Red vs Blue: Finish It

by Sicarius117

Four years after the Meta fell into the ocean and Project Freelancer fell, Director Church has escaped from prison. With the help of the Insurrection, he plans on giving the rebels a means to win their war. Fearing this, the UNSC has decided to reassemble the Reds and Blues of Blood Gulch and finish what they've started. Season 8 AU.

26. Secondhand Heroes

Note: This chapter was supposed to come out over a month earlier, but a combination of computer troubles and real-life work stalled this post. That and Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine 2 took up far too much of my time.

---

Secondhand Heroes

Location: Johnston Hospital, Armonia, Zeta-Phi II Chorus

Time: 1401 Hours, Armonia Timezone (ART)

Date: July 21, 2557

Doctor Emily Grey was considered by many to be the smartest person on the entire planet. She had several doctorates, many in the field of medicine and care, and her IQ was substantially higher than anyone on Chorus. She was, by every definition, a genius.

She was not, however, a soldier. Not in any official capacity unlike the rest of her peers, anyway.

And it was because of this that she had found herself trapped on the fourth floor of Armonia's Johnston Hospital, hiding behind a metal desk in a barricaded room, a surgical knife in one hand and a pistol she had picked up from one of her fallen detail in the other. Her surgical scanner was strapped firmly to her thigh, useless in a situation like this. Her pristine white-and-purple Federal Army armor kept her body covered, the single purple optic on her helmet almost giving it a hybrid cyclops/bug look.

She heard the sound of gunfire outside, that of both human and alien origin bouncing against the walls.

Grey let out a shaky breath beneath her helmet, closing her eyes as she tried going to her happy place, somewhere she'd gone far too often in the last decade. It always helped calm her and allowed her to work in her field with ease, both in the surgery room and on the battlefield.

A loud thumping could be heard just beyond the door, the sound of scuffling from grunting and yelling, both that of a human and an alien.

The noises got louder, the rhythm of combat getting faster, before the wall next to the door burst open. Dust and debris filled the air as the drywall and tile collapsed from the pressure of two bodies scuffling, one on top of the other. She saw a gun tossed off to the side and under an operating chair, a shotgun by the looks of it.

The one on top was an Elite, a Minor judging by the blue of his armor. It was pushing down on its opponent, growling as it tried grasping at the neck of the human below it, a soldier in bright red armor, like crimson blood.

"You will regret this, alien," Doctor Grey heard him growl, the distinct drawl of a Southern United States accent adding weight to his words.

The man, seeing that the Elite was trying to pin him, kicked it in the legs, forcing it off.

The Red flipped onto his belly before scrambling to his feet, making a mad dash to what was presumably his weapon.

The large alien warrior was quick to recover, and grasped his leg, catching him by the ankle. Using all of its strength, it pulled the man off of his feet, dragging him back, before swinging the Red soldier around and into a wall. He crashed into it with an almighty crack, his back slamming against the drywall and denting it from the force of the throw. The man coughed as he recovered, stumbling back to his feet as he tugged himself out of the hole. He looked upon the sight of the Elite as it stalked its way closer to him, its taloned arms threatening to rip his throat out. It tossed the operating chair off to the side, clattering against the tile floor and chipping it from the force of the throw. It revealed the location of the shotgun, between the both of them.

The Red glanced briefly to his left, his hand reaching out to grasp something, anything, as a weapon to even the odds against the beast.

He felt the edge of something big and bulky, hopefully heavy, and grasped it. The human blindly threw it at the Elite, putting as much power into the action as possible. It came into his sightline to reveal that it was a boxy computer monitor. It smashed into the towering alien, stunning it as the device shattered against its shields.

Seeing the shotgun that was now between the both of them, the Red man slid down to grab it before the alien could recover.

He ended up being faster, but not so fast that he could actually use the weapon before alien recovered. It grabbed the weapon as he swung the barrel up, keeping the lethal end pointed to the side and between them both.

Suddenly, the Elite crouched and, in a horrifying show of strength, pushed the Red up to the ceiling. The smaller man's back slammed into the tile above, still grasping his weapon, grunting in pain and anger as he struggled against the indominable power of the alien warrior.

Seeing as he wasn't going to win in a straight fight, he kneed the Elite in the face, forcing the alien to drop him. However, it still didn't let go of him, instead slamming his back against the wall and pinning him to it.

A blade of light came out of the Elite's right vambrace, the white-blue energy weapon illuminating the man' head. It inched closer to the Red's face. The side of his helmet began to glow orange, the intensity of the miniature plasma sword beginning to light up his energy shield, giving his armor a white-and-gold hue.

She had to do something.

Reaching for her medical scanner, Doctor Grey pressed a button on the side, switching the mode to 'Remote Activation' and aiming the muzzle at the various medical tools that were literally touching them. Everything ranging from heartbeat sensors and blood pressure devices to buzzsaws and thermometers was splayed on the counter next to them.

She pressed the trigger and a loud whining could be heard from the devices just off to their sides. Both the Elite and man looked at the mixture of devices, curiosity briefly overtaking their desire to kill each other.

The pause was enough.

A flash of electromagnetic energy pulsed out from the machines as they overloaded their batteries next to them, popping their shields and disabling the energy gauntlet. Seeing that the means in which the alien was trying to kill him had vanished, the Red headbutted the mandible-face warrior, causing it to stumble back and release hold of the gun.

As it did the Red brought up the shotgun, pumping a new round into the chamber as he aimed squarely at the enraged alien. It snarled at him and made to charge, taking a step forward…

… before its head was blasted open from the buckshot. The body stopped as it realized there was nothing to command it, a shower of purple gore spraying across the room. It collapsed a second later.

The man breathed a sigh of relief as he racked another shell, ejecting the used one. He looked over at her. "You alright there, little lady?" he asked.

"Never better," Grey answered sheepishly, giving a thumbs up. Her chest felt heavy, her heart hammering from exertion. She also didn't realize until now that she had been holding her breath.

"Good to hear," the man nodded. "Name's Sarge."

"Sergeant…" she trailed off.

"No, just Sarge," he told her.

"I see," she affirmed, taking his name in stride. "I'm Doctor Emily Grey, Head Surgeon of the Federal Army of Chorus."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Grey," he greeted.

The stood in silence as the tension of the room dissipated, the echoes of gunfire sounding more distant than usual. Maybe it was the withdrawal symptoms of adrenaline. Or maybe the battle was finally concluding in the hospital. Either way, it didn't sound like anyone was heading their way.

The silence was interrupted as the whirring of engines rapidly filled the space to the window outside.

Understanding what the noise was first, Sarge dashed over to the female doctor and tackled her to the ground. She had little time to understand why he had done it before the entire wall collapsed inward, the side of a Pelican crashing through the windows and wall. It stopped short of the both of them, only a foot or two from her legs, before tumbling down and rending the entire room wide open, revealing the rest of the city.

She breathed out as her heart raced, evading yet another close brush with death.

But it wasn't over yet.

Emily felt the floor beneath her tremble, then buckle under her weight, collapsing three stories below and into the wider street. Her eyes widened in terror as her body started falling with it. But she was too stunned to move, too shaken by the foreign feeling of solid ground suddenly leaving her body.

A hand reached down and quickly grasped her wrist, yanking her and preventing her from falling further. She looked up to see Sarge, his arm pulling her up against gravity. Steadily, she rose up to his level before her feet once more found solid ground, pulling herself up with his assistance.

She let out another breath as she steadied her nerves once more, feeling the ache of her chest from her heart going instantly from rest to action several times in a row. As trained as she was as a medic, she still wasn't entirely used being in the center of combat. That's what the soldiers were for.

Releasing his hold on her arm, he looked her up and down, making sure nothing was broken. She stared him dead in the eyes, more than a little grateful for the rescue. Just who was this man, this Sarge? He was certainly no Fed, that was for sure. The armor didn't match anything either side had worn. Was he even from Chorus? She was sure she'd have recognized him if he was.

Must've been from off-world, just like the Insurrectionists, she surmised. But he wasn't an Innie. At least he didn't look or act like one.

"Thank you," she let out softly.

Beneath his helmet, Sarge smiled. "My pleasure, doc," he nodded, quickly moving one of his hands to brush off some dirt that had coated her left shoulder.

He brought his hand up to the earpiece in the side of his head. "Damn it, Grif!" he swore into the mike. "You almost got me and a civilian over here killed! When I get to you I swear I'll make you wish you were never born! And no amount of piloting will get you away from me!"

The radio was met with static.

"Grif?" Sarge continued, his tone changing from threat to concern almost instantly. He looked out the open wall, down into the street below. The crashed heap of a Pelican could be seen, the tracers from rifles whizzing at and around it from both sides.

He couldn't be dead yet, Sarge thought to himself. His work with Red team wasn't done. He had so much to answer for, so much insubordination to atone for. He couldn't leave yet. He hadn't been properly relieved.

