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Author's Disclaimer:

If you are seeking a Halo canon-esque story infused with action and adventure, I'm afraid you are in the wrong story; the right place, but nevertheless the wrong story. Here in Hboff we have a cornucopeia of fruitful styles and thought-provoking stories with no limit to what the imagination can conceive, all ready to be exactly what the reader so desires. From fiction that exemplifies the very best of Halo canon, appearing as if the concepts and ideas contained within were that of Bungie themselves. Through authors that borrow heavily from the creators of Halo but ply an artistically liberal licence; sculpting something rich and well-textured with their vision and passion for the subject while still managing to be as unique and individualistic as the author. Ending with writers that mix their Halos with their Half-lifes and unpredictably manage to pull off such a feat with relative ease, almost as if the subjects had been separated at inception; less like crossovers and more like their natural form. Then there are the miscellaneous housing ruffians like me, hence, you might find what you are looking for elsewhere in Hboff. If however you are not looking for action and adventure and you've never heard of Halo canon, read on. Unless you live in Nicaragua, your statutory rights have not been affected.

      ...my love for that girl, my memories of love and being loved, my friends, my calling; no piece-of-shit alien scumbag can ever take those away from me. As he holds me close whispering sweet nothings in my ear, I pull at one of the plasma grenades on his belt and set it alight, he ain't got a fucking clue. Slamming it firmly onto his breast plate, spitting blood in his face and with all the strength I got left, I hold tight and whisper to him a sweet nothing of my own:

      "Fuck you, bitch..."


                                                                  *            *            *            *

      She met him at the train. A feast-like picture of beauty for his eyes to engorge themselves upon after a famine of such delicious sights. Her hair was shiny and silken, the sparkle from her eyes emanated what scientists had defined as the essential crux of vitality, all bosomed with a smile that was positively captivating. He loved her. He raced towards her as if at any moment she might disappear and he be entrenched, surrounded by the dying and rotting bodies of the dead; relieved of their thankless duty to stave off mankind's annihilation. With her gentle flowing mane softly bracing against his neck, he wrapped himself up in her for every moment of his leave, kissing her wherever her body and face touched his eager lips that begged for her to return their favour. Never would he burden her with the horrifying life experiences that viciously and without mercy, tore wounds into his mind. This hero's welcome was not worth destroying with tainted memories.

      For every horror there was a remedy, for every nightmare, a dream. Waking on a cold bright sunday afternoon with that morning afterglow feeling to breakfast in bed; no alarms, no surprises. A reading that soothed him gently to sleep, drowning out the eternal cries of shattered brothers and sisters still in the midst of battle, still crying out for a lending hand, still out there as he slept. A dance, an intimate movement to an old love song to silence the ever present roar of covenant forces, a visit to a museum or a theatre to remind him why he fought so vigorously to defend humanity. She was his rest and recuperation, she was his refuge, his focus from the bite of hell that held him deep within the gaping mouth of madness so tightly in its flesh-ridden teeth. She had news, wonderful news. A new hope, something else to keep out the chill and constant reminder of death and of dying, new life. A girl, he was told, he contemplated deserting...

                                                                  *                  *                  *

      She wants to play... a game of hearts.

      Covered in paste and small pieces of bear-adorned wallpaper, he ambled down the stairs having put the finishing touches to the room. Opening the lounge room door, he was confronted by a smile across her inviting lips as she lay rubenesque across the sofa, resting her child laden figure. She glowed of a heavenly radiance that could disintegrate any hint of discontent and leave him at peace, even in a world at war.
      "It's finished."
Returning her smile, he coyly dropped to his knees and shuffled across the floor to beside the sofa so as to feel her near him. He slid his hand gently over her stomach. Her navel popped out from the pressure of the nestled baby within and she chuckled at the sight of it protruding from her curvaceous and extended belly.
      "I heard the phone go, who was it, beau?"
      "Your brother, he wanted to know if you wanted a hand, decorating."
      "Well, it's too late now."
Much too late...

