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      Sergeant Arthur Gabriel was a typical UNSC grunt: a Caucasian soldier-boy, young, energetic, ready to defend the human homeworld. He was also bored. He sighed as he shuffled along in the streets of London, in the Piccadilly Circus district. As he looked about the huge spectacle, Art remembered the first time he had been to Times Square, when he was fifteen. The three-dimensional signs, shouting out slogans of the latest in fashion, food, clothes, and the like in annoyingly cheerful voices; the street urchins, wandering aimlessly down the unkempt avenues or slumped against a wall with some bullshit sign, begging for money; the drivers of cars leaning their heads out of their windows and yelling "Move, asshole!" while simultaneously honking their horns.
      Piccadilly was different, however, and not just because of the culture gap. The advertisement projectors did nothing more than spark, the bums were nowhere to be seen, and the sound of angry motorists had been ominously silenced.
      London was a shell from the initial Covenant attack wave. Buildings stood like trees that needed just one more little chop from a lumberman's axe before they fell. Some had already succumbed to such a fate.
      Art looked at the buildings, feeling sorry that the British had to be one of the first people to endure the Covenant bombardment. He had always liked the British, especially their folklore. His favorite pastime as a kid was to read myths about dragons. He enjoyed reading e-books about valiant warriors defended by nothing but a coat of metal charge into battle on their noble steeds against the gigantic, fiery, lizard-like monsters. Some of the men were triumphant in their attacks, stabbing the dragon at its weak point, the heart, with their blades. Others were not so lucky, charred to a crisp inside their metal shells. Art was now just like those warriors, fighting this enormous dragon known as the Covenant. However, his battle would be a hundred times harder: the Covenant didn't seem to have a weak point.
      Art even had his own armor, the top-of-the-line Marine field suit codenamed Excalibur. It was similar to the Spartans' famous Mjolnir armor: body shields, enhanced strength and speed, and a battlefield HUD. The intimidating suits were colored in a silver, metallic sheen. The only difference between Excalibur and Mjolnir was that there was no optional AI that could be included in the suit. Probably because they didn't have enough time to drill holes in everybody's fucking heads, Art thought as he remembered the SPARTAN-II project. He respected the legendary Spartans as soldiers, and likely as people too, if he ever had a chance to meet them. However, he had heard rumors that some sick and twisted things had happened to the supersoldiers to get them to become what they were today. The last he had heard of the Spartans, they were headed out on a spec-ops mission under "The Keyes To Victory" (as all the swabbies constantly and ecstatically referred to Captain Keyes as) to supposedly "turn this war around." However, Art had heard that the Spartans had been there at the siege on Reach, and were decimated down to a mere four members after a brief MIA.
      Art was jolted back into reality by a BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! He looked up to see a trio of titanic electric-blue explosions over the remaining line of buildings, standing out against the grey skies. It had come from the frontlines, which were an unbearable five klicks away. Soon, Art knew, these streets would be crawling with Covenant. Suddenly, his radio crackled to life.
      "Okay, Marines," the voice of Art's commander Captain Winters said to his Foxtrot Company, "That's our cue. Haul ass over to Piccadilly Underground Station; we got word from the frontlines that the Covenant will try to sneak past us via the subway tunnels."
      Art unslung his custom rifle from his shoulder. It was an oddball weapon that he had engineered himself: an MA5B mated with a 2x scope that had an oversized clip of one hundred 5.56 mm rounds. Art had balanced out the rifle from the extra weight, but it was still a bit heavy, leading to some superiors asking Art why he would make such a rifle. His response was, "It can tear an Elite a new one and still have rounds to spare." So far, no officer had argued with that. As backup, Art also packed an SMG, snugly strapped to his hip.
      A nav point from Captain Winters to the train station's stairwell appeared. As Art jogged over, he spotted a figure at his 11 o'clock. From the armored humanoid's stature, he knew it was his squadmate, Sergeant Lance Brawn. If it hadn't been for the Human-Covenant War, Lance might have been a model: he was a blonde, muscular, blue-eyed rascal from New York, with a heavy accent. In combat, Lance was the cool cucumber that shot his enemies with an unshaken hand. His weapons of choice were an M90 shotgun and an M6D pistol.
      "Hey, Lance!" Art called. "What's up?"
      Lance chuckled. "Oh, y'know...chillin', illin', doing a li'l killin'.
      Art laughed softly and rolled his hidden eyes at Lance's poor attempt at some 21st-century slang.