He had to make sure that lazy piece of shit was still alive. No one was allowed to kill the orange bastard except for him.

Wasting no time, he went out through the hole in the wall he had created, beckoning his charge to follow. She did as instructed.

They had to get down there, fast. They couldn't lose a member of Red team.

Not now.

---

"Grif, are you there? Dex, talk to me!"

Grif coughed violently as jolted awake, clouds of dust and debris obscuring his vision. He waved an arm around, trying to blow it away.

Stupid Innie rockets, he cursed to himself. A shot from a nearby building had hit directly in one of the Pelican's engines, causing him to spiral downward and make an emergency landing in the middle of a nearby street. The worst part about it was that it wasn't even a rocket aimed at him that had hit him to begin with. He'd accidentally flown through a firefight between two buildings and a stray rocket happened to hit him as he tried maneuvering between them, trying to provide fire support for the defenders below.

"Grif, please respond!" he heard Four-Seven-Niner's voice through the radio, clipping and slightly distorted due to the crash. It sounded worried, almost panicked, a trait he'd never heard from her before. "Don't be dead. Please don't be dead!"

He whacked the side of his helmet, clearing up the signal. "I'm here, Four," he finally answered. "I'm alive."

The former Freelancer pilot let out an audible sigh of relief through the microphone. "Thank God," she said. "You alright down there?"

He looked around the cockpit, trying to get a sense of the damage. From what he could see, he'd crashed nose-first into the street, a pile of rubble pushed up against the left side of the cockpit. Whatever glass wasn't cracked was missing altogether, mostly on the right side. The instrument panel was mangled, sparks coming out of several places. He was lucky a fire hadn't started.

"I'm fine," he answered. Yeah, he ached a bit and he felt mildly dizzy, but there wasn't any pain in his chest, nothing to suggest broken ribs like the fight against the Meta. "Pelican looks pretty toast though."

"We'll worry about that later," she told him, "just stay alive. We'll get people down there to retrieve you."

Before he could answer, the orange silhouette of a Grunt appeared through the smoke and dust, only a handful of feet to his right. It exclaimed in surprise, tripping over its own two feet. Grif scrambled for the pistol attached to his seat, pulling it out of his holster, and chambering a round. The Grunt raised its own weapon, a Needler, and fired, the shot bouncing against the Pelican's hull.

Grif wasted no time returning the favor, firing a single shot through the squat alien's forehead. It fell forward lifelessly. "Sure, no rush," he replied dryly, lowering his weapon as exhaustion threatened to set in. He wanted to panic, to thrash against what had become a steel coffin around his body. The door leading to the troop compartment was busted, sparking like the rest of the components, so he couldn't escape through there. And the cockpit itself was jammed in ways he had no way of prying loose from the inside.

A hail of shots pattered around the ship haphazardly, many of them without intent on hitting him. The firefight hadn't let up since his arrival, not once. However, the presence of the Grunt meant that he was likely crashed close to the Covenant and Insurrectionist lines.

Speaking of the devil, a trio of men in black and red Insurrectionist armor rounded the corner of the ship's wing, hugging it for cover. They fired to his other side, over the cockpit. At the same time, it looked like they were completely ignoring him.

One of the men got close to the cockpit, his head still to the horizon.

He was within five feet of Grif when he noticed the Red was still alive. Jumping slightly in surprise, he snapped his weapon up to the former simulation trooper, ready to kill him. Grif merely groaned in exasperation. God-fucking-damn it. Just my luck.

A shot rang out and slammed into the side of the Innie's head. His two comrades exclaimed as he died before they were met with the same fate, a handful of shots peppering their bodies.

"Hello?" someone called out to his left. He couldn't see them thanks to the debris pile. "Anyone still alive in there?"

"Yeah!" Grif answered, getting the attention of the caller. "Get me out of this thing!"

A squad of soldiers appeared next to him, taking over the area the Insurrectionists had occupied seconds ago. They wore tan armor, orange and yellow stripes adorning them like they were squad markings. A man in an old Air Assault helmet came over to him, looking him up and down.

"We'll get you out of there, sir," he replied. The man sounded young, far too young to be participating in a war.

He went to grab the cockpit frame, unsure of how to proceed. Gingerly, he grasped a part of the base, one that was firmly attached to the rest of the ship.

He pulled, grunting in exertion, but the metal failed to budge.

"Hurry up, Matthews!" he heard one of the soldiers say behind him.

The young man continued to struggle, the metal failing to so much as even bend beneath his grip. He readjusted his grip, moving to another part of the cockpit cover. Shuffling his feet to a different stance, he leaned back, pulling once more.

The metal remained unmoved.

Another whiz of gunfire flew over their heads and one of the nearby soldiers let out a groan in frustration. Turning to the man who was clearly struggling, he propped his weapon against the side of the ship.

Seeing movement behind him, the one known as Matthews turned to see him brush past. He exclaimed in protest, and was promptly ignored.

This new soldier scanned the hull of the ship up and down, his eyes tracing around the shorn metal. The pinging of bullets and plasma fire continued to ring around them, yet the man remained largely unphased.

Before Grif could protest that the he was doing no better than the first soldier, he reached down to a twisted part of the cockpit, one that had partially been shorn off of the body from the crash. Taking the ruined metal in both hands, he leaned back, squatting down and bracing his legs against the ground concrete, digging his heels into them for better purchase.

The soldier pulled back, pushing up with his legs while keeping a firm grip on the metal. It squealed in protest at first, but, after a second of effort, it gave way, bending and twisting out of its housing.

The metal bent and warped, unwrapping from around the Red. Seeing that he actually had a chance to escape from his tomb, he quickly made to retrieve his weapons: a battle rifle and the Grifshot. Nothing else inside was of value save for perhaps a snack or two, but those look like they had been crushed under a mound of electrical components.

Such a shame.

Finally, after what had felt like almost a full minute, the gap was wide enough for him to squeeze through without much trouble. He took the opportunity and made his way out.

The muffled sounds of gunfire and explosions immediately ramped up in activity as he stepped into the open air, the back and forth whizzing of bullets and plasma zipping around them. A shot landed against the crashed transport ship, only about an arm's length away from them.

Grif readied the alien grenade launcher in his hands, prepared to return fire upon whoever dared approach them.

"Orange-Two, move up!" he heard the man who had assisted in getting him out of the Pelican shout, waving to someone in the distance. Off to their left, Grif could see another squad of troopers in tan-and-orange armor make their way up alongside them. They dashed from cover to cover, minimizing their exposure to the gunfire as much as feasibly possible.

Eventually, the squad was able to reach their position, pressing their backs against the wreckage. Some of the soldiers began taking potshots at the assailing Innies and Covenant.

"What's the situation, Bitters?" one of the new soldiers asked.

The man who opened the cockpit answered, "Captain's dead, Matthews is still incompetent, and these aliens and Innies are dug in tight ahead of us. There's a Warthog that's been making passes throughout the area as well and it's tearing up our guys. I haven't been able to get a bead on the driver or gunner."

"Do we have any explosive weapons for it?" the third trooper asked, flinching as a stray round bounced along the sidewall next to them.

"Last rocket was used an hour ago. Someone decided that that single Elite had to meet his maker."

"Hey!" Matthews protested. "I'm not built to take on large bipedal aliens! Plus you guys weren't helping me kill it!"

"You literally could've waited two seconds!" Bitters countered, more than a little frustrated at his teammate's excuse.

"It doesn't matter anymore," the third soldier cut it. "What's done is done. There's no wishing the thing back at this point. We'll just have to make do with what we have."

While the group were conversing, Grif kept his back pressed to the wreckage, half-listening to what his saviors were talking about. Truth be told, they sounded so much like the way he and Simmons used to bicker back in Blood Gulch. Sometimes he missed those days.

The orange simulation trooper peeked his head out to see what the enemy defensive formation looked like. He could clearly make out the wreckage of at least two cars, not to mention several other piles of debris. Tracers from solid projectile weapons were zipping past him, hitting the lines of the native militia. He also saw the haphazard fizzling or plasma rounds as they flit past him, but they were much lower in quantity. If he were to guess there might've been a whole platoon of Innies hiding behind cover, but probably less than a squad of Covenant troops with them.

Grif ducked back down. "Hey Four," he called over the radio. "Can you get a bead on my location?"

"Vaguely," the former Freelancer airwoman answered. "It's hard to see anything clearly with all of the smoke and debris obscuring you. But I do have your IFF tag on my scanner."

"Perfect. Can you go for a strafing run about forty meters south of my position?"

"I can," she confirmed. "But that's very much danger close, Grif."

"I know, but I'm calling it in anyway."

He heard an audible sigh from the savvy pilot. What was that about? "Roger that," she answered. "Stand by for strafing run. ETA two minutes."