                                                                        *                        *

      'Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane, ain't got time to take a fast train. Lonely days are gone, I'm a'goin home, my baby just wrote me a letter.'

      Nobody met him at the train...

      He looks at her, shaking his head from side to side.
      "Girl, I believed in you, my heart was here."
He taps repeatedly on the table as the tears begin to fall.
      "And you rip it to fucking shreds while I'm taking shit out there. What the fuck do you expect me to say, huh? Hope you're happy together?!"
He tries to laugh but it is too much, she averts the hateful gaze of his eyes until such time that he is looking out of the window. Beyond the condensation, beyond the rain that battered the ground and all its surroundings incessantly, time and time again.
      "It's just the way I feel."
      "Just the way you feel, just the way you feel?!"
He wants to scream at her to stop, his heart still has life and it resides with her, just for her to shut the fuck up, just to find a little peace somewhere in the eye of this storm. The torrent his mind has begun to create refuses him respite, it continues the torment, continues to swell and amass the pain. His eyes dot back and forth as if piecing things together, deluging him with yet more feelings of betrayal for him to consume as blows to the very essence of his being.
      "He was in the house when I dropped my stuff off, wasn't he."
It wasn't a question. She looks through him, she doesn't see him anymore and his hands begin to shake. A rift of three light years could have been between them for all she cared; so detached, so distant. The pugnant smell of coffee overwhelms his senses, causing him to feel nauseous, he gets up to leave. Bumping into a guy walking past the table, he reacts, the guy falls to the ground unconscious and twitching. There is no feeling of remorse for what he has done.

      Beyond the point of safe return.

      He runs, he wants to feel the nervous fire that made him run towards her at the train many moons ago, to have that desire of something to aim for, something to run to. With every battle won he felt closer to home, now there was no home. He realises that he is attempting to flee from what she has said with the same impetus and energy that drove him to her, but he knows, the damage is done. He tries desperately to seek solace in some part of his mind that is not flooded with this new threat to his soul asylum, that there is a haven where his wife and daughter sit, awaiting his return. It is futile. Time after time the information hammers at him, he imagines his brother dancing with her to old love songs. Leading her by the hand upstairs, a wry smile on her face. Fucking her, loving her, holding her.

      He is on his knees begging for it all to stop. The downpour of rain and invaded memories leave him reeling from their constant lacerations to the place he longs to forever be: home. His senses struggle to take it all in and he begins to vomit. The pool of undigested matter and bile is scattered around his hands and knees. Passers-by look on with disdain etched across their face, strangers that judge him on a single deed and by his unkempt appearance: a drunk, a vagabond, without home, without hope.
He spits the last of the poison from his stomach, his eyes glazed and bloodshot, his breathing hard and his insides feeling laced with heavy acid.

      The world appears unfriendly to him now, as if despite all that he had done for her, none of his deeds had any meaning. He was now the one being drowned out, another casualty of a war not of his making. He becomes lost in a haze of memories that are no longer his sacred rite, but his mental prison. Every instance of their love and happiness that he had helped to create and nurture within his mind had been overshadowed, displaced by an entity that did not require him in order for it to grow and fester. A sizeable leviathan of envy, hatred and bitterness.

      The final nail.

      Fearing the memories of unrequited love too much to bear, he falls headlong into the whirlwind of war, relishing death and her kin over painful reminiscence of lost love. He feels he has made the right decision. His Commanding Officer is informed and his leave is revoked. He vows never to take leave again...

                                                                                    *


"Davies, heartbreak hill is a mountain to some and a molehill to others. You'll cry now but laugh later, trust me son, soon as you hit the peak, you'll look back and wonder what all the fuss was about. That's it kid, get her outta your system."

