even a single shot, eight loud cracks sounded from the rooftops above them, compressed together into what almost sounded like a single long thunderclap. On the left, Tex could see vapor trails strike the rocket and railgun Innies, the armor piercing rounds reducing their heads to bloody chunks.

"Oh, that never gets old," their radios crackled to life. Tex smirked beneath her helmet as she recognized Church's voice. Ever since he'd successfully hit is first target on the range several years ago, he'd been so ecstatic at the idea that he wasn't cursed to eternal failure whenever he used the sniper rifle. Sure, it had taken a ton of tries and endless hours with her guiding and refining his aim, but when he had finally succeeded she felt a swell of pride, something she'd never thought she'd feel around him. Perhaps that's what Illinois felt when he had taught her how to properly fight, how to analyze and attack like a supersoldier. Speaking of which…

"Hostile sniper teams neutralized," Illinois announced over the radio. His response to the situation, in contrast to Church, was cold, clinical, like the event was routine. When it came to combat, Illinois was had always been rather efficient, his emotions pushed aside in his mind as he became focused solely on the fight. That line of thinking came seamlessly to him, something that no other Freelancer really had. It was most likely a side-effect of being trained as a Spartan. Even the likes of Carolina and Maine, who stuck to the job to the bitter end, never matched his level of calm, almost machine-like, thinking. Carolina's competitive drive had overridden her focus before and even Maine's fear of heights had made him pause. Tex herself had tried being like Illinois before, but even her temper or wanton personal desire got in the way more often than she wanted to admit. Hell, her desire to care for Church or any of the Reds and Blues did that as well.

Maybe that was for the better, though, the emotion. It was because of her emotions that she felt like she had a family to go to, that she had people to care about. It was the reason they were alive and the reason she'd felt more alive with them than any of the time she'd been in Project Freelancer. Maybe Illinois and Carolina could learn the same from them, just as she had.

"Alright," Wash called over the radio. "Everyone, do what you need to do. Illinois, Church, provide sniper support when possible."

"Roger," both snipers affirmed.

The teams dispersed, with Tex and Caboose branching off to the warehouse just to the left. Lopez and Donut did the same to the right. Grif and Simmons's Warthog disappeared around the corner to the adjacent street, bring the three other LAVs and two squads of silver-armored soldiers with them. A squad followed each member of Reds and Blues. Meanwhile, the tanks began moving up the central street, with Wash, Doc, and Junior staying just behind them along with a handful of former Freelancer personnel. The purple medic had pulled the wounded man off to the side, ordering a small team to stay behind and wait for extraction.

As they advanced, the Freelancer could see the young Sangheili pull out a Type-51 Covenant Carbine, its purple paintjob gleaming in the afternoon light. He fired off a burst of shots past the tanks, the green radioactive projectiles flitting through the air, impacting through fabric and armor alike. The shots didn't go through armor outright, but they did leave significant dents in whatever they hit. Most of his shots weren't fatal, but those that at least punctured skin left radiation burns in their wake. Those that would survive the fight would need to get them treated immediately lest they suffer from radiation poisoning and die within the next several hours. As it stood, the former Freelancer forces should consider themselves lucky they weren't the ones being shot at by the alien weapon.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Wash saw the silhouettes of Illinois and Church bound across the rooftops, jumping or scaling between buildings when needed. Every once in a while, they ducked away, opening up a window in the roof and firing inside, supporting the pushes of the interior teams.

Slowly, the armored column advanced, the echoing sounds of gunfire reverberating against the many walls of the complex. Every few meters, a handful of soldiers hiding in the buildings opened fire on them, hoping to catch the attackers by surprise. And every time the UNSC soldiers returned the greeting in kind. Those that were not immediately killed by the armored formation soon found themselves being struck from either the sides or above, the bang of automatic weapons, the patter of precision bursts, the crack of sniper rounds, or the crunch of armored fists signaling their demise.

Before they had made it to the third street, Wash's radio lit up. "Uh, Wash," came Tucker's voice, clearly strained. "Kinda need a bit of help here."

The grey-and-gold Freelancer fired off a burst from his Battle Rifle as yet another squad attempted to resist their advance. He ducked behind the tank even as it continued firing. "Roger that, Tucker," he answered.

Washington switched to another channel, one that would connect him to the All or Nothing. "FILSS, do you have a bead on Tucker and Carolina's locations?"

"Affirmative," came the monotonously sing-song voice that was the former Freelancer A.I.

"Deploy Assault Teams One and Two on their location," he ordered.

"Complying," FILSS answered.

He switched back to Tucker and Carolina's frequency. "Reinforcements en route, you two. Hold out a little longer."

"Roger that," Carolina affirmed before the line went dead.

He had faith that they'd stay alive until their reinforcements would show up to help them. Even though they had provided the initial opening the rest of the attack force needed to get as far as they did, their goal now was to become the anchor for the right flank. Though he'd been skeptical of the pair's ability to work together at first, the past few minutes and the days before had been proof enough that they could at least work together without much issue. The only thing that worried him was that Tucker was going to get distracted by her or irritate her to the point where she couldn't work with him or any of the Reds and Blues anymore.

Gathering himself before they continue, he reloaded the magazine of his rifle, looking down the street. They still had plenty of room to go, plenty of space for enemies to emerge and offer resistance. But they hadn't taken any substantial casualties yet. He hoped it'd be able to stay that way.


Tucker ducked down as yet another stream of rounds flew by his head, an alarm chiming loudly in his ear, signaling that his shields were close to breaking. Still, he peeked out from behind the crate he was taking cover behind, risking what little shields he had left to kill yet another of his attackers. He fired off the last two rounds in his DMR, both shots striking him, one catching a man in the throat from being out of cover just a little too long, the other landing square in the forehead as a female Insurrectionist tried making a mad dash to his position. It was a good thing too, as he saw her crash to the floor, shotgun falling out of her grip.

His shield popped before his eyes and he ducked out of sight. The swordsman took a shaky breath, reloading his gun with another fifteen-round magazine. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement, and by movement he meant more than just the flash of tracers.

He looked over, seeing Agent Carolina ducking in and out of cover, firing off bursts from her Battle Rifle. Whenever a handful of shots landed, her shields would light up and she'd duck back into cover. However, unlike him, she never stayed in cover long enough for her shields to begin charging back up to full before leaving, firing off almost as soon as the barrel of her gun cleared the corner of her cover. And, to her credit, it seemed to be working rather effectively. Every time she ducked back into cover, the fire ceased for a moment and that moment was all she needed to gain the element of surprise again and again. She always fired first when the engagement would begin, taking an Insurrectionist or two before they knew what was happening.

As soon as the shield bar on his HUD refilled, Tucker came out of cover once more, trying to keep the enemies off of Carolina. She was advancing farther ahead of him than he was comfortable with. The further down the alley she went, the further she pushed the enemy positions, the harder it was for him to get a shot off without hitting her and the harder it was to see anyone that came around the corner.

Sighing in frustration, he advanced behind her, popping off a handful of shots before ducking back down behind a metal generator ahead of him. A handful of shots bounced against his shields, forcing him down into cover again. He couldn't maintain the level of confidence and speed that Carolina had, constantly slowing down, waiting for the invisible energy field to recharge before attacking again.

They continued onward, her constant momentum surpassing his follow-up. She was diverting more fire towards herself, which was good for him. But he knew that even she couldn't keep this up forever. Her shields were dropping little by little and she wasn't giving them time to recharge.