The whirring of a motorized vehicle overtook the din of gunfire briefly and he peeked his head up from behind cover. From around the corner of one of the buildings, a Warthog with a chaingun drifted out into the open. The rotary cannon on top unleashed a torrent of lead down range, forcing him to duck back down.

"Sonofabitch," he murmured to himself, realizing he had to do something about the machine. If he didn't, Ash was going to fly right into what could very easily become a makeshift anti-air gun.

She wouldn't suffer the same thing he'd gone through.

Checking to see that alien ammunition, explosive rounds to be precise, was loaded into the Grifshot, he snapped the dust cover over the feeding port, arming the weapon for use. Compared to most UNSC weapons, the Brute weapon that he'd yoinked off of the Meta all those years ago was heavy and hard to wield with anything resembling grace. The long bayonet mounted across the bottom of the grenade launcher only added to the mass and volume overall. It was clearly designed for what amounted to large, predatory silverback gorillas from outer space, not mere humans like him. Still, the exoticness of the weapon did have its appeal, both as part of the culture of the Brutes and its straightforward effectiveness.

He would see it put to good use today.

Lifting the heavy weapon up to the edge of the Pelican, he braced the barrel against the downed dropship, aiming it squarely at the Warthog.

He pulled the trigger and a grenade launched out of the barrel. It sailed through the air, flying slower than bullet and plasma round alike, but still fast enough for to catch those unaware of its presence off-guard.

The round flew over the heads of the attacking forces, including the Warthog driver and gunner. In response to the looming threat of the multi-shot grenade launcher, the gunner swung the barrels of the chaingun to him. He ducked down instinctively as a stream of lead came back at him.

"Fuck!" he swore, flinching as the rounds bounced near his head. Just his luck to miss.

Grif looked to the men arguing next to him. "Who's the best shot here?" he asked.

The three men looked between each other briefly. "Probably me, sir," Bitters shrugged.

"Do you think you can kill the gunner on that 'Hog?"

He popped his head over the side for a second, just enough for him to get a view of enemy lines, before crouching once more. "I guess?"

"You guess?" Grif asked incredulously.

"Well, I'm a pretty decent shot, but not anything worthy of record."

The orange trooper groaned in frustration. "God-fucking-damn it," he swore. "It'll have to do. We've got air support about to make a gun run on the Innies near us, but that Warthog has the power to shoot it down, or at least heavily damage it. So you'd better make that shot or I'll find a way to make the rest of your life a pain in the ass."

Bitters stared at him, digesting the threat laid before him. To be completely fair to Grif, he wasn't the sort of guy who made threats. But he did make guarantees when it came down to it. And he would guarantee that he'd do something to make this soldier's life miserable if they didn't make the area safe for Ash, however short it was.

Finally, the soldier in tan-and-orange armor nodded. "Alright then, sir, we'll have it your way."

Seeing that he had his cooperation, he looked to the remaining men hugging the wreckage near him. "You guys cover us while we line up our shots."

"Cover?" Matthews asked. "How?"

"Suppressing fire, dumbass," Bitters cut in. Grif nodded in approval.

The men around the crash made ready, loading fresh magazines into their weapons. They looked to Grif with bated breath, Matthews and Bitters included. It seemed oddly surreal, like they were looking up at him like he was some sort of big-named hero. He wasn't used to it.

"On three," he told them. The squad affirmed.

"One." The men pressed their backs against the cover, all of them staring at the various edges of the ship they were hiding behind.

"Two." They brought the muzzles of their guns up, hands squeezing the pistol grips in anticipation.

"Three!" he shouted. As one, the men rose from behind cover, weapons raised, and opened fire upon the opposing Innies and Covenant. The gunfire noticeably dipped as the suppressing fire forced many of the humans to duck down lest they get picked off from the defenders.

The fire didn't completely dissipate from their side, however, as a few of the attackers returned fire. A bullet pierced through the shoulder of one of the nearby men, causing him to tumble back off Pelican as he clutched it in pain. Another was hit by a plasma bolt, the shot practically vaporizing his head as it exploded into red mist. Yet another was lightly grazed in the side of the neck, a round from the Warthog's chaingun nearly blasting his throat out of the back of his neck.

Before the Warthog was able to score any more kills, its gunner took a shot right between the eyes. He slumped over, the gun going silent. Bitters had landed his shot, thought it wasn't the first one that got him. That had actually gone right over his target's shoulder. He was lucky the Insurrectionist didn't notice.

The return fire diminished substantially and it seemed like the Insurrectionists noticed. One of them rushed out of cover, intent on taking the place of his fallen comrade.

Five explosive projectiles whizzed through the air, slamming into the Warthog before its driver could react. The LAV erupted into wreckage, parts flying in every direction as flames came out of it and the metal frame buckled under the pressure.

As soon as the Warthog's mangled body finally settled he heard the roar of engines, those distinctly aerial in nature. He glanced behind him to see the swooping form of another Pelican begin to fly over the street.

"Get down!" he shouted to the other soldiers next to him before ducking back behind cover, ducking his head down in the process. The men, seeing the ship flying overhead, did as instructed, either crouching or diving to reduce their profile as much as possible.

Missiles shrieked over their heads a split second later, and the reverberation of the Pelican's nosegun followed, all aimed at the Insurrectionist lines. Explosions that dwarfed Grif's earlier display went off, covering the area in a layer of smoke and dust. The ground shook from the impacts, the sounds of gunfire quickly being drowned out by the gunship's own mighty roar.

Metal crunched, fire blew, and concrete shattered from the hail of death Four-Seven-Niner unleashed upon the opposition. Seconds ticked by in slow motion as the sounds threatened to overcome Grif's noise dampeners in his helmet. He felt the rubble move, parts of his Pelican lurching from the concussive blasts, the edges of some of the titanium screeching in defiance as the shockwaves threatened to tear them off.

"-Niner to Private Grif. You still alive down there? I repeat, this is Four-Seven-Niner to Private Grif. Are you still alive down there?" He opened his eyes as he strained to hear the proficient pilot past the ringing of his eardrums. A cloud of dust had swept over his cover and, for a moment, he couldn't see even an arm's distance away from him.

A gust of wind picked up the particles in the air, sweeping the blanket of cover away from him as the airborne Pelican flew over him once more.

"Target destroyed," he answered through the radio, waving a hand back and forth in front of his face. The dust continued to clear up, allowing him to see what was now the steaming pile of dead or otherwise ruined Insurrectionist and Covenant lines.

Grif heard her sigh in relief once again. "Roger that," Four said. Her voice got quiet when she spoke again. "Stay safe down there, Dex. I'll try to find a way to get you out."

"Let's just focus on the battle for now," he replied to her. "The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my room and not have to worry about dying from something fucking stupid. And the sooner you can stop worrying about me."

"Heh, true," she conceded. "See you after this. Out."

The line went dead and Four's Pelican swept overhead, disappearing behind the skyscrapers as she continued to aid the city's beleaguered defenders. He looked back over the ruined city street, seeing the wear and tear from the constant fighting. The gunfire was more muffled now, a strangely surreal quiet filling the air. Out of the corner of his eye he could make out the burnt husks of a few cars and a truck or two, their fires extinguished a while ago.

Man, sucks to be the people living here, he thought to himself. Grif looked over at the men next to him, realizing that at least a few of them might've actually been those people he'd just thought about.

The silence was interrupted when a series of footfalls could be heard crunching up the concrete and pavement. Out of the corner of his eye two squads of defenders advanced, moving to seize ground for their forces. No one was fired upon.

"Okay, I think that's enough action for one day," he said aloud to no one in particular. He lowered his gun, arms slacking as exhaustion began to set in once more.

"Sir?" one of the men next to him asked.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm exhausted," he clarified.

"I'm pretty sure we all are, sir," Bitters pointed out. "But the battle's not over yet. There's still fighting going on all over the city."

Grif groaned in exasperation. "At least give me a fucking break, then," he told them. "I'm not exactly built for this type of stress."

"I don't think any of us are, sir," the third trooper commented.

"Well, maybe we should slow down at least," Matthews suggested, agreeing with the orange soldier's points.

"You said so yourself, sir," Bitters spoke again, "the sooner this battle is over, the sooner you can go back to your room, sleeping or doing whatever."

Grif look the man up and down, watching as the trio of soldiers stared back at him. Internally, he just wanted to be done with all of this action, to go back to being lazy. The stress of flying had already spiked his blood pressure to the point he was afraid he'd get a heart attack. Now he was stuck on the ground, in the middle of a combat zone with no hope of going back to orbit any time soon.