      It had been a hectic few days since the escape from Reach and the crew of Fire Team Zulu were showing signs of fatigue. Johnson was growing anxious awaiting their pickup as he stared off into the clear midday sky above them, Davies caressed his dogtags standing beside him.
      "Looks like they might have rain on this fucked up hamster wheel, what you think, Davies?"
Johnson directed his hand blithely at a sum of dark clouds that appeared to plume before his eyes and drift ominously towards the crew's position. As if to defend Halo from something that didn't belong. He grimaced as he put his thoughts out for review.
      "What kinda fucked up species would create a bullshit world like this Ray. Ray you listening?"
Davies looked in the direction that Johnson's finger pointed and the troubled soldier considered the clouds with little thought. Johnson quipped at Davies' contemplative silence.
      "Earth to Ray, come in Ray."
The ploy worked and Davies half-smiled at what he deemed was his Sergeant's mistake.
      "Cept this ain't earth though, is it Sarge, it's definitely not home."
      "Good job it ain't too, we don't want those covvie bastards getting their grubby claws on the pearl of humankind. What you say huh?, I tell you they'd have to hump my dead body before I let those dirty alien scumbags touch the pearl."
Davies could see what his friend and sergeant was trying to do, he took in a deep breathe before opening his heart and purging his revelation.
      "I'm tired, Avery."
      "Bullshit!"
Johnson wasted no time in cutting to the quick, he knew what Davies was getting at.
      "You just need a break, s'all, you need to recharge those batteries, rediscover your faith for the cause. Thirty three ain't no time to be talking like it's over."
The conversation was over, Johnson would hear no more of it.
      "I guess you're right Avery, I guess you're right."
He echoed the sentiment as if to convince himself, but it was to no avail. Much to his consternation, a dejected Davies was resigned to keeping his thoughts on the matter, to himself.

      ...

      "He's cracked man, I'm telling you it's last cigarette syndrome."
      "Y'reckon?"
      "Seen it before, he'll just sit down one time and no matter what happens to him he won't have it in him to get back        up. 'Appens, I only hope if I get it the bullet comes soon after."
      "Amen."
      "What? Me getting the bullet?!"

      ...

      "Clarke?"
      Clarke was on all fours scouring the ground for something apparently lost, his unusual behaviour attracting an audience in the shape of Reed, Aziz and Costa. The crowd began their usual jabberings, Reed was first off the mark.
      "Clarke, if you're waiting for Covenant I can think of better positions."
Aziz couldn't help himself either.
      "Is it a film, maybe a catchphrase?"
Costa took his cue, pointing emphatically at Clarke's face, complete with darting eyes and furrowed brow.
      "Confusion of warring wolves by Claptrap!"
Reed acknowledged the album with typical revere before continuing the tirade.
      "Hey, I have that album. I'm gonna recommend you have a med check when we get back C, you're starting to freak me out. I can't work in these conditions, I'll be in my trailer getting make up if anyone wants me."
      The joke fell flat as Reed tried to divert the issue so as to be about himself, the three stooges soon realised that they weren't getting a rise out of their ground scurrying colleague. A change of tact was decided, Costa cocked up his left leg and pushed his behind out at Clarke's head, breaking wind loudly in the process.
      "Incoming enemy from the rear, quick, drop altitude."
The off balance soldier was easily toppled with a push of Clarke's hand, Aziz moved away from the vicinity of the smell; sniggering. Reed however, leaned in and took a sniff before condemning the odour, his actions not going unnoticed by Aziz.
      "Something wrong with your guts man, I ate the same shit and mine don't smell like that."