And that's when he saw it. It was incredibly faint, even to the trained eye, but Tucker had been around the Sangheili long enough to know it when he saw it: a shimmer in the air, the telltale sign of active camouflage. Without thinking it further, he rushed over to Carolina, ignoring the fire that was starting to pour his way again.

Using as much force as he could muster, he shoved the cyan Freelancer out of the way with one hand, sword raised to block with the other. A loud bang went off and he saw the flash of a shotgun briefly reveal the Insurrectionist in active camouflage. Some of the shot was blocked by his sword, but a lot of it still hit him directly. He felt his shields pop, but instead of ducking down into cover, he rushed at the man as the shimmering field envelop him again, sword in hand. He struck out at the man, trying to catch him in a downward swing, but the invisible man backed up just enough to not hit him.

The same could not be said about his shotgun, however, and it was cleanly sliced in half, angry orange heat radiating off of where the pieces had been whole not even a second ago.

Before he could take another step forward to finish the job, he saw movement to the right. Knowing he had no cover to dash back to and had no energy shields to protect him, he raised his sword, turning it into an improvised shield as much as he could. A series of rounds hammered against the field holding the plasma blade together, but none made it past.

Unfortunately, however, it made him distracted long enough for the invisible man to reach to his side for what was undoubtedly a sidearm. Tucker had no way of being able to defend against both attackers.

Meanwhile, Carolina could do nothing but stare in abject horror as the Blue was about to be shot to death. What neither he nor she had realized until just now was that by the time Tucker shoved her out of the way, she had needed to reload her Battle Rifle. Its magazine had run out of ammunition at a very inopportune time.

Carolina lied against the ground with bated breath, mind still reeling from the fact that Tucker had just shoved her out of harm's way, only to come face to face with it himself. And the worst part was that she couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't throw a grenade, as the fuse wouldn't go off in time, and she couldn't throw her hammer, as if she threw it and it missed she'd have nothing stopping the Insurrectionist from killing her the same way he was about to kill Tucker, effectively spitting in the face of his sacrifice. All she knew at this point was one thing: she was going to be the reason another of her friends was going to die.

She saw the silhouette rack the bolt on the pistol, aiming it squarely at the teal simulation trooper…

… and was crushed beneath a slab of metal. A layer of steam was emanating from its base, covering the ground in a thin sheet of fog. It was so sudden that it caused her to actually jump a little in surprise.

A piece of the metal came flying off, smashing into the other Insurrection that was shooting at Tucker. Except, now that the initial shock had worn off, she realized it wasn't a piece of metal. It was the door of SOEIV pod.

Out of the insertion pod stepped none other than Sarge, shotgun at the ready. From just out of sight, a hostile opened fire the Red, his bullets bouncing against the bloodthirsty soldier's energy shield. Sarge, for his part, didn't even flinch, merely grunting from the impact like the shot had mildly bothered him, before firing once at the defender. The Insurrectionist reeled back from the shot before dropping dead a second later, bleeding out from numerous puncture wounds from the shotgun's buckshot.

A handful of other Insurrectionists attempted to aim at the newly-arrived simulation trooper, but were stopped short as a series of other drop pods landed in their midst. All around them, pod doors shot open, revealing Orbital Drop Shock Troopers in the same silver-and-grey of the other former Project Freelancer personnel. Some of them were armed with submachineguns, others with assault rifles, and even a handful had shotguns and SAWs. Hell, there were even two rocket launchers among them. And all of them began firing as soon as the doors came off.

The next five seconds were filled with a cacophony of gunfire shouting, the gunfire largely coming from the Shock Troopers and the shouts emanating from the rebels. Those shouts turned into screams before falling quickly into silence.

Racking another shell into the chamber, Sarge turned back to face the light-blue soldiers. "I always did love a dramatic entrance," he chuckled.

"Good thing too," Tucker said. "One more second and my brain would've been popped like a grape."

"Really?"

The Blue nodded, pointing at the squashed Insurrectionist, now flattened under Sarge's insertion pod. Blood was pooling at the base, a great puddle of crimson forming around the machine like some sort of demented birdbath or fountain.

Sarge's gaze followed the finger, only to lay eyes on his handiwork. "Well, hot diggidy-damn, that's a mighty impressive landing if I do say so myself," he said in awe. Tucker could tell the Red was getting more and more proud by the second.

In the meantime, the Blue sheathed his sword and held his hand out to Carolina, who was still lying on the ground. She could've easily gotten up the entire time in Sarge's engagement, but she was still too stunned from seeing Tucker nearly getting blasted by the invisible Insurrectionist.

The Freelancer looked up at the man before her. Though he didn't realize it, Tucker looked exactly the same as York after the heist to retrieve the Sarcophagus, where she had failed to get the activation codes before Tex. The sun silhouetted his form, and, for a brief moment, she didn't see an aqua, womanizing simulation trooper with an alien sword. She saw York in all his tan-and-white glory, shotgun in one hand, reaching out to her with the other, offering her a way up.

Almost dreamlike, she reached up and grasped it, allowing him to pull her up to him. She felt a ghost of a smile cross her lips, a wave of nostalgia hitting her. Though she didn't know it at the time and wouldn't come to realize it until much too late, she was always grateful for his support, for his friendship. Had she not been a Freelancer and had she not been so focused on being top of the leaderboard, she might've taken the next step, delving from friendship to relationship with him in a heartbeat. At times she would still beat herself up for being so stupid about her choice to stay loyal to Project Freelancer instead of helping him and Tex. It was one of a long list of regrets she had in her life, as a Freelancer.

The light receded from York, returning to the familiar, if less warm, form of Tucker. She snapped out of her trance, staring down at their interlocking arms, still held in that familiar clasp. "You okay, Carolina?" Tucker asked her quietly.

Almost like an energy barrier, she felt her cold, professional demeanor return in force, the wave of nostalgia violently breaking against her impenetrable wall of focus and dedication. Carolina quickly dropped her hand from his, giving him a hard stare.

"Fine," she said in response. With deft hands, she reached over to her fallen Battle Rifle, picking it off from the ground and dusting the ice particles that had formed on the casing before swiftly loading another thirty-six-round magazine into the magazine weld. She pushed past him, ready to continue advancing down winding hallways with the ODSTs. She did, however, wait for Tucker and Sarge to catch up.

Tucker gave Sarge a skeptical glance, but refrained from expressing his concern with the woman Freelancer. He felt the Red wouldn't provide any useful commentary anyway.

As they continued onward, she thought back to a few seconds ago, where she believed Tucker was going to die. In her mind, she referred to him as a friend. That word struck her as foreign, like it wasn't part of her vocabulary. They'd only interacted a few times, mostly when they were isolated from everyone else with their initial landing on Praetor. There wasn't really anything special about their interactions either, just small talk here and there. They'd talked about what they liked to do in their free time, where they came from, why they decided to join. Carolina herself omitted the real reason she chose to become a Freelancer, fearing in the back of her mind that she'd be judged rather harshly for being the daughter of Director Church, the man they were now hunting. She was used to being looked upon with scrutiny, disdain, or even dread, but that usually had to do with her attitude and performance, not her connection to the head of Project Freelancer.

This whole thing is kinda ironic, she thought as she panned her rifle across an open street, having the ODSTs, Sarge, and Tucker cross one at a time. A few years ago you were doing everything in your power to make Dad proud, to get the attention you always wanted. Now you're here, ready to bring him in like the criminal he is, with people who'd been hurt by his actions just as much as you and your friends, your real friends.