However, he couldn't deny what Bitters had said, when he had told Ash himself. Until the battle was over, there was no way he'd be able to rest, no chance to go back to being lazy, something he was proficient, quite possibly an expert, in. Airspace was far too crowded and everyone was occupied. He could theoretically try to find somewhere to hunker down, but this whole planet was foreign territory as far as he was concerned. He didn't exactly know where 'safe' was.

Grif sighed beneath his helmet, realizing the implications of his logic. There was no way around what came next.

"Alright then," he admitted in defeat. "Where do we need to go next?'

---

Private Charles Palomo slid into cover as another flurry of rounds sailed over his head. He pressed his back against a fallen metal support beam, bullets ricocheting against them. Although he couldn't see them, he knew there were at least a few squads inside of the water refinery. He had no idea why anyone would be interested in destroying a treatment plant when it was apparent they could just roll through the city's defenses.

The sounds of gunfire reverberated against the walls around him, the noises overlapping with each other to create what felt almost like a constant drone at times. This was very different from the jungle and rural warfare he and the other New Republic forces were used to. Out there, even though shots could be heard for miles around, they didn't rattle his eardrums even nearly as much as urban environments. It was times like this that he almost wishes he was back out in the countryside, hiding in a cave, avoiding the Feds.

He looked around his environment, gauging his options. To his left and right he could see the remnants of Bravo Company, Aqua Battalion, spread haphazardly among the massive building interior. They hid behind what cover they could find: crates, forklifts, piles of rubble, and everything in-between. He could see a handful of water treatment silos as well, many of them leaking water from damage caused by the firefight.

One of the men next to him got nailed in the forehead, a rifle round going through the visor. His brains blew out the back and he slumped face-first into the ground. Another took a round to the gut and he keeled over, clutching his stomach as he fought to keep his blood inside of his body.

His heart hammered in his chest, the adrenaline of combat rushing through his veins as he held onto his rifle, the weapon reminding him that he still had a fighting chance, however small that may be.

Okay, he thought to himself, don't panic, Charles. You're not dead yet. You just gotta beat these guys back, maybe be a bit brave for once. Gotta have a story to impress the ladies, especially Katie.

Katie. Colloquially known as Private Katie Jensen, perhaps one of the brightest minds he'd had the pleasure of fighting alongside in the New Republic and a member of Red Battalion, 1st Brigade. She was also rather cute, a perfect mix of geek and feminine that got his blood pumping. He was certain that she was the one for him.

There was just one problem: he hadn't had the chance to ask her out.

In all of the years they'd known each other, he'd never gotten the courage to speak about his feelings to her. He may have stolen a glance or two her way when her back was turned to him, but he could never bring himself to truly talk to her, have a heart-to-heart that actually meant something.

Now that they were fighting a battle that may very well be his last, he could admit he had a long list of things to do, too many things to say. He had yet to make Bitters excited about something for once in his life, or to go drinking with Andersmith. He had yet to ask Katie what her favorite pastime was, her preferred music or food, or anything that wasn't related to this damned war.

And now he might not get that chance.

He heard a clunk from something hitting the beam, different from the bullets flying through the air. It flew over the top and landed a handful of feet away. Palomo followed the source of the ruckus, his eyes landing on a small object: a frag grenade.

His eyes widened and he scrambled away as fast as his arms and legs could carry him, adrenaline rushing through him as imminent danger set off alarms in his head.

The explosion rocked the halls around him as it detonated, flying soot and debris in every direction. He fell down, covering his hands over his head and neck.

Palomo's eyes remained shut for several seconds as he momentarily lost his hearing. His ears rang from the explosion, fading back into normality after a few seconds.

He lifted his head as his senses came back, briefly wondering what was happening around him. He could make out several bodies from his squad, all in various states of dismemberment.

Shadowy figures moved to his right, just beyond the cover he'd taken second ago. They came close and he could see the dark uniforms of the Insurrectionists, a bird-like alien leaping over the top ahead of them and rushing past the line. It drew back its wrist, revealing a blade of illuminating light. It stabbed his fallen comrades as it rushed past.

He could see it pivot on its heels, facing him, it's sinister avian eyes boring into him. It lunged to him, drawing it's taloned arm back at it prepared to strike him down. It reached him in two great stride, elongated legs digging up concrete and dirt.

It reached him, now barely more than an arm's length away, eager to kill him and add him to its tally…

A shot went through the side of the alien's head, purple blood splattering across the pavement. It slumped to the ground next to him, its weapon deactivating before it even got close. He yelped at the sudden change.

The other Insurrectionists, five in total, raised their weapons behind him. Before he could so much as blink, a man in aqua armor flew over him. Two shots rang out, both finding their places in the cranium of the men before him. One of the remaining three drew a pistol, his primary firearm running empty. Another reached for a knife. The third flipped the selector on his battle rifle, unleashing the rest of his magazine at the unknown assailant.

The bright blue man was upon them before they could fully transition. He went for the rifleman first, drawing an energy sword from his belt, igniting it, and slicing through the man's torso in a single fluid motion.

Next came the pistoleer, where he ducked under the Innie's guard, catching him by the wrist and forcing the muzzle of the gun to face the final combatant: the one with the knife.

Without hesitation, the pistol fired, clipping the invader in the shoulder, making him cry out in pain and briefly lose his momentum. The aqua man let go of the arm, stepping up to the man and impaling him in the chest. Palomo could see two bright prongs sticking out of his back.

However, the Insurrectionist with the pistol was still alive. He raised his weapon, firing off a shot that would've killed anyone at that range.

For the man on aqua, that wasn't the case. The shot fell short, a shimmer of yellow energy emitting from where the bullet would've gone through his armor had he been unprotected.

The new soldier wasted no time, backhanding his blade to slice the hand off of the weapon. The Innie didn't even have time to scream before his opponent twisted around and beheaded him. The body fell forward with a clatter, head dropping off the neck and rolling away.

Palomo stared with wide eyes up at his savior: a man in aqua Mark VI MJOLNIR armor, a sword in one hand and a DMR on his back. He looked magnificent, glorious, like a hero.

Taking a second to breathe, the light blue soldier raised his body in a normal standing posture, his blade coming to rest by his thigh.

He looked down at the prone colonist. "You good, dude?" he asked.

Palomo nodded meekly. "I think so, sir."

A bullet whizzed over the blue man's head and he flinched reflexively, crouching down behind the cover Charles had vacated moments ago.

"How many guys you got in here?" his savior asked, rising out of cover just enough to get a look at what they were up against.

"We started with a Company in the building. Not sure how many are left, though," Palomo told him.

The swordsman nodded as he processed the information. "We should have enough to deal with them."

Palomo's eyes widened. Did he just hear him right? A battered Company versus what at least an equal amount, who proved to have a significant larger amount of experience and grit than the vast majority of them. He wanted to believe this new guy was strong, skilled, but even he would seem hard-pressed to carry his unit to victory.

"Sir," he protested, "we're getting torn up here. I don't know if we have enough to hold them back, let alone push them out of here-"

Before he could finish his sentence a burst of blue plasma shots flew right over his head, the gunfire sounding like it was going off right next to his head. He flinched and ducked his head down, fully expecting be hit by the superheated gas.

Instead, a shadow flitted over him, and he heard a pair of heavy footfalls. His eyes shot open as he saw an Elite in gold armor standing on top of the barricade, his back faced to him. It fired shots from what looked like a two-handed plasma rifle to somewhere out of sight.

His gun snapped up in his hand, the muzzle aimed at the predatory creature.

"Whoa!" he heard someone say off to his side. Before he could fire, an aqua hand knocked the barrel away. He instinctively jerked the trigger, his shot going wide.

The blue soldier came into his view, obstructing his view of the Elite. "Easy!" he commanded. "He's on our side. And so are they."

Before he could ask who he was referring to, two other Elites leapt over him. One was wearing sleek silver armor, a pointed helmet over its face. It held a plasma rifle in one hand and energy sword in the other. The other was aqua like the man before him, dressed in armor similar to that of the Elites that had been assaulting their position. It held a Covenant carbine, a sword hilt magnetized to its thigh.

They took cover next to them both, peeking over the cover for the occasional potshot. The light-colored soldier looked up at them. "What are you guys thinking?"

"We should be able to break the line provided these other humans lend a hand, father," the alien with the same colored armor answered, its voice warbling as it enunciated various syllables. Palomo noted that it said 'father'. Was he a priest of some sort?

"I agree," the gold Elite concurred. "The enemy will not expect the push with us leading the charge. I can spearhead the advance."

"If Zal, Xytan, Retam, and Sesa can coordinate the flanks we should be able to encircle them as well," the silver Elite pointed out. Palomo noticed its voice was a slightly higher pitch, of a slightly feminine tone. What was that about? He'd never heard any female Elites before, so he didn't know what to expect.

The blue man turned back to Palomo. "You got a name, dude?" he asked.

Swallowing, he nodded. "Private Palomo, sir. Certified suave of the New Republic, slayer of women, wooer of evil."