      "So, what kind of company are we expecting?" Art asked, dropping the joking attitude.
      "The usual," Lance replied in the same manner, as the two Marines intercepted each other's paths and turned to walk down the steps of Piccadilly Circus Underground Station. "Grunts, Jackals, Brutes, yada-yada...you name 'em, they got 'em."
      "Fuckin' beautiful," Art replied sardonically. He was a bit surprised with his sudden mood swing, but he knew he shouldn't have been. All Marines were trained to take on cut-the-crap attitudes once the lead and plasma bolts became the new atmosphere of the battlefield.
      Art and Lance came to the bottom of the staircase, and looked around as if they had just gotten a tourist's pass to hell. The little shops containing candy, drink, and bric-a-brac by the barrelful were a mixed bag: Some were completely caved in, others looked as though they were merely closed for a holiday.
      The ceiling was pockmarked with holes; some which led outside, others into buildings. The unkempt floor was covered in dirt and large chunks of duracrete. Art and Lance saw the ticket scanners were completely destroyed, leaving the escalator shafts that led to the Bakerloo and Piccadilly lines without obstacles. The two Marines peered down both of the shafts to find that they were pretty intact.
      "What do we got, boys?" a voice said to the backs of the sergeants. Lance and Art swung around to attention, recognizing the authoritative voice of Captain Winters. Standing behind their CO was the rest of Foxtrot Company, checking their weapons, talking to one another, or just wringing their fingers with anxiety.
      Winters was a mountain of a man, standing 6'8" and able to bench 500 pounds without the aid of the Excalibur armor. Winter's size was possibly a danger to him; with his pounding steps and enormous armored frame, some soldiers from other companies might easily mistake him as a discolored Hunter.
      "We're assessing the battlefield, sir," Lance spoke, "from what we can tell, the train waiting areas are intact. I suspect the reason the Covenant aren't here yet is because the tunnels are caved in from the bombing; that should give us some time to set up."
      Winters folded his tree trunk arms across his great chest. "How do you propose we prepare for the attack, boys?" he boomed. "I'm open to suggestions." Winters looked from one sergeant to the other, then back again. He often quizzed his Marines because, unlike most soldiers, they had a better chance of living long enough to become officers, thanks to Excalibur.
      Art considered a moment. "Sir, we have a serious advantage if we hold position here." He looked over at the escalator shafts, which both faced a flock of shops that stood in the center of the lobby. "We can just mop the floor with them as they come up the escalators. It's too risky to go any further downstairs because the Covenant will likely bring along some vehicles into the tunnels, and if the place comes crashing down, we'll have nowhere to run to."
      "I concur," said Winters, and turned to the rest of Foxtrot. "Marines! Set up stationary guns at choke points surrounding the escalator shafts! We're going to make sure that no breathing Covenant—sucking up air, methane, or God knows what—sets a foot on that staircase leading up to Piccadilly!"
      "SIR YES SIR!"
      The Marines began settling themselves in. Four stationary machine guns were set up about twenty-five feet away from the shafts, with sandbags surrounding them. The soldiers knelt in doorways, leaned out of windows, crouched behind sandbag bunkers.
      Suddenly, a muffled explosion came from below, loosing some plaster from the ceiling.
      "Get to your positions, and keep your eyes on the prize," Winters crowed.
      Lance and Art stood in a coffee shop, leaning out from wide windowpanes. Art listened to the sound of his breathing. Still steady. Indiscernible sounds emanated from below, and kept getting louder and louder. Art glanced at his motion tracker. There were so many enemy contacts that the indicator looked like a tomato.
      He turned to Lance. "This is going to be very painful," he proclaimed in a flat voice.
      Though his helmet completely hid his features, Art could still hear a crazy grin in Lance's voice. "Yeah? Question is, for who?"

      Suddenly, silence.
      Then footsteps.
      Art's breathing tightened with his trigger finger. Even with the Excalibur's internal temperature control, a few drops of sweat came down the bridge of his nose. He ignored the sign of anxiety and kept his rifle trained on the escalator shaft where the sound had come from. Art matched his breathing with the pace of the footsteps.
      Tap. Breathe in.
      Tap. Breathe out.
      Tap. Breathe in...
      A Grunt poked its masked-but-still-ugly head out of the shaft. The last sound it ever made was a high-pitched "Yipe!" as dozens of rounds tore into its body, pushing it back down from where it came.