The fact that she had to clarify that her team had been her 'real friends' struck her as odd yet again, that she actually needed to tell herself that they had been her friends and Tucker wasn't. They weren't at the point where he could be as such.

At least that's what she kept telling herself.


By the time the tank formation had made it past the sixth row of buildings, the formation had achieved what amounted to a sort of battle rhythm. First, the tanks would advance, firing off an opening salvo at any and all potential hostile battle positions they came across. Next, Freelancer-turned-UNSC infantry would work their way up, assaulting or otherwise suppressing any Insurrectionists that the tanks either couldn't hit or wouldn't be able to handle in a timely manner. From there, a combined effort of Illinois's and Church's overlapping sniper fire alongside the Reds, Blues, and Freelancers would either hit from the flanks or otherwise rush the suppressed positions amidst the attack, eliminating whatever enemies were left.

The Warthog formation on the left flank was making good progress, though not as quickly as the tanks in the center. The lack of explosive armament and firepower made that so. Still, they hadn't met any resistance they couldn't handle so far, either seeing squads of Insurrectionists scramble to try halting the main advance in the center or very small detachments hoping to sneak the flanks, unaware that the Warthog squadron was even there. Either way, they were met the same way, with the rattle of three miniguns tearing up the infantry and a single gauss cannon hammering any light armor vehicles with them. Two squads of former Freelancer personnel traveled just behind them, ready to support whenever they were needed, using the LAVs for cover.

As they continued driving, Grif could see what looked to be a motorpool just off to the left, an array of stolen UNSC vehicles lined in neat rows. Most of them looked worn and torn, or at the very least weren't kept in as good condition as the tanks, trucks, and armored cars he'd been used to working with in his time with Colonel Worthington's 63rd Armor Brigade at New Harmony.

The orange sim trooper saw multiple Insurrectionists scramble to man their vehicles, some of them carrying assorted ammunition boxes or crates. "Simmons," he called to his gunner and best friend, "five Innies, ten o'clock."

The maroon soldier swiveled his gun on its axis, directing it towards Grif's callout. "I see them," he affirmed, spinning up the barrels of his gun yet again before discharging rounds at them. A few of them fell instantly, the rounds going through their armor like it wasn't there. Still, he didn't get them all before they successfully dove for cover.

"Spread out," Grif ordered over the radio to his squads. "Clear the lanes of hostiles before we move on." He spun his Warthog around to the left, taking one of the lanes as his own. The other three 'Hogs did the same, with the squads splitting up into smaller five-man teams so they could cover each of the vehicles.

Normally, he wasn't one to take charge of soldiers, or lead in general. That had always been Sarge's thing. He was very uninterested in leading people, just avoiding work whenever possible and having someone else step up to the plate. He was very lazy when it came to things like that. However, responsibility always seemed to be thrust upon him, even though there were almost always people that were way more qualified, or eager, to lead compared to him. He never liked basking in the limelight, just sitting back and have others do the dirty work.

When responsibility was given to him, he made sure to finish it as time-efficiently as possible, all with the goal to go back to not doing anything. Whether it was finished with quality wasn't something he was overly concerned with. As long as it was good enough that he wouldn't need to go back and fix it anytime soon, he was content.

So, with the end potentially in sight, he drove himself on. If this was finally going to be the day where he could be rid of the Director for the rest of his life, he might as well go in full force as far as effort went, something that was extremely rare for him.

The Warthogs drove slowly down the lines, destroying any vehicle with hostiles near them. Even those that weren't an immediate threat to them were also fired upon, with bullets shattering windshields, busting through engines, or rending tires to the point of inoperability. Even if they didn't have the time or firepower to destroy all vehicles quickly, at the very least they could make it so they were in no shape to be used later in the event the Insurrectionists got past them and somehow managed to make their way to the motorpool.

As they came to a crossroad in the middle, a loud bang came out. It sounded just like the cannons of their Scorpions, but it was much closer. Grif looked around just in time to see the burning wreck of the Gauss 'Hog go flying past, it's crew little more than mangled piles of flesh and cloth. Both he and Simmons darted their head around to the end of the pool and saw the lumbering form of another Scorpion, it's hulled painted a hodge-podge of greys, whites, and silvers to resemble the tundra around them.

Grif was the first to react, slamming on the gas pedal and jerking the wheel around to the left. Barely a heartbeat later, Simmons let loose with his machinegun, lighting up the armored behemoth with hundreds of rounds. They bounced seemingly harmlessly against its hull.

It seemed Grif's reaction was the right call, as the tank shot and barely missed hitting the rear of their vehicle. Simmons actually yelped in fear, but didn't relent from his stream of bullets. The team that was with them dove to the vehicles around them. The heard the sound of a second chaingun and saw a team from the left moving to engage the armored machine. Like Grif and Simmons, its driver swerved through the winding vehicles and improvised lanes that divided the Insurrectionist's equipment. All of the dismounted infantry that had accompanied them was doing their best to avoid its sight lines, it's pintle-mounted machinegun firing on them instead.

"Hey Four," Grif called over the radio to the pilot, doing his best and failing miserably to conceal his panic. "We need some help down here. That tank is going to tear us apart. Requesting fire support, over."

"Roger that, Grif," Fraser replied in kind. "Stand by for strafing run, over."

In the corner of his eye he saw the lumbering form of Four-Seven-Niner's Pelican begin to drift into view. He couldn't actually look to confirm this, however, as another shot rang through his ears. Grif drove onward, swiveling in and out among the vehicles around him, using them to block line of sight or otherwise absorb shots that would've been fatal to his and Simmons's mighty steed.

The Red felt his heart beating harshly in his ears as he continued to move back and forth, his breathing getting shallower with each passing second. Though he was no stranger to facing death at this point in his life, that didn't lessen the tension any less. He may be lazy even in the best of days, but he also wanted to live. Simmons and everyone else being alive was just a bonus.

A swishing noise finally broke through the din of combat as streaks of missiles soared through the air, smashing into the tank. Its hull crumpled before the armor-piercing warheads, the explosives ruining steel and titanium, reducing the engine of war to nothing more than scrap.

The Red stopped the vehicle as he bore witness to the Pelican gunship in all its glory. Grif smiled under his helmet as he saw Four's ship float overhead, its nose gun and rocket pods aimed at the base below. A burst of shots came out of from the autocannon before being followed by yet another volley of missiles, all aimed at one of the buildings beyond.

"Target destroyed," the pilot announced to them.

Grif continued to smirk as he replied, "Thanks, Ash."

"No problem, Dex," she replied. Grif still wasn't used to others saying his first name, having gone his entire military career being referred to by his last name, as was standard practice. It didn't matter if it was his drill instructor, Command, or Sarge or Simmons, he had always gone by Grif. It was simple, it rolled off the tongue (even if there were those who insisted his name was spelled with two 'f's), and it was short.

However, in the days they had been on Praetor, Grif had been stuck repairing a Pelican with none other than former Freelancer pilot Ashley Fraser, codenamed Four-Seven-Niner. Having really nothing better to do besides repair the ship so they could help their friends, they ended spending hours doing nothing but chatting, getting to know each other. He knew that she was thirty-three years old, six years his senior. He knew that she was born and raised on Luna and enlisted into the UNSC's pilot program to get away from home, having to be the oldest of eighteen siblings and effectively act as Mom Number Two. She became Project Freelancer's de-facto pilot due to her skills as a Pelican pilot and her ability to keep her mouth shut in regard to the Project's mission. She also had a good working relationship with Carolina and Wash, the former out of a likeminded attitude and ability to put with her snark and deal it back in equal measure, and the latter when she had to be forcibly moved to coordinator of Mission Command during Washington's recovery days. She claims to have seen him in the days before he had a stick up his ass. There were a lot of things she'd done that he'd had no prior experience with.