He was met with a dead stare from the four of them, even the gold Elite firing off bursts from over their cover.

"I'm going to assume he switched his words around by accident," the same Elite spoke.

They glanced at him again. Palomo's eyes widened. "Oh," he realized, understanding what he meant. "Yeah, yeah. Totally. I mean, of course. What type of man actually wants to kill some potential fine booty?" he chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

The aqua man snorted. "Okay, now you're speaking my language." Palomo could see his smile beneath his helmet. "Name's Tucker, by the way. With me is Junior, Shahlee, and Zain," he introduced, pointing to himself, the light-blue Elite, the silver Elite, and the gold Elite, respectively.

Palomo merely nodded, doing his best to put names to faces as well as he could in such a short amount of time.

"Can you give us some cover so we can push up?" Tucker asked, pressing the magazine release and letting the empty metal tin fall to the ground. He grabbed another one from his belt before inserting it back into the magazine well. He slammed it with a quick jerk of his hand, the gun clicking as it signaled that the container was secured. He pulled back the charging handle with a single motion, inserting the first round into the barrel.

"I think so, sir," he answered quickly, another round zipping over his head.

Tucker nodded in approval, crouching down next to the Elites, ready to go over.

The New Republic trooper looked out at the soldiers around him. Hopefully they could tell that the new arrivals were allies when they would start pushing forward.

Without preamble, the four new combatants rose from their hiding spots, vaulting over the barricade of metal with one hand, before making a mad dash to the opposing line of troops.

The Elites pulled ahead of Tucker as they charged, their longer legs allowing for greater strides across the open building interior. Several shots zipped past them, weaving around their forms from behind, indicating that the colonists were lending aid to their new allies.

Zain was the first to reach the enemy, angling his shoulder as he rammed the barricade in front of them, send rubble and dirt in different directions. Two of the Innies behind it didn't stand a chance as they were trampled by the towering Elite.

Before the smoke had even cleared, the zealot let loose with his plasma repeater, a hail of blue bolts running across the line. Some of the rounds missed, but enough hit their targets to cause a noticeable drop in firepower from the Insurrectionists. Screams of pain could be heard as those injured from the superheated gas were suffering from what their Covenant allies had been dishing out to the Armonian soldiers.

Junior was next, vaulting over a broken crate and kicking an Unggoy in the face with one of his two-toed feet. The force was enough to send the shorter alien flying. Its back smashed against an inactive generator, the methane tank on the back crumpling like an aluminum can. The small Covie reached around its back in futility as it tried connecting the hose to his gas mask to a source of breathable air. It's movements eventually made it sluggish as it died from asphyxiation due to a lack of usable atmosphere. The young aqua Sangheili paid it no mind as he brought his carbine out, hammering the trigger as he sprayed down a trio of Jackals.

Off to the side, an Elite in red armor, a Major, hefted a fuel rod gun onto its shoulder to fire, lining his sights up on the two male Elites that had breached the line.

The alien seized up, his hands loosening around his weapon. He felt his stamina drain from his body in an instant. Looking down, he saw a pair of white prongs sticking out of his chest, the smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils. His flesh.

Behind him, Shahlee briefly disengaged her cloaking device, silver armor gleaming against the sunlight that was barely peeking out from a hole in the ceiling. Pushing the body off the blade, she turned her head to stare down her next quarry: a pair of humans manning a turret emplacement.

Kicking herself off of the ground, the female Elite lunged forth, rearing back her energy sword to strike. The blade fell upon the hapless humans, decapitating one before impaling the next.

A shot bounced against her shields as she finished her kill. Out of the corner of her eye a Jackal was hefting a carbine at her, aiming to whittle down her defenses before she could retaliate. She instantly grabbed the plasma rifle holstered to her thigh with her offhand, spraying it down and the area around it.

Her relief was short-lived as a pair of battle rifles opened up on her as well, dropping her shields to a hair and forcing her into cover behind a ruined generator.

Shahlee peeked her head over to find the source of the shot. But the enemy had closed the distance in faster than she anticipated, the Insurrectionists encircling her, four in total, two per side. Her shields hadn't begun their recharge cycle, leaving her dangerously exposed. Even if she could get the jump on them, it wouldn't take much for them to overcome her defenses.

Both pairs rounded her on either side, preventing her from keeping them in front of her. One of them raised a shotgun at her.

Before he could fire, four green shots rang out around her. Each connected with the helmets of the human men, each going through their protection like it wasn't there. They collapsed from the instantaneous brain trauma.

Shahlee 'Chava blinked as they fell, her hearts hammering in her chest. She'd seen combat plenty of times at this point, although mostly as an assassin or recon asset. It was small scale, a scalpel to the Covenant's, and now Swords', hammer. This was bigger than even she was used to. And she was right in the middle of it this time.

Her head turned to find the source of the shots. Junior held his carbine in his hands, muzzle aimed in her general direction. She let out a breath as their eyes met.

The young Elite, younger than the rest of them, nodded, his mandibles raised slightly in a shy smile. She met them with a smile of her own, even though it wasn't visible beneath her helmet, and nodded in return.

Their stupor was interrupted as another hail of shots flashed between the two of them. Both dashed into cover before any of them got a chance to land on their energy shields. Off to the side, Zain did the same, several rounds pinging off of his invisible barrier.

Out of the corner of his eye, Junior saw his father finally catch up with them, vaulting over a piece of cover before sliding behind another chunk of debris. He fired off three shots, only two of them being met with yelps or screams of pain, before being driven down as well.

Junior peered around the corner, noticing a line of Kig-yar forming a pseudo-phalanx with their round handheld energy shields. They glowed blue and yellow, with the faint green and purple muzzles of plasma pistols and needlers.

He could also make out a line of Insurrectionists on a balcony a few feet above, providing overwatch and preventing them from being able to lob any handheld explosives to break up the formation.

"Retam, Sesa," he called over their shared radio frequency, "can either of you provide support to the center line? We're pinned down."

"Afraid not, Junior," he heard the measured voice of Sesa answer, "we're having difficulties of our own."

"That's an understatement," Retam chimed in, irritation leaking into his voice.

Another voice spoke, this time coming from Zal. "I can't get a shot on any of the snipers near you."

"That turret isn't exactly making things any easier either," Xytan added. Off to Junior's left, he heard the rattle of a heavy machinegun echoing throughout the treatment plant, even above the cacophony of other guns and explosions.

"Damn it," he cursed to himself. Without support from either of the flanking teams, they were pinned down, the weapons fire too much for even them to simply shrug off. But if they didn't do something, one of them would bring out something that would tear apart their cover: a rocket launcher or some other sort of explosive weapon.

He brought his weapon up and blind-fired around the edge. He wasn't even sure he was hitting anything. A pair of shots slammed into his hands for the trouble.

"Father," he called out, "please tell me you've got something." They were running out of options now. If they didn't come up with a plan soon they'd be overrun soon. They couldn't advance or fall back without turning into what his father called 'Swiss cheese'. Staying behind cover wasn't a good idea either.

"Fuck no, I don't," Tucker answered, no doubt just as frustrated as Retam. "I thought the colonists had enough firepower to lend a hand."

Junior looked back, seeing that the supporting fire from the Armonians was miniscule at best. What was happening back there that was preventing them from giving them covering fire?

A loud crash of glass was heard, jolting him away from his train of thought. A chorus of screams immediately followed it, all in various states of panic and pain. And the sound of gunfire briefly died down with it. It sounded like it was coming from the balcony.

Junior and the rest of the team peeked their heads out of cover to see the commotion.

The Jackal phalanx was still very much in formation, with weapons draw. A few of them had begun to spread out, but they still seemed unified.

However, the same could not be said to the Insurrectionists above.

Several landed on the ground, in and around the birdlike aliens. One or two of them even landed on top of the bipedal avians. Some of them stared about in shock and confusion while others broke away from the formation.

Junior looked up to see the form of Agent Carolina sprinting across the balcony, weaving in and around the line of troops. She flew across their lines, punching, kicking, cartwheeling, and elbowing as she danced among them.

It was then that he realized that she must've been the one who shattered the glass. A window to the far left could be seen broken, and several bodies laid crumpled around it, a result of her dynamic entrance.

"Damn, that's hot," he heard his father whisper from under his breath.

Junior raised an eyebrow at him. Ever since the altercation in the simulation room, Carolina had practically avoided contact with Tucker and the other simulation troops for the entire duration of the trip to Zeta-Phi II. Everyone had gotten defensive when she'd rebroken his arm. He claimed it was an accident, that he was stupid for trying to get between her and Tex, but some of his friends, namely Church, had their doubts.

