 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
FAQ
Screenshots
Concept Art
Halo 2 Updates
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
HBO IRC Channel
Links
Admin
Submissions
FTP Uploads
HTTP Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Far away and alone
Date: 24 January 2006, 8:39 pm
Luka 'Nokosee lay on the ground, staring up into the Brutes eyes, as it stood over him. He thought about how he ended up in this situation, a Elite Councilor fallen before a unskilled Brute foot soldier, and laughed inwardly. He couldn't believe the circumstances that had brought him here. "Now, Elite scum, you die like the rest of your inferior race."
"If we are inferior, why have we kept the prophets safe for Nine Ages?" He retorted. The Brute blinked once, hesitated, then blinked again. Then he shook his head and raised the butt of his brute-shot, and brought it down against the Elites head.
"It has come to my attention that some of you greenhorns think that your man enough to survive on your own. That being stranded on this Ring gives you the right to challenge orders. I got two words for the lot of ya!" screamed Sergeant Manuel Wilson, facing a group of near-mutinous Marine greenhorns who thought that if the going got tough, they got going. "Go Ahead! Yeah, that's right. I'd like to see you clueless dumb-asses try to survive the Covie split-jaw patrols along with those things that were on-board the In Amber Clad. In fact, go on out! In a day, If your still alive, I'll eat my goddamned combat boots!" Afterwords, he turned away, moving toward the command tent. He had much more important things to do than save a couple greenhorns from their own stupidity.
"Sir! Recon has located another group of marines. A half-dozen able men, and their pelican, but three are extremely wounded. It was the damn parasite, Sir. I've put the injured into containment, and I'll keep them there until we're sure their clean." The Sergeant nodded his approval, though he hated the necessity of denying the marines the proper medical care.
His Recon teams had recovered a grand total of two operational pelicans. A third had been recovered, but was heavily damaged and crashed into the base upon it's return. The area directly behind it's fully-fuelled after-burners was containment. After the first incident with an infected marine, A young man named, Larson, he thought, it was hard to remember, the had to be more careful. He had come into camp, bleeding copious amounts of blood from a chest wound sustained in a firefight with the Infection Forms. He had been brought in, and then he died. Not suddenly mind you, but a long, agonizing, drawn out death. And then, after rapidly decaying as his grave was dug, not the first one to be dug, not by far, and by far not the last, he came back as one of the Combat Forms. It had been messy, and some of the medics met a rather bad ending. Just leave it at that.
At the end of his train of thoughts, Wilson found that he stood outside the command tent, surveying his rag-tag group of marines, perhaps three dozen in total, plus the two Medics and four Helljumpers, who if rumor held true, had braved Hell itself on their way to the Delta Base, himself, and Patton, the ships out-dated battle AI, who had been deactivated temporarily when Cortana came online in the system, so as she could have as much processing power as possible during the battle above Earth.
He turns his head to the south, anti-spinward, looking out over the beach to the the ocean that lies in that direction. That was the direction where the pulse had come from earlier that week. This region had been in the nightside area at the time, so they were afforded a good look at it. Wilson had fully expected to die, being briefed on the Rings potential on In Amber Clad before it was infested. But he hadn't died. So, the way he figured it, either Cortana was wrong, he doubted that, or the Master Chief had done it again.
As he pondered these thoughts, a Helljumper named Gregori approaches him, unnoticed. "Sir! Incoming craft to the southeast!" Gregori said, his voice seeming louder than it should have been to Wilson, probably because he was surprised.
"Nature?" He inquires to the other sharply, angry at himself for allowing himself to be caught off guard.
"Unkown, sir. The areocraft is too far out to get a visual identification." The ODST replies crisply, a russian accent detectable in his voice."One of the pelican radar systems picked it up six and a half clicks out, closing fast. ETA two minutes."
Wilson smiles faintly, squinting to the southeast to see if he can see anything. Of course, he can't, probably because the southeast is blocked by one of the boxcanyon's walls. He turns back to the camp, and yells at the top of his lungs, "Saddle up Marines! We've got incoming! Go! Go! Go!" His voice echoes off the walls of the canyon, And he thinks to himself idly, This is what I live for!
|