And yet, there was a sort of comradery between them that he didn't quite get from the Reds and Blues. Maybe it was just that they were both drivers of their respective teams. Or maybe it was that he'd been awestruck by the fact she had bossed around Freelancers, unlike him who pretty much had to be threatened to drive on whatever stupid little adventure Sarge was putting him up to at the time. Not to mention she was at least a bit pretty.

Unlike Church or Tucker, he couldn't say with any degree of certainty that he any sort of attraction to anyone. He'd seen plenty of women, had the joyless honor of talking to them, mainly his mother, sister, and the Freelancers. But never once had ever considered them pretty. That honor had been soured by the stuck-up bitches in high school. Ever 'pretty girl' he'd come across there had a snobby, 'better-than-thou' attitude, even despite the fact that the vast majority of them weren't even remotely smart.

And, to his knowledge, none of them had become soldiers, warriors, when they grew up, not in the way the females of Project Freelancer had. There hadn't been anyone quite like Carolina, Tex, or Four-Seven-Niner. They were smart, or at least clever; they were strong, with a very hands-on approach to how they did things; and they were assertive, took charge and didn't take pushback lightly. He hated to admit it, but he needed someone that was like that in his life, or at least someone that could lead and wasn't a near-suicidal maniac like Sarge.

Ultimately, he didn't really mind that she called him by his first name, as different as it was. It actually sounded a little pleasant on his ears coming from her.

The Pelican floated back into holding pattern just outside of the base alongside the five other VTOLs, but, compared to the other ones, it seemed almost ready to spring back into action, eager like a bird of prey or a warhound.

"Everyone," he called over the radio to the Freelancer soldiers that had been attached to him, "regroup at the end of the motorpool. We're moving on." A series of confirmation chimes from the other squads sounded in his helmet, all except from those of the Gauss team. They were beyond the land of the living at this point.

He hoped to whatever deity existed in the sky that they wouldn't have any more close calls like that.

If there were gods and they did exist, they would laugh in the face of his words in a few minutes.


Location: Insurrectionist Base, Praetor Northlands

Time: 1416 Hours

Date: June 24, 2557

The UNSC and former Freelancer forces were a little under half way through clearing out the base at this point and the assault had begun less than ten minutes ago. However, it was soon becoming apparent that the initial shock of the battle was finally wearing off on the defending humans. Larger and larger groups of Insurrectionists had begun gathering at more predetermined defensive positions, reducing the speed of their advance to almost a crawl at certain points.

Wash ducked down behind one of the nearby Scorpions as a stream of gunfire erupted from yet another defensive emplacement, the defenders dug in deep enough that they needed to start pulling out Grenade and Rocket Launchers, Railguns, and even a Hydra Launcher that they just happened to have in their armory, all just to dig out the Innies so they wouldn't get bogged down. Every second they wasted on one engagement gave the remaining defending soldiers that much more time to prepare for their arrival. The All or Nothing didn't have an infinite amount of troops or equipment to deploy, so they couldn't rely on slowly pushing through. They need to keep the momentum on their side.

The whine of a railgun charging up sounded near him, a silver-and-black UNSC soldier charging up the deadly weapon in his hands. Before he could fire off the shot, a round caught him the shoulder, just below the arm. He yelled out in pain and fell to the ground, dropping his weapon, clutching a golfball-size hole that hadn't been there a second ago. Doc was already on him, pulling him behind a concrete barricade before pressing the plasma-pistol-like medical tool the wound and charging it, cauterizing the wound with heat from the glowing green device. Once that was done, he administered a bandage that he pulled out from his belt.

Wash grabbed the fallen weapon from the ground, charging it as he brought it up. He only needed a split second to find the original target the previous soldier had looked for, swinging it to face the entrenched machinegun nest.

The rail round shot out of the gun in a near-invisible burst of speed, impacting the turret, shattering it into a thousand pieces, and going into the wall behind it. The gunner disappeared in a flash of pink mist, like he was never even there. With the weapon now empty and without any ammo, the Freelancer threw it off to the side, uncaring about what happened to it next, taking up his Battle Rifle once more. The tanks fired once more, destroying yet another pair of concrete bunkers that made up a checkpoint in the base.

He saw that the remaining Insurrectionists were actually withdrawing, gathering themselves to form yet another defensive position. The armored column began to advance yet again, crushing the fallen Insurrectionists beneath their mighty treads. For the past few minutes it had looked like the UNSC forces were just barreling right through to defenders, smashing all that opposed them like almighty gods of war. They seemed invincible at points. Sure, every once in a while they took a casualty or two, but that hardly seemed to put a dent in their overall killing power. They'd make it to the end of the base with most of their forces intact, ready to capture the Director and put an end to whatever mad scheme he'd concocted for the Insurrection.

A whistle reverberated over the battle, taking over even the cannons of the Scorpions. Washington froze as he heard the noise, its echo all too familiar to him. He'd heard it plenty of times in his academic days at Leonis Minoris, before it had been glassed by the Covenant. And to hear it coming from something that was obviously not under their control terrified him.

"Incoming!" he shouted, immediately going prone. Junior and most of the soldiers reacted the same way as him, pressing their bodies going prone. Doc but himself on top of his patient, pressing the both of them to the ground.

The few that didn't react in time found out why everyone else was going prone soon enough, as an artillery shell landed in front of the formation, emitting a large plume of dirt and smoke, throwing debris and shrapnel everywhere. They fell backwards, numerous wounds opening up across their bodies like they'd been sliced open by a giant invisible cheese grater. Blood poured across their body, turning their silvery grey into a sheen of crimson. They would be far beyond saving, much to Doc's dismay.

Wash quickly got up to his feet, looking out to the back of the Insurrectionist base. What he saw confirmed his suspicions. Parked at the very front, dead center in the courtyard before the mountain base proper, were three M400 Kodiaks. He saw the large truck-like artillery batteries braced into the ground, support legs on either side of the bed keeping the things planted into the ground so they wouldn't topple over as they fired. One of their barrels was smoking from the rounds it had fired.

A second bang, then a third, went off as the rest of the battery unleashed their payloads. Only one of the shells landed near them, the other exploding somewhere off to the left, by the Warthog formation. He knew they wouldn't have long before they fired again, so he got on the comms. "Everyone rush straight up the Insurrectionist base to the back, now!" he ordered. "The longer we stay out in the open the more we're gonna get shelled by those things."

The Scorpions needed no further explanation, facing their bodies down the central street.

Wash's comm lit up in his ear, the sound of Grif's panicked voice filling the mic. "What the hell was that?" he asked.

"Artillery," the Freelancer leader answered immediately. "Get to the back of the base as soon as possible. They have a battery stationed in the courtyard just before it. We'll try pressuring them from the middle. You need to do the same on your end."

"'Kay, roger that," the Red driver affirmed before immediately dropping the line. They didn't have time to argue about alternate solutions. Now was another do-or-die moment that would determine the fate of their lives. And they all wanted to live.

Before the dismounts had a chance to form up, the tanks gunned their engines, charging forward with as much speed as they could muster. The ground troops sprinted as hard as they could, keeping some distance between them as to not all get hit by another artillery round, but otherwise sticking as close to the tanks as they could. Wash and Junior took lead, their enhanced muscles or elongated legs allowing them to stride further than the others.