For his part, Junior thought the same, but for entirely different reasons than the rest of the crew. He was quite aware that his father had been a less-than-eloquent ladies' man, not afraid to call out his raunchy bow-chicka-bow-wows. In fact, as far as he was aware, he'd only stopped doing such a thing in the presence of the Elites on Sanghelios. Lately, however, he hadn't been saying them with nearly the same amount or intensity as their time in Blood Gulch.

Junior was certain that there were more than a few women that his father found attractive. So why wasn't he continuing his dynamic, if inappropriate, sense of humor and charm?

The young Sangheili figured it must've been because of none other than Carolina herself. Though he claimed that he only wanted to be friends with her, he was never this restrained around even his own friends. Was he just being respectful to her because of his time getting to know her ever since Praetor? Or maybe was it because he maybe was becoming infatuated with her, and that he wanted to be more presentable to her?

If such was the case, then Junior couldn't exactly say he disapproved of it. Far from it, actually. For all of his talks of pride and enjoying life, he knew his father was nervous and used his humor to make up for the lack of confidence he had in himself. Only two things were capable of granting him such: his friends and his son. It was then he was truly at ease with himself, unrestrained, like he spoke from the heart. If Carolina was becoming a third reason to be not only confident, but happy with himself, then Junior would be happy for him as well.

He just didn't know if Carolina shared those feelings for his father in return.

The Insurrectionists continued to fall, the firepower from above being redirected to her or otherwise pulling away from the front line. The Unity Blades took the distraction for what it was: an opening.

Reaching down to their belts, the Elites all primed plasma grenades, balancing them precariously in their thin, four-fingered hands. They reared back, aiming over their cover. As one, they threw them, letting the blue explosives sail through the air before finally landing on the ground among the Jackals. One even managed to stick a Jackal major on the hand, leading to it momentarily freaking out before exploding in blue-white light.

The team charged, bounding out of cover and running head-first into the fray. With their opponents in disarray due to a combination of their fallen human allies and a series of handheld explosives breaking up their cohesion, it proved too easy to get among the Kig-yar and make them bear witness to the power of the Swords of Sanghelios.

Tucker and the Elites clashed with their opposition, their momentum sending the first line of enemies flying. Each of them pulled out close combat weapons: energy swords, cutlasses, plasma rifles, even fists and claws before beginning to hack away at them. Each member employed a slightly different style to their fighting, with Zain going directly for stabs and punches, throwing around his body weight to close the distance, giving his opponents little room to swing their weapons around. Shahlee was light on her feet, sidestepping and feinting before releasing quick thrusts and parries. Her lighter frame made it harder to leverage her strength than the others. To offset the difference, she dual-wielded her weapons, using her sword to cleave through those she could reach and firing off her plasma rifle at those she couldn't. Tucker and Junior, having trained under the same master, employed similar fighting styles, a solid blend of offense and defense. They feinted when necessary but closed the distance aggressively when the situation called for it.

Little by little, the formation buckled and bent, the pressure from the Unity Blades proving too much. Between them and the havoc that was Agent Carolina, they never stood much of a chance. Where no even a minute or two ago the battle was solidly in their favor, now it had turned on them in favor of the colonists.

Only a minute or two passed, yet it felt like seconds with the power and ferocity they had unleashed, before the Innies and Covies were routed. Those who could fall back did so, though not without taking fire from those driving them back.

Junior thrusted his sword into one last hapless Jackal before everything fell silent, the room getting noticeably quieter. Around them, the corpses of several dozen enemies could be seen, human and alien alike. Every one of them bore holes of some kind, though the vast majority of them were smoking or cauterized by plasma. Were it not for the knowledge of the fact that he had caused much of it, he might've felt sick, the smell of burnt flesh beginning to permeate the room. As it stood, he merely stood in silence, taking in the aftermath of the battle, knowing that they had won.

"That was," he heard his father pant next to him, "something."

"It was certainly was," Junior couldn't help but agree. They had sparred and dueled against plenty of opponents before, fought in more than their fair share of battles. Hell, this was hardly the first time they'd killed people, human and alien alike.

But this was the first time they'd been the ones leading the charge, being the focal point for a battle. It was quite different from their usual roles as support or flank, not to mention being the counterbalance to what was once a one-sided firefight.

Movement flashed at the edge of his sight and he immediately whipped around, raising his carbine up to eye level. His finger went inside the trigger well, ready to continue the fight.

His actions proved to be for naught as Carolina came into view, raising from a kneeling position on the ground. It was easy to assume she'd jumped from the balcony above, hence the blur of motion.

Junior immediately lowered his rifle in recognition. Raising a hand gingerly, he waved to her. It was a habit he started doing as a friendly gesture, one he made around her in greeting frequently. Seeing how she seemed to warm up to both him and his father, that and the fact that she hadn't spoken to them in over two weeks, it seemed appropriate.

However, for whatever reason, she merely stared back at him, at all of them. Impassively silent, she glared at him through her visor, betraying no emotion. Instead, after a brief pause, she hefted her battle rifle and made her way out of the water treatment plant, hunting for more targets.

He heard Tucker groan in frustration. "Why do you gotta be such a fucking ice-queen bitch right now, Carolina?" he muttered under his breath.

Junior understood perfectly what he meant. Though she was very distant from the others when she'd first joined them, Carolina warmed up surprisingly quick to the both of them. But something changed after the fight in the simulation room, something snapped. He couldn't think of any other reason she had chosen to avoid them for over two weeks.

It shouldn't have, if he was being honest. Yeah, she screwed up by trying to kill Tex and accidentally lashing out at his father, but that didn't change his opinion about her. Hell, he was sure it didn't change Tucker's opinion either. They both knew, from the conversations she'd had between them, that she was hurt, damaged from her past, and it affected her far more than she was willing to admit.

But neither of them held that against her. His dad had had a messed up childhood of his own, having lived in Baltimore with no one but his drug-addicted mother and suave but understanding uncle. Not the best role models considered one was unable to come clean even despite having a child and the other being a renown conman.

Still, Junior liked to believe his dad was already much better than his previous role models. And if he could change for the better, and learn to let go, then so could she.

"I'm sure she'll be fine, father," he consoled. "Maybe you can get a chance to talk to her once this is over."

"Yeah," Tucker agreed, taking on a grim tone. "I'm just worried about if this'll even be over."

---

General Vanessa Kimball was nothing if not a pragmatist. She had to be considering her army had been made largely out of inexperienced militiamen and women. Sure, the years fighting the Feds had made them all battle-hardened and experienced, but there was a reason they largely stuck to the countryside and wilderness. A force like theirs could be a considerable thorn in the side of a larger, deadlier foe as long as they could maneuver, somewhere the rural and sparsely populated parts of the world could provide.

A city gave them no such advantage. Within the tight confines of the city streets, fights were significantly more compressed, with forces often funneled into natural chokepoints and turning what would normally be quick hit-and-run strikes into battles of attrition.

Such was the situation she and her staff found themselves in now.

She pressed her back against a series of metal cabinets, rounds from a nearby fireteam passing over her head. They went through the drywall around her, creating large holes that chewed through the material like it wasn't even there. However, the also bounced against the sturdy metal that made up her own cover. Once against she was perplexed but also thankful for their odd ability to somehow absorb or deflect armor-piercing rounds.

Kimball looked down at her weapon, a M392 DMR, noticing the ammo counter on it read zero. She also noticed that her normally tan-and-blue gauntlets were caked in dust and dirt. She had no doubt the rest of her armor looked similar except possibly her old civilian-market Air Assault helmet. After all, that helmet was a staple of the New Republic's combat kit, mostly due to an overabundance of them when the war broke out.

She noticed a small smear over the left side of the light blue visor covering her face and quickly wiped it away. Didn't need anything obscuring her vision if she could help it.

The rebel leader pressed the magazine release on the back of her weapon, letting the now-empty bullet can fall harmlessly to the ground before pulling out another one from her pouches and slamming it back into place. She pulled back the charging handle, chambering a new round.

Kimball looked around, seeing the rest of her staff plus a patrol squad within the vicinity. There were even a few Federal Army troopers with her as well. However, there was one person who wasn't there that worried her.

"Goddamn it," she swore to no one in particular, "where's Doyle?"

"Opposite side of the hall, sir," a nearby Republic soldier answered.

Of course, she glowered. They had been on route to the nuclear reactor near the center of Armonia, hearing that the units guarding it couldn't hold much longer. Seeing as they were all scattered across the city fighting pockets of deep strike units, human and alien alike, on top of a conventional push from the ground, she took it upon herself to grab whoever she could and go reinforce the reactor site. Doyle decided to pitch in as well, understanding how vital the objective was.

Going through the tight city streets was no easy task, and the haphazard fighting that was going on throughout slowed their mobility down to a crawl at times. Knowing that time was of the essence, she decided that they would proceed on foot, ditching the vehicles they initially intended to bring with them. Doyle initially protested at the idea, but eventually even he was forced to agree that it was more important to bring something to help on time rather than the optimal help at an inopportune time.