      Aziz was the first to get down on all fours and attempt to look at what Clarke was looking at, he made an effort to avoid sounding facetious.
      "Is something wrong, mate?"
Clarke replied in an enthused tone.
      "No weed."
The group fell about laughing, they had their rise inadvertently, Clarke stopped looking.
      "I'm serious you fucks, there are no weeds anywhere, you'd think there'd be some. If there's weeds then they'd spread and shit and what'd stop em."
Reed tried to stop laughing long enough to get a sentence out but he was too far gone, the absurdity of his colleagues actions and words had tickled him. Moments passed before Aziz jumped on such an opportunity to compound the pressure placed on everyone's already aching guts.
      "We don't have any papers anyway."
Since Reed had never dabbled in drugs he didn't see the funny side to the comment, instead he gathered his composure long enough to strike a blow of his own.
      "So you think we should be on the lookout for an elite gardener on a plasma mower with a hoe."
Despite Reeds ignorance of agricultural equipment, they got another rise out of Clarke. This rise backfired, he became agitated.
      "You're the fucking hoe, elites take it in turns dipping plasma swords in your ass, you don't even need paying, you love that shit."
Reality reared as their daydreaming took flight from them, reminding them as to where they were and the trouble they were in. Elites and plasma swords rarely made good jokes, the atmosphere became quite solemn.

      Clarke was the first to break the imposing silence.
      "Bunch of fucking kids."
      Clarke did not realise that his behaviour made him party to his own statement, he moved off and away from the crew and towards the waters edge nearby. Stooping down, he cupped his hands and brought up the crystal clear water to his mouth, he pursed his lips before syphoning in the gently swaying liquid. No salt, no surprise.


      Aziz could not let such a chance slip from him, reality was cold enough without being stranded with it. The daydream found itself in a stranglehold, he shifted focus onto a new victim, Reed.
      "I saw you checking out Clarke's rear defences Reed, feeling lonely?"
      "Fuck you, you beige spunk monkey!"
Such an opening and spite-filled rebuttal was clearly a bite, Costa recognised the signs and jumped onboard, helping to reel the fish that was Reed's ego in; hook, line and sinker.
      "You like big men?"
Reed, clearly flustered at being the centre of attention, at least in the firing line, raised his guard and went into strategised defence. With his tail feathers fanning out and colours on show, the marine paraded his manliness for all to see, unaware that it would probably hang him. He held out both his index and little finger, shaking his hand back and forth in time to each of his words.
      "I, got, females, on, tap."
Bingo, hoist by his own petard, Reed was out of the water and flailing. Aziz just needed to be merciful, where Reed was concerned though Aziz was anything but. He picked one of the lowest ranking Covenant forces to be Reed's females, and he made them deceased. Casting reflection on a previous deed, Aziz eviscerated the arrogance of Reed.
      "What you do with the dead grunts you shoot and in the privacy of your bunk is between you and them, hope you wear a rubber hat, they got some serious diseases, man. Is it because they're dead or because they're fellow fartsniffers?"
The supersonic noise that broke from Costa took everyone by surprise, the marine rolled around the floor laughing uncontrollably; unable to breathe. Almost choking on the lack of air denied to his lungs caused by his chest and stomach tightening, his cheeks flooded with tears. Finally, nodding his head and in a high tone, he managed to utter a few words.
      "Reed fucks dead grunts."
Aziz continued, oblivious to Sergeant Johnson making strides towards them.
      "Yeah, he's intimidated by the live ones, can't handle the conversation, can't make the moves, can't get to first base. His idea of porn is a bunch of profile shots, while everyone else is taking notes in cov-ed he's got his di--"
The short sharp crack around the back of Aziz's head cut him off from finishing his sinker. Johnson was peeved that no-one was watching the motion trackers, even if the audio on them was set to high.
      "That'll be enough of that shit Aziz, grow some hair on your balls and go check on those trackers. I need a sniper to take down covenant, not you sniping at my men."
      "Sorry sarge."
Though in truth he was not.
The group straightened up with the exception of Costa who continued to giggle. Aziz was curious as to why he continued to laugh, he leaned over to the chuckling mexican and spoke in a hushed tone.
      "It weren't that funny Cossa, c'mon."
Costa decided to let Aziz in on his own little joke.
      "See when Clarke over there drank the water?"
      "Yeah?"
      "I pissed in there about ten minutes ago."

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