Washington felt his heart hammer in his chest as yet another round landed near them, blowing out chunks of a building just behind them. What had only felt like a few short blocks between them and the rearmost buildings scant seconds ago now felt like it seemed to stretch for miles.

Once the tanks had made it past two more blocks, barreling through any resistance like raging bulls, they fired their primary weapons. David's heart fell as they detonated midair, revealing a near-invisible energy barrier protecting the artillery pieces.

He was about to give the order to drive straight through when a barrage of gunfire erupted from further down the street, rounds bouncing against the hulls. The tanks fired at the newer targets, but were met with the same effect as the Kodiaks. Most of the rounds seemed relatively harmless against their titanium plating, but a single gauss shot actually managed to score a hit on the rear left tread of the right tank.

"Get to cover, now," he ordered the tanks. They complied, splitting off and allowing the buildings to obscure their bulk from the defenders' firepower. The foot soldiers did likewise, taking cover in the nearby buildings. Wash and Junior ducked to the right side, while Doc moved to the left. As they did so, he could see another shot hit the tank in the same spot, causing a part of it to start smoking. He heard a metallic squeal as gears protested and the tank slowed its movement down a noticeable amount. However, it still managed to arrive at its destination.

The grey-and-gold Freelancer saw Illinois and Church jump down from their perches, wanting to get out of the potential blast radius of any incoming shells. The Spartan landed next to him. "David, we're sitting ducks out here," the larger Freelancer informed him.

"We can't advance any further than here without getting shredded by their defenses," he pointed out, noting the energy barrier that was protecting everyone that was pinning them down.

"Where's everyone else?" Illinois asked, peeking his head around the corner to assess the situation.

"Coming up on you guys now," Donut answered, barging through a door just behind them, Lopez in tow. On the other side of the street, he could see Tex and Caboose regroup on Church and Doc.

"Can you guys go through the buildings, try getting close?" Wash continued.

Donut shook his head. "I'm willing to bet they have a lot of guys covering their asses in the buildings closest to them."

"Crap," Wash muttered under his breath. Donut's assessment was sound. Of all the things the Insurrectionists were, stupid wasn't one of them. They'd survived since before the Human-Covenant War started and had been the original reason the Spartans were created.

He opened a channel with the Warthog unit. "Grif, can you veer your guys around, hit them from the side?"

A burst of static went through his ear first and Wash flinched slightly. Grif's voice came through, but it was obvious he was occupied at the moment. "No can do, Wash. Got a roadblock and a bunch of bad guys in front of us and I'm not seeing a way around them."

Damn it, Wash almost swore aloud. Instead he responded, "Copy that." He was nearly out of options at this point. If they couldn't find a solution to this problem soon, they'd be turned to paste.

To emphasize the urgency of the situation, another volley of shells impacted around them, kicking up dirt and tearing gaping holes in the warehouses around them.

There was still one group he hadn't contacted yet, one that had remained unaccounted for. They were his last option now. If they couldn't get through, every single UNSC soldier, Red, Blue, and Freelancer on the ground would die.

He switched over to their channel. "Carolina, Sarge, Tucker, do you guys copy?"

"We copy, Wash," the cyan Freelancer answered first.

"What's your status?"

Instead of Carolina, however, Tucker answered first. "We're pretty far along. The base of the mountain is only another block or two away. Assholes finally seem to be letting up."

The comm lit up with yet another voice, this time to the recognizable Southern drawl of Sarge butting in. "Sounds like hell is raining down from where we're at. What's going on out there?"

"Insurrectionists brought out a battery of M400s."

"Kodiaks?" the Red answered first.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "They and the rest of the Innies have gathered around the base of the mountain and there's an energy shield protecting them. We're getting pounded out here and we're not gonna last long at this rate. I need you guys to find the generator powering it and disable it."

"Shouldn't be too hard to find on our end," Tucker affirmed. "We'll just do what we did last time."

"We'll get it done as quickly as possible, then rendezvous back to the rest of you," Carolina added.

"Roger that," Washington said, and the line went dead. He hoped, for everyone's sake, that they were fast. The buildings wouldn't last long against a sustained barrage and they had no way to retreat now, not fast enough to outrun the artillery's range.


With news of the impending doom that was assailing the rest of the attack force, Sarge, Tucker, Carolina, and the ODSTs double timed it to back of the base. The resistance had dropped to an almost negligible amount at this point. They could easily assume the rest had fallen back to their final defensive position, within the confines of the shield.

Sarge took point, leading the ODSTs on with his shotgun in hand. Years of prior training in high-stress environments had come back to him almost seamlessly, even despite the years it had been since he'd been a member of the Helljumpers. His bloodthirsty nature had actually been boiled into him from that training, the desire to bring death to the enemies of humanity.

Though it had taken some time after he'd been relieved from Project Freelancer, he was slowly brought back into the fold with the UNSC. He'd learned that, at some point prior to joining the Project's Red Army, the memories he'd had fighting the Blues were all nothing more than psychological indoctrination and manipulation of how events actually played out. In truth, the memories he had weren't from fighting against humans of a different armor color, but the Covenant themselves in all their bright blue and purple armors.

He guessed it made sense in context, all the hate he'd had towards the Blues, actually meant to be directed towards genocidal aliens. He remembered seeing his friends, comrades, brothers, and sisters fall before the bright flash of plasma fire. He remembered the smell of burning dirt, of scorched armor, boiled blood, and blackened flesh. It hurt at first to remember all of it again, the trauma, the sadness, the anger.

As the years went on, however, when he rejoined the UNSC in the wake of the end of the War, the pain turned into a dull ache. The voices of the fallen still came to him every once in a while, but they were subdued, little more than the faintest of echoes against the wind.

Those voices, however, did seem to silence themselves when he remembered his team, Red Team, of Blood Gulch Outpost Number One. He remembered Grif and his borderline-insubordinate laziness, Simmons and his devotion to Sarge's authority, Donut and his femininity, and Lopez and his endless, if reluctant, loyalty. Every bicker, moment of insubordination and frustration, it seemed to come almost nostalgically to him at times, even if he wished there was a bit more action in those memories. It was homely, familiar. If he had to guess, the voices of the fallen went away when he remembered them, like they were smiling at him for thinking of better times.

And it seemed they were smiling at him now, knowing that he was working alongside friends, family. He would not let this new family down.

The group approached the back of the base, easily passing through the shield as if it was little more than air, guns up as they moved. "Where would the generator be this time?" Tucker asked no one in particular, leaving the question open for anyone to answer.

"Considering that it's generating enough power to make a shield strong enough to withstand a sustained barrage, I'm guessing a sizeable building that can be shielded from the elements but remain outside the main complex so it can be replaced easily in case of damage," Carolina analyzed.

"Well, in that case," Sarge said, nodding to something just around the corner of the alleyway, "I think that might be the only building that would fit that category."

Just beyond, there stood a massive warehouse, one lined with power cables and a series of massive conductors on top of and around it. For some reason there weren't any Innies nearby. Maybe they'd all pulled back to the courtyard to help with the primary defense force. Or maybe they'd moved so quickly that soldiers hadn't yet been coordinated to defend it. Either way, they were thankful, as it would make accomplishing their mission that much easier.

They silently made it to the warehouse that was built into the mountain, stacking up against he wall. Sarge was closest to the door and he crouched down before peeking.