However, now their progress was being stalled once again, this time by a Covenant and Insurrection combat team. An Elite with a fuel rod gun forced the generals to split apart, spreading their troops out so that the explosive radiation gun didn't kill them all at once.

Kimball heard the thumping of fuel rods, bright green projectiles floating over their heads, with a shot occasionally hitting their cover. A troop exploded only a few feet away from her, disappearing in a ball of green light.

They couldn't stay here. Every second they remained pinned down gave the enemy an opportunity to flank or press their position. A sitting duck is a dead one, as her previous commander used to say.

"Cover me," she ordered. Three men near her nodded, raising their weapons up in preparation.

As one, the four of them rose from cover, with Kimball keeping her head down as the soldiers provided suppressing fire. They were met in kind with a burst of fire, bullets and plasma raining down on them. One of them took a shot to the head, a needle rifle round piercing his skull.

Angling her shoulder, Kimball bashed through some nearby drywall, the gunfire weakening it enough to not make the action too difficult. The drywall ripped away, sending up a cloud of white particles.

It also sent her headfirst into a nearby camouflaged Elite. The large alien's cloaking device dissipated from the impact, revealing crimson armor and a sleek, pointed helmet. It stumbled back in surprise, roaring as she barreled into it. She yelped in equal amounts of surprise, clearly not expecting to meet an enemy face-to-face.

Unfortunately for her, the Elite quickly regained its composure. Bracing with one leg, her momentum ground to a halt. With one hand, it grabbed the back of her neck, wrenching her away from it's body. She hissed as she felt its elongated digits come around her spine, jerking her away painfully.

Instinctively, she reached for the knife at her hip, slashing at the arm by the elbow joint. It snapped away, the hand letting go of her and giving her a chance to maneuver. She fell backwards, scrambling away from it and reaching for the DMR that had fallen out of her hands.

Her back hit the ground, kicking up more dust into the air and obscuring her. She used the time to backpedal. The general's hands wandered around the ground, not daring to take her eyes off of the towering alien warrior. It stepped towards her menacingly, arms clasped into fists as it bore down on her, attempting to make up for the lost distance between it and its prey.

Her fingers brushed against something hard, feeling a polymer and aluminum object under her them. She grasped the object, feeling the familiar frame of her marksman rifle. She pulled the weapon up in her hands, the weapon moving swiftly into a comfortable position in her hands. The knife fell out of her right hand, eager to replace it with a more powerful instrument.

Without warning, the Elite lunged forward, rapidly closing the distance with the New Republic commander. With one hand, it backhanded the gun out of her hand, the rifle flying several feet off to the side. She reached down to her thigh, drawing her sidearm and attempting to mag-dump into it before it was too late. The bipedal reptile planted one of its feet on her arm for her trouble, the gun barely leaving its holster before her arm felt like it was getting crushed.

Vanessa let out a cry of pain as the weight of the foot threatened to overwhelm her, feeling like it was on the verge of shattering. She'd experienced pain before, practically a prerequisite for everyone who was still alive on Chorus, but this was something completely different. It was an overwhelming pressure, a feeling of being squeezed until her bones, and arm in total, were nothing more than powder.

She was lucky enough for the Elite to step off of her after only a second or two, the pressure abating immediately. That pressure ended up being immediately replaced by the hand of her assailant reaching down to her and grabbing her by the throat. Her breath died in her lungs as it lifted her off of the ground from her prone position on the floor.

Kimball struggled against the monster's grip, flailing about as she looked for something to take the pressure off of her esophagus. Yet her legs were now kicking air, her body raised above the floor. She could do little more than hoist her body up with her arms, trying to pull herself up above the pressure of the alien appendage.

She looked face-to-face with her captor, now eye level with it, as it stared at her with a sinister look in its eyes. Kimball was no expert in reading alien facial expressions. Hell, it had only been a day or two since she'd even known aliens were real and that the UNSC hadn't made them up. That gave at least a bit of credence to Doyle's cause. But only a little.

But the look still gave her a sense of chilling unease, like hunter observing its trapped prey.

Her head felt light and her eyelids felt heavy as it dramatically slowed her blood from going to her head, preventing from necessary oxygenation of her brain. She could barely think straight as it watched her intently, it's mouth so close she could feel its stench on her face, even despite the desensitization.

A bright blue-white light shone out from the edge of her vision. Her eyes flitted to the source, revealing a miniaturized version of an energy sword on the top of one of its gauntlets, a single prong of glowing plasma materializing before her.

The free arm inched closer to her face, the heat of the blade almost scalding, even beneath her tan-and-sky-blue armor. She hissed in discomfort, even through her dulled senses.

It ignored her protests, chuckling darkly as it continued to inflict pain and suffering on her small, almost petite frame. She wasn't the biggest woman in the New Republic's military, not by a longshot. That went doubly so for Chorus in general. But she always held herself high, made herself bigger through posture and confidence. Perhaps it was those two things that had her selected as the leader of the Republic. Against this alien, however, she felt small, powerless even, just as she had when the Feds had killed her parents and baby brother when the war had kicked off.

Feeling it was satisfied with its sick urge of torture, the arm drew away, the blade following it. Her eyes followed it, watching as it drew back to strike.

This is it, she thought to herself grimly. This was how it was going to end for her: at the hands of an alien warrior far more powerful than she could ever hope to be. She had had conviction before, a will to fight to the bitter end. It was something that drove her forward. But now she had met something that put her conviction, her indomitable will, to shame.

Her eyes closed as she waited in finality for her end. Time slowed, the sounds of battle becoming muffled. Even the movement of the Elite suddenly looked sluggish in her eyes. She thought about all the things she'd done in her life, all of the opportunities she'd missed because of this damned war. It had kicked off so suddenly, with the fighting between the government and its people spiking almost overnight. One day she was doing just fine working her minimum-wage job at a local burger joint, the next was spent avoiding airstrikes and hiding from the rumbling of tanks. She'd never even gotten a chance to even graduate from high school, being only sixteen at the time. A decade later, here she was, a leader of an entire army, fighting invaders that validated the actions of her supposed oppressors.

And now one of those invaders was about to silence her.

She had many regrets, far too many for someone who was only twenty-six years old. She never gotten a chance to go to prom, to ask a boy out, to go on a date. She never got a chance to flesh out her soccer career, try for a chance to take on a management position in a tech company. Hell, she doesn't even officially have a driver's license or firearms permit.

And she wanted all of that. She wanted everyone in the New Republic, on Chorus, to have those opportunities. That's why she still fought, even if many of those things were institutionalized. Freedom and the desire to live was important to her, just as it was important to the American immigrants her parents had been before coming here.

The arm flexed back, blade humming against the Elite's wrist, with it chuckling in an almost sick and twisted fashion.

Suddenly, the creature spasmed, its head arching up as it let out a roar. That roar quickly devolved into a gurgle. It's arms fell limp, the one with the energy weapon disengaging. The one that held her loosened its grip immediately. She fell to the floor in an unceremonious heap, landing painfully on her back.

Kimball coughed violently as air rushed back into her lungs and her blood was able to pump oxygen into her brain once more. The pressure on her neck abated, and she regained life as quickly as possible. Her senses, though groggy, came back as well, adrenaline from the fight reorienting herself back to fighting condition in no time.

The general looked up her would-been executioner as it spasmed. She cocked her head to the side. Why did it suddenly give on up killing her?

Her answer was given not even a second later as the Elite slumped forward before landing lifelessly on the ground. Behind it was a majestic sight she never thought she'd seen in her life. A man in grey-and-gold MJOLNIR Mark VI power armor stood before her, a rifle in one hand, a knife coated in purple alien blood in the other. He stared down at her with a shining gold visor.

She did nothing but stare up at her savior, mouth agape. She had heard of Spartans before, another boogeyman the Feds had used to try and keep them down. They were the unstoppable supersoldiers of the UNSC, weapons made for their defense, equally capable of being the shield and sword. Was this one of their famed warriors?

Her savior's actions only seemed to confirm her presumptions, with another alien, an avian-like Jackal barreling towards him from behind. He turned swiftly, downing the xenos with a burst from his battle rifle. Another came out from her left, hoping to impale the soldier in the back. He turned, closing the distance faster and slipping his blade under the giant bird's guard and into the chest. It squawked before falling like its comrade before.

He pushed the dead body off of the blade, looking back down at her. "You okay?" he asked, confirming that her savior was, in fact, a 'he'.

She took in a deep breath. "I think so," she said. "Just a bit winded." She let out a cough, still feeling the effects of being choked.

The man stepped forward, offering a hand up to her. "Agent Washington, formerly of Project Freelancer, leader of UNSC Taskforce Romeo-Bravo-Foxtrot One."