Inside the room was indeed the generator they'd been seeking. Roughly three times the size of a Scorpion, the thing thrummed with energy. The thing seemed fragile enough to defeat with infantry-held anti-armor weapons. At the very worst, they could use shaped charges to destroy it. However, there was one thing in the way that was rather concerning…

"Uh-oh," Sarge said, ducking back from the entrance.

"What is it?" Carolina questioned, noting the speed in which he ducked back into cover.

"There's a Cyclops guarding the generator," he told them.

Tucker balked. "A what?"

"Cyclops," Carolina repeated for him. "Powered exoskeleton similar to earlier versions of Spartan MJOLNIR armor."

"So it's a single guy in a suit," Tucker told them, seemingly unimpressed.

"Yeah," she answered, "but the suit is roughly fourteen feet tall."

If Tucker's eyes could pop out of their sockets, they would've done so with how wide they went. "That's twice as tall as a Spartan."

"And this one looks like it has guns attached to it, too," Sarge added.

The Freelancer moved in front of him, getting a good look at it herself. He was indeed correct. Attached to the massive walker was two large guns attached to the arms. They looked to be of a larger caliber from where she was. Which meant really bad news for them.

She ducked outside again. "Okay, I see only one real way to deal with this thing," she said, formulating a plan as she talked. "I'll distract it with my speed boost, give you two and the ODSTs enough time to line up your shots. I need you to hit that thing in the back, where it's weakest. A rocket or two should do it." A few feet behind them, two of the twenty drop troopers hefted double-barrel SPNKRs. The rest simply loaded fresh mags into their weapons, ready to unleash all they had onto it.

The Freelancer stacked up against the doorway first, placing her rifle against her back next to the Gravity Hammer. She was followed by Tucker, then Sarge, and finally the rest of the ODSTs. Carolina blink-activated a timer to her HUD, relaying it to the others and indicating to them when she would be going. It was set for three seconds.

With a thought, she started it.

On two seconds, she prepped her speed boost.

On one, she gripped the doorway, leaning back to spring herself forward.

When the timer hit zero, she zoomed away, her boots kicking up ice and dirt behind her. The rest of the team followed along without delay, clearly believing she would provide a good enough distraction for them.

By the time Tucker alone had entered the room, Carolina was already on the other side, her back to the massive shield generator, facing the monstrous war machine. The Cyclops had turned to face her fully, one of its massive cannons aimed right at her.

It would never get a chance to fire the weapon, as two rockets simultaneously flew through the air, impacting it in the back. They landed square at it too, with the precision expected of such an elite class of soldiers.

Except they didn't land at all, merely detonating harmlessly against a now-glowing yellow energy shield of its own.

With a malice indicative of its pilot, the walker turned away from the lone Freelancer to focus on the rest of the squad. They scattered almost immediately, firing off rounds as they went, but they fared little better than the explosives, bouncing off against the protective field surrounding the machine. The Cyclops raised its left arm in their general direction, firing off a trio of shots at them. The weapons were clearly designed for antivehicle purposes, as the round detonated around them, blowing holes in the warehouse walls, scattering debris everywhere.

Agent Carolina reached for her hammer, believing it to be one of the few weapons they had that could pierce its protection. However, the pilot seemed to remember her again and swung a clawed arm out to try and catch her. She saw the move coming, but she was still surprised at the speed in which it came. Its servos whined loudly as it swung around in an arc, barely missing her as she dived to the side.

Before it had time to pursue her again, the others had fired at it once more, peppering shots into its shields. The shield glowed more brightly as it strained against the consecutive firepower.

Carolina landed on her feet and continued to duck and dodge as the machine went back and forth between attacking her and the rest of the squad. However, when the Cyclops attacked the ODSTs again, one of its shots hit a soldier that wasn't quite fast enough. The shot didn't merely kill him, it vaporized him, confirming that the guns one it were indeed designed for killing tanks.

It seemed to gain a renewed sense of vigor upon scoring its first kill, bringing both of its arms up to blast away at Tucker, Sarge, and the others, choosing to ignore her. That would prove to be a fatal mistake as she now had time to properly reach for her hammer. She drew it from her back, the disruptive energy field crackling around its head. Hefting it in two hands, she swung the melee weapon in an upward arc, merely grazing its back. Against a normal person even a grazing shot would've sent a person reeling, making them feel like they'd been run over by a tank. Against the mech, it only stumbled. However, its shields did finally give in, the hammer blow popping it like a bubble.

It turned to face her, as if offended by her mere presence. With a sort of fury akin to a rampaging elephant, the thing thrust out at her, claws glistening as it aggressively tried to grab her so it could crush her in its fists. Compared to tanks and buildings, which it had been designed to dismantle and destroy, she would be virtually nothing in comparison.

Carolina simply ducked down, sliding under its legs as it lunged. That move would've been considered dangerous, even for someone like her, had it not been for what happened next.

Unable to control its momentum in time, the machine's claws slammed into the power generator it was supposed to be protecting. The machine sputtered slightly as a piece of metal that wasn't supposed to be inside it entered, but continued to function. However, that wasn't the important part. When the Cyclops attempted to face its foes once again, it found its hand stuck in the machine. It tried pulling it out again, but the claw stayed put.

Tucker saw the opening Carolina had provided them and motioned the ODSTs forward.

"Shoot the generator!" he ordered. The two SPNKR-wielders came forward, taking out the empty cases that held the rockets before slamming another into place and securing it. They lined up their shot as the machine continued to struggle. It clearly was trying to be at least a little gentle as simply tearing the hand out would possibly damage the machine irreparably.

Its caution would cost it.

Without any sign of hesitation, the ODSTs fired, their shots flying past the Cyclops, hitting the generator directly instead. The rockets exploded against the shield generator and it began sputtering and smoking, but continued to function.

It was then that the bipedal walker finally managed to get its hand out, turning to face the interlopers. One of its cannons fired, turning one of the men with a launcher into red mist. The gun clattered to the floor, still miraculously intact. Everyone spread out once more, running and spraying bullets in its general direction. Even though its shields were down, the small arms fire did little more than tickle it, either bouncing off or being absorbed like a sponge.

Tucker ducked behind a small crate, aware that it would provide about as much protection as paper against the Cyclops's autocannons. He looked over, seeing Carolina spray at it with her Battle Rifle while Sarge chucked a frag grenade. The grenade bounced at its feet and exploded, but, just like the gunfire, seemed to do little more than irritate it. His eyes finally landed on the launcher, noting that the other man with the launcher was still running away from the machine's line of sight.

The Cyclops fired once more, keeping its feet planted into the ground, it's back touching the damaged contraption behind it, determined not to let itself get flanked again. It shot at Carolina and Sarge, determined to destroy either of them as quickly as possible.

And that's when Tucker decided to be brave, rushing out of cover to the fallen antivehicle weapon. Carolina saw him go, even as she continued to run. A small part of her mind wanted to call out to him, tell him to get back into cover, to stay safe. But the rest of her realized that by distracting it, she was giving him time to line up a shot, ending this fight once and for all.

Unfortunately, the Cyclops also noticed, and began to turn to him once more. She stopped on her heels, pivoting, and aiming her gun at the behemoth. She fired off several bursts at its hide, but it ignored her in favor of the easier, and more dangerous, target.

"Tucker!" she called out to him, warning him of the imminent danger he was it. Still, he kept going, sprinting with all his might to the weapon. He was hoping to reach it and pick it up before it could get a bead on him.

He was mere feet from the gun when it aimed at him. Diving forward, he reached out his hands to it. The Cyclops fired and its shot missed by what looked like a literal hair, the large round practically touching him. His shields popped from the contact, but the round did not detonate, instead zooming past.

The Blue grabbed the gun in his hands and rolled, dodging another shot. He landed on one knee, bracing the weapon against his shoulder, sighting down the reticle.

"Take this, you son of a bitch," he gritted through his teeth before pulling the trigger. The second rocket sailed out the tube and through the air, heading to the lumbering war machine.

The Cyclops sidestepped easily, predicting its arc before it had even left the tube.

But Tucker hadn't been aiming for it.

The rocket flew into the power generator behind it, exploding into a hundred fragments, and causing the machine to whine as it couldn't take the punishment anymore.

The generator exploded into orange and white color, thousands of pieces flying everywhere. Arcs of blue lightning lanced out from the shield generator as it released the built-up energy.

One of those arc whipped and struck the Cyclops in the back and it seized up before their eyes. Its arms froze and the walker seemed to almost whine from the overload of energy through its systems.

This lasted for only a heartbeat or two, but that was more than enough time to be lethal.

The air quieted and the machine groaned before keeling forward, landing face-first into the ground.

The air became quiet as the action finally died down, only the faint echo of fire coming from the courtyard.

The team let out a breath they didn't know they'd been holding until then. Meanwhile, Carolina immediately went for her comms, contacting Washington and the rest of the main assault force. "Wash, the shield is down. I repeat the shield is down. Engage the artillery now!" she all but shouted into her helmet comms.

"Roger that, Carolina!" he responded and the line went dead.

Across the base, the Scorpions reemerged from their cover with a renewed determination, guns aimed at those that had been harassing them for the last minute or so. There was no moment of calm or hesitation before they fired, armor-piercing tungsten rounds going directly into the bodies of the artillery platforms. The first volley landed, killing the lead vehicle.

Before they could fire again, all six Pelicans flew overhead, releasing the last of their payloads into the courtyard, saturating it with explosives and high-caliber autocannon rounds. For a hot second there was nothing more than the plume of smoke and fire, the VTOL transports/gunships unrelenting in their fire.

When the dust cleared, not a single Insurrectionist was left alive. However, there was also smoke and soot cover the whole area. Wash and the rest of the UNSC forces switched to thermal vision before proceeding.

Just like before, the tanks advanced first, ready to take whatever brunt of enemy resistance was left. One of the tanks lagged behind, its tread dragging in the dirt as it failed to keep up with its brother. The Reds and Blues came up behind the first one, guns up, ready to deal with any stragglers that might've survived.

The Scorpion crushed what remained of the Insurrectionist defensive line, pushing rubble and debris out of the way as it made its way into the courtyard. Beyond it, mangled corpses could be seem littering the place, wreckage and burning vehicles scattered throughout. There was soot all over the ground and dozens of craters dotting the area.

The tank drove past the burned-out Kodiaks, soot getting into crevices in the treads. It stopped just short of the large entrance to the interior structure of the base, deeper into the mountainside. The muzzle of its gun faced inward, prepared for any counterattack the Insurrectionists might've been planning.

The remaining UNSC forces, Freelancers, and Reds and Blues formed up around it, eyes trained on the entrance as well. Grif and Simmons pulled up in their Warthog, a second one parking alongside it. The Reds dismounted immediately, grabbing their weapons, and joining the others. They were clearly expecting to go indoors, where vehicles would be of little-to-no help to them.

Carolina and Tucker met up with them on the right side, Sarge and the ODSTs right behind them. Wash could see the dust and dirt caking her arms and legs as well as Tucker's, the blemishes showing rather noticeably against the bright blues of their armor.

Now that they had all regrouped and he had a chance to look of the status of his forces, Tucker and Carolina really didn't stand out. Just about everyone had been battered or dirtied in some way, shape, or form, mixes of grey, brown, and white lightly coating various pieces of their armor. Even Illinois and Church weren't exempt, a light coat of dust dulling the paintjobs of their armors as well.

They looked exhausted, and Wash didn't blame them. At this point in the conflict, they'd only been fighting for fifteen to twenty minutes. However, in those fifteen to twenty minutes, they'd all fought hard. Not only had they all fought hard, but they'd also fought well. Washington couldn't be prouder of their performance, more than happy with the ways things turned out.

That wasn't to say there hadn't been casualties. In the tough and brutal fighting, they'd lost over two dozen soldiers of the original eighty that they'd started with, most of them former employees of Project Freelancer. Not only that, but they'd lost two Warthogs, one of which was had a gauss cannon, and one of their Scorpions was nearly immobilized.

Still, compared to the amount of enemies they'd fought and the area they'd all had to cover, it was incredible the casualties hadn't gotten worse. Otherwise he'd have to pull everyone back and call in the reserve company to reinforce them.

"Right," he told the gathered Reds and Blues, "let's get inside, find the Director."

"'Bout time," Church said as they began moving into the building. "Asshole's had it coming for far too long." Everyone nodded in agreement except for Carolina, who didn't respond. No one seemed to notice this.

No one except Tucker and Wash. The Blue moved first to stand beside her, asking her privately, "Hey, you okay?"

She gave him a look that was unreadable, instead simply responding, "Fine. Let's just get this over with."

As she moved away, Tucker gave the grey-and-gold Freelancer a strange look. Wash shook his head once, as if warning him to not pressure her for answers.

Still, that didn't stop the Blue from at least thinking: why did she not seem the least bit excited about capturing the Director? Hadn't he hurt her more than anyone else here, forcing her team to claw and tear each other apart? Wouldn't she want revenge for destroying her friends and family?

His thoughts were violently interrupted by a loud metallic whirring, like the turning of servos and gears from excess strain under pressure. It grated on the ears, more than even the artillery rounds from the now-destroyed Kodiaks. What was more important about it, however, was that it was coming from the Scorpion.

Everyone turned to face the noise, as did the Scorpion, but it was far too late.

Out of the thick cover of smoke, a clawed arm reached out and grabbed the turret as it spun, stopping it in place. The tank tried pushing against the arm, but found it to be unfazed by the attempt.

The smoke cloud receded to reveal the form of another Cyclops, its armor chipped and crackling with unstable energy.

Except it wasn't another Cyclops, Tucker realized. It was the same one they fought in the warehouse.

The Cyclops closed its fist around the barrel of the turret, the metal folding under its grip as if it were aluminum. With its other hand, it brought its arm cannon out and shot into the body of the tank, leaving a massive dent in its hull. The walker wasn't done, however, and fired again. And again. And again. After the fourth or fifth shot, the Scorpion exploded, showering fragments all over the UNSC personnel.

Finally snapping out of their stupor, the soldiers sprang into action, the Freelancers reacting first. Tex and Carolina went wide, dashing to either of the machine's flanks, arms pumping as adrenaline took over. Illinois snapped his sniper rifle up faster than any of them could register with their eyes and immediately fired off a shot, aimed straight for its cockpit. The shot bounced against the shield, although there was noticeable strain from it. Wash fired his rifle as well, his bullets doing considerably less to the energy field protecting the war walker.

The Reds and Blues acted next, followed very closely by everyone else. Church fired off rounds alongside Illinois, the more powerful rounds causing the shields to flare even further. At the same time Tucker, Grif, Simmons, Donut, and Lopez fired their Battle Rifles, doing what they could to pop its defenses. Sarge switched to his magnum instead of trying to charge with his shotgun, firing rounds at the lumbering machine. Caboose began spraying with his Assault Rifle.