She took it, letting him assist in hoisting her up. She stood on to her feet, now coming up to her full height. It was then that she noticed that she almost came up to his height, only a two or three inch difference between them. Weren't Spartans supposed to be taller?

"General Vanessa Kimball, leader of the New Republic of Chorus," she introduced herself in kind.

"Nice to meet you, general," he nodded back. "We'll be looking forward to working with your people."

She cocked an eyebrow. "We?"

To answer her question, another wall broke down further behind him, closer to the Insurrectionist and alien lines. Within the dust she could see another man clad in green-and-blue armor grappling with fuel-rod gun Elite from earlier, the gold-armored warrior, attempting to overpower him with its energy gauntlets.

Compared to her, however, the situation looked to be much more in favor of the human. He even came up to about the Elite's height, perhaps a bit shorter. He dug his heels into the ground at he stared down the leader warrior. It roared in his face, pushing against his might, although it seemed to make little progress.

Seeing that they were at an impasse, the Spartan raised one of his boots before slamming it down into the back joint of the Elite's leg. It roared in pain as the force of the blow nearly broke its bones. It fell to its knees.

In its moment of distraction, the Spartan grabbed one of the arms, energy blade still ignited, before twisting it around and shoving back into the Elite's own chest. It continued to howl in agony, no longer able to keep up with the fury of the Spartan.

But the man wasn't done. With his free hand, he pulled out a knife attached to his torso. He stepped around to its back, lifting his blade up to the air before placing it across the throat of his opponent. With a single motion, he dragged the blade through the Elite's throat, vivisecting it and letting purple blood spurt out.

He let go as the Sangheili fell lifelessly to the ground. "Stay dead, scum," she heard him say with what could only be described as cold contempt.

Cleaning the blood off of his blade, he turned to the both of them. "Primary leader eliminated. All hostiles neutralized."

"Then our objective is secured," Washington affirmed.

"Wait," she looked between the both of them, "we still have to go secure the reactor."

"Reactor was cleared of hostiles before we came to you," the green soldier said in no uncertain terms.

"We can largely thank you for that, Illinois," Washington commented.

"Nonsense," the second soldier, Illinois, told him. "You, Tex, and Carolina did more than your fair share of help."

"Okay…" Kimball interrupted, "but we still have a ways to go in clearing out the city."

Agent Washington was about to speak when his ear cocked. She saw Illinois doing the same. Seconds passed as they listened to whoever was conversing with them.

Before she could ask what was going on, her savior spoke. "Good news," he said. "Covenant forces are fleeing to their ship and the Insurrectionists are falling back outside of the city."

"They're pulling out?" she questioned. "Why?"

"Probably has something to do with our arrival," Illinois answered. "That and I'm pretty sure I just killed the Covies' main commander." He stared down at the bright gold Elite, blood now smearing across its once proud and shining armor.

"Okay," Kimball hesitated, "but what are we supposed to do about that ship. We don't have anything that can bring it down."

Wash looked back at her, grinning. "Oh don't worry," he reassured her, "we have something for that."

---

True to their word, the Covenant and Insurrectionist forces did indeed pull back, the humans to their camps miles away from the city and the aliens taking to their ships and returning to the corvette above. Both counterparts moved with all speed, the retaliatory strikes from the UNSC and the harrying of the colonists forcing them back.

The attackers left in a hurry, leaving so fast that many of them were unable to bring large chunks of their equipment with them. Food, ammunition, even fuel and vehicles fell by the wayside as the losses prevented them from leveraging enough manpower to pack things up quickly.

And speed was more essential than supply at that point.

The Insurrectionists retreated into the wilderness, returning to familiar territory and to within range of defensive emplacements. That area included a landing zone, airstrip, a handful of scattered Forward-Operating Bases, and other locations that looked like it belonged to a conventional army instead of a rag-tag group of armed rebels.

The Covenant, meanwhile, gathered in their ships, ferrying troops and equipment as fast as they could manage, but the power of the UNSC Pelicans shot down more than their fair share, leaving a chunk of them stranded and forced to move with the invading human rebels.

Once they had retrieved all that they could, the SDV-class ship gunned its engines, aiming to escape the city and break for orbit. They would outpace the pursuing transports/gunships that were acting almost as diet fighter craft, retreat into orbit, reassess the situation, and come up with a new plan of attack.

Or at least they would have if a MAC round hadn't slammed through their hull first, coring the ship and effectively destroying it.

The All or Nothing, under orders from Wash, had been ready and waiting for the opportunity to strike its rival ship. Using a laser-guidance system from Four-Seven-Niner, the target had been painted while it was being chased, driving it away from the city and into the sea just to the west. Wash had wanted the ship to remain over water so they could fire upon it without risking an earthquake or destroying a large chunk of the planet's natural environment.

The Covies didn't know what had hit them before it was too late, the large metal slug annihilating the floating mass of purple armor. The ship burned as its reactor became unstable, flame and plasma erupting from its descending carcass. No survivors would be found when the ship crashed, none of the crew having the time or ability to reach escape pods before it landed in the ocean. Only the Grunts and a handful of Elites with ranger gear would survive the flow of water rushing into the ship, but none would last against the crushing depths as the ship sank below the waves.

The battle for Armonia was over, by the war for Chorus was only just beginning.

---

Several minutes earlier…

Olsen stood over the body of another hapless Sangheili, one of several she had encountered so far today. She stared down at the creature grimly, a reminder of all of the horrors she had to go through to survive in the war between their species.

Why can't you just stay out of our business? she frowned. You damned aliens just had to make a big ruckus of this whole thing.

It was bad enough that they had to fight other humans, but the aliens had forced their hand preemptively, preventing them from gaining more intel and allowing for a more cautious approach. She hated seeing them more and more, the anger and disgust from the war rearing its ugly head in the forefront of her mind.

Jane didn't initially think of herself as a hateful person. She sure as hell wasn't hateful against most humans, unless they threatened her of course. But aliens, with their relentless drive to kill all humans, to kill her friends and family, those were worthy of her contempt.

She also didn't want to hear about their excuses that they were only 'following orders'. People who followed orders weren't typically nuts about eradicating their enemies, as soldier should be. The Nazis who pleaded for the case in the twentieth century only barely got away with it by being on the fringes of the Third Reich. No such excuse could be made for those who supported the Covenant and their genocidal ideations.

She did have to give credit to the Unity Blades and their clans, however. From what she was told, they were the first to break out of their species' mass brainwashing. They tried to do what was right, something that had been lacking for most of the other Covies at the time.

Olsen looked over her shoulder, seeing Miller and over a dozen of her teammates, staring back at her, weapons at the ready and grey armor covering their body. Their silver visors gleamed back at her in silence.

She nodded silently, motioning them forward.

They were currently out among the southwest edge of the city, somewhat close to the ocean, abandoned dockyards and partially-constructed ships littering the area around them. With luck, they would meet their contact here in no time.

That was if he wasn't dead.

They continued along, the sounds of gunfire becoming rather distant as the battle was wrapping up. She had kept comms open with Wash and the others, using whatever data they could to keep tabs on the current situation. It looks like their timely arrival had paid dividends to the efforts of the colonists, stop-gapping losses and rebalancing the scales once more. It wasn't the most ideal, but it was better than their foothold on the planet being lost completely to the Insurrection.

They came across an open warehouse, open and rundown, without a hint of life. Her team proceeded with caution, making their way inside, weapons at the ready, but not quite yet raised.

"Arrived at location," she called out, appearing to speak to no one in particular. "Reinforcements awaiting order."

The air around them shimmered, what seemed like the sign of active camouflage emanating around them. But they weren't part of relief force, and they weren't part of her team.

Still, none of them looked scared, even nervous.

"Good," they heard a deep voice grumble.

Before her, the active camouflage dissipated, revealing the form of a man in fully-decked steel and sage armor. He stood before them, shotgun in hand, staring down at them with a bulbous armor. There was no visor to speak of, merely a round bulb of the same color scheme. The helmet had an emotionless grin on it.

Around them, the forms of others deactivated their devices, revealing men in armor that was the same as Omega Company. All bore weapons, lowered into a relaxed stance.

"Did you complete preliminary requirements?" the lead man asked.

Olsen nodded. "Yes, sir," she affirmed. "Equipment in place and frequencies are synced. We are ready for whatever comes next."

"Very well," Locus said. "Welcome to Chorus. And welcome to Operation MAD."

---

Thank you all for coming by. Hope you enjoyed the chance at seeing the new POVs. I know I'll be having fun writing the next several chapters, filling in the perspectives of Chorus and adding in lore. The lore and background is actually what I enjoy the most about this fic, followed closely behind by action scenes and relationships between characters. Let me know what you find enjoyable about my writing. Comments and favorites help this work go a long way.