A cacophony of gunfire erupted from the UNSC forces, laying into the war machine, trying to overload its external defenses. Realizing this, the Cyclops dashed forward, aiming to get into the center of the formation. The soldiers scattered, but it had moved much faster than something of that size should've been able to, ramming into their lines and flipping over one of the Warthogs. Several of the men and women screamed as they were crushed under its weight, but it paid no mind as it began its rampage.

The single Warthog that was left shifted into full reverse, attempting to stay out of reach of the Cyclops's deadly rending claws. It swung an arm around, aiming its antiarmor gun at its escaping prey.

A blur of black slammed into the arm, knocking it over to the side. The machine quickly recovered, trying to swing the same around to whatever had thrown off its aim. The blur turned out to be none other than Tex as she threw herself out of its reach. Before it had time to line up a shot on her, Carolina came in and rammed it from behind, using her speed boost to gain extra momentum. It ended up being enough to cause it to stumble.

It took naught but a second for it to regain its footing, but that was an additional second everyone else had to shoot it. The soldiers all continued to fire, reloading when they could and as fast as they were able. The shield flashed brighter and brighter yellow, a sign that it was nearly depleted.

The Cyclops pivoted on its joints, scanning its foes arrayed before it, like it was hesitating.

No, Illinois realized first, thinking with clarity even through the haze of combat, analyzing for threats.

The Freelancer saw that Grif and Simmons had pulled out a brute shot and rocket launcher, respectively, and Caboose was slowly advancing on it with his Assault Rifle. The Cyclops raised one of its arm cannons at the pair of Reds. Without needing to think, Illinois instantly dashed into them, bounding faster than even Carolina with her speed boost for a brief second. He tackled them both to the ground as the gun fired, missing them and detonating a few meters behind instead.

Instead of wasting time firing, the Cyclops instead went for Caboose next, lunging out towards the dimwitted Blue with its other arm. He stood his ground even as the machine reached for him, intending on crushing him like a tin can.

"Caboose!" someone shouted. Out of seemingly nowhere, Tex came barreling from the side, this time using her momentum to tackle him out of its reach. They landed on the ground and went skidding across the ashy surface, sliding away from danger.

Instead of going after them, the machine kept advancing with its lunge, swiping three more UNSC soldiers with its claws. The men fell apart in its hand as it swept across, cutting them down like wheat against a scythe. With its other hand, it fired off a handful of shots, killing another four men and women with impunity.

Next, it turned its attention to Tucker. It seemed to almost recognize the Blue as being the one that had destroyed the generator, the objective it was supposed to protect. Tucker started backtracking as it focused on him, but it wasn't fast enough, and the Cyclops charged at him next.

"Tucker!" Carolina called to him in panic, but still he wasn't fast enough. He saw the clawed hand reach for him and time seemed to slow, his life flashing before his eyes. He saw his home on Earth, his mother, joining the military, getting assigned to Project Freelancer, Blood Gulch, his son, the adventures he'd gone on since then, and a thousand other things.

A loud boom from the second Scorpion sounded behind the Cyclops, its shot impacting and shattering its shields and forcing it onto its knees, its outstretched arm now landing on the ground next to him, trying to keep itself from falling face-first into the dirt.

Not giving it time to recover, the Blue took immediately placed the DMR on his back and pulled out his sword, slicing into the armor joint of the arm. The Cyclops reached out with its other arm to grab at him, but he jumped just far enough away for it to miss.

His sword swing apparently hadn't completely disabled it's arm, for it pushed itself up back it to full height. The claw did fail to close completely when it tried flexing the digits. It fixed its gaze upon the swordsman. If it was angry before, it was absolutely livid now.

Carolina came in behind it, gravity hammer in hand, and swung sideways, slamming the weapon into one of its knees. The machine fell over again, sticking the undamaged arm to catch itself again. Tucker struck out as it landed, this time completely lobbing off the arm from the body at the elbow. The Cyclops now caught out itself with its only remaining arm.

Before it had a chance to raise itself up once again, the armored form of none other than Agent Carolina climbed up on its back. Once she reached the top, she took the hammer in both hands and jumped off the front. She flipped around midair, swinging her hammer in an upward arc as she did. The Brute weapon smashed into the cockpit, severely cracking the protective windshield. The Cyclops jerked up from the force before landing on its back, broken body facing the sky. Carolina landed in a superhero-like pose, one knee and hand to the ground, the other holding the hammer as it finally rested.

An amicable silence fell over the courtyard as all went still, only the sound of everyone's panting audible. Everyone stood tense, their weapons trained on the Cyclops, now slumped and still on its back.

After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than a few seconds, the group let out a shaky breath, the effects of adrenaline finally subsiding. Many of the soldiers lowered their weapons, although a handful had them raised. A few more seconds and the rest lowered their weapons hesitantly. Tucker could see the forms of Illinois, Grif, Simmons, Caboose, and Tex stand up, their muscles losing noticeable tension.

Next to him, he saw Carolina let out a breath, the arm holding the hammer now drooping. She clearly looked tired, not that he could blame her. It had been a long battle, and an even longer day. He stepped towards her, offering her a hand. She took it without hesitation and he lifted her to her feet.

Carolina swapped her hammer for her Battle Rifle. Tucker gave her a curious look. "We still have the inside to clear out," she reminded him.

He nodded in understanding, beginning to move with her to the mountain base interior.

A loud noise could be heard and everyone turned to immediately face it. In the center, the Cyclops began moving once more, its body jostling and jerking around. Weapons were drawn immediately. Even after the electrocution, the Scorpion cannon, the rockets, several hundred rounds of ammunition, and an energy sword and gravity hammer, the thing was still somehow impossibly alive.

"Seriously?" Tucker exclaimed. "What is with this guy?"

Before anyone had a chance to fire, the cockpit busted, revealing a white, armored gauntlet bursting through with a fist. The group stood in stunned silence as the arm of the gauntlet reached down to the cockpit, gripping the edge, before pushing up. They continued to do nothing but watch as the pilot began to reveal itself, the body itself covered in a haze of smoke. No one could get a good look at it as the pilot lifted itself out of the now-destroyed Cyclops, standing over it like the slayer of a mighty beast.

The fog dissipated, revealing the body of the pilot. Everyone still in shock as they got a good look at the figure. It was armored, covered head to toe in white MJOLNIR armor, brown trim lining its chest, arms, and thighs. Its left shoulder had an old CQB shoulder pad while its left, along with the body, was EVA. It stared at the Reds, Blues, and Freelancers with a gold-visored EVA helmet, the fishbowl glaring at them with menace and intent.

Grif and Simmons recoiled in fear as they saw it, Caboose, Church, Donut, and Lopez gripped their weapons tighter, and Sarge and Tex took an aggressive step toward it, with Tex's hands clenched into fists while Sarge racked a shotgun shell into the chamber of his weapon. Carolina stood back in silence, cold dread of a kind she hadn't felt in a long time resurfacing like the winds of a tundra. A single name escaped her lips, little more than a whisper.

"Maine?"


Now there's a plot twist for you all! Despite its length, I had a ton of fun writing this chapter. Hope you all did too!

For those of you wondering, the reason why this story is noticeably more gory than the show is because I take a ton of inspiration for these action scenes from Warhammer 40k novels. They are all incredibly brutal and visceral, something that I think makes the combat that much more immersive. This level of description in the combat is something that is sorely missing as far as Red vs Blue fanfiction is concerned. I think this solidly cements the chapter in the 'M' rating now, if the sex scene didn't already.