      There was a deathly silence, and then a commanding alien growl came from one of the passages. Suddenly, the Covenant horde burst out of both tunnels simultaneously, as if the doors of Hell had been flung open. The weapons of the Grunts, Jackals, Elites, Hunters and Brutes blasted in all directions, incessantly chirping like a plague of locusts.
      The Marines, of course, were in a world of shit. Though they were protected by the Excalibur suits, their shields and armor could only take so much. A few unfortunate soldiers' bodies rocked and rattled as they were hit by more plasma and needles than their suits could handle, and slumped over dead.
      Art's reality was nothing but pure noise. The sound of gun- and plasma-fire was both deafening and dizzying. He achieved a state of robotlike automation: fire the rifle at the mass of bodies, reload, repeat. It was barely necessary for him to aim...there were so many hostiles.
      Art made a quick glance over at Lance, and saw that he, too, was "in the zone." He fired his shotgun with amazing efficiency, knocking over handfuls of Covenant at a time. BLAM shuck-shuck BLAM shuck-shuck BLAM shuck-shuck...
      Suddenly, Art snapped out of his hypnotic fighting mode as he saw a wild shot from a Hunter's fuel rod soaring straight for the window that he and Lance were standing in. Thinking fast, Art tackled his buddy, and they fell to the floor, just as the cannonball-esque projectile slammed into the shelf they had previously stood in front of, and packages of coffee and tea went flying. Art felt heat and static wash over his shields, draining them a little. He scrambled off of Lance and they jumped right back up, resuming their attack on the aliens.
      One by one, the Covenant congregation fired their weapons, twisted, screamed, and finally died. Some of the newer, more skittish Marines kept firing their weapons madly into the rainbow of blood and bodies.
      "Cease fire!" Captain Winters yelled. "Goddammit, cease fire!!"
      Just like that, the lobby was once again quieted. Well, relatively quieted. Shells of the Marines' last spent shells and clips clattered to the floor, wounded soldiers moaned from their plasma burns, and several breaths of relief exploded from those who had been holding them in.
      "Don't rest easy yet!" Winters said angrily to his troops. "The second wave is coming!" He turned to one lieutenant. "What do we have in the way of casualties?"
      "Eight dead, twelve wounded, sir," the lieutenant replied curtly.
      Art glanced at his motion tracker, finding that the swarm of enemy contacts from below had not shrunk at all. He grimly brought up his modified rifle, emptied his previous homemade ammo cartridge, and put a fresh one in. Lance also loaded new shells into his shotgun, dissatisfied that his work was not finished.
      Once again, the Marines hunkered down, but things did not go quiet. A muffled, inhuman voice from below issued several strings of commands with its guttural tongue.
      Were they just testing the waters before? Are they going to hit us harder this time? Art thought with clenched teeth.
      Then he saw it. A spiky pink object that came flying out from the escalator shaft. Half a second later, the same type of item came from the mirrored passage.
      Art instantly focused on the alien device. It pulsed with light, making him think of a porcupine that had swallowed a set of decorational lights. He noticed something familiar about the arm-sized spikes that protruded out from the soft, putty-ish center. Then the realization hit him along with a tiny gasp.
      The spikes looked just like the ammunition of a needler.
"GET DOWN!" was all that Art had time to say as he threw himself to the ground with Lance while the mysterious device exploded. There was a sound like shattering glass as the giant deadly needles burst out in all directions. Almost all of the Marines were impaled as the spikes broke through sandbags, windows, and walls five centimeters thick. Several needles landed with a thunk! on the shelves behind where Art and Lance had been standing, two of them only inches above their heads.
      As the Marines lay there, stunned, screaming in pain, or dead, the Covenant mercilessly spewed forth again from the escalators. This time, however, it was with a more tactical approach. A squad of Jackals led the way, their shields out in front to defend against gunfire. Behind one group of the birdlike creatures marched a haughty band of seven Elites, armed to the teeth with plasma rifles and plasma swords.
      Lance was the first to come to his senses. He stood up quickly, frag grenade in hand. Pulling the pin, he quickly tossed it over the wall of Jackals right in the middle of the Covenant platoon he was closest to.
      "FIRE IN THE HOLE!" he exclaimed.
      Though the Covenant were unable to understand his words, they could sure as hell interpret the meaning. The Elites scrambled in all directions, trying to escape the inevitable blast radius. The Jackals didn't react as quickly, and with the explosion were hurled forward towards the stationary gun that had been pointing at them, and knocked it over.
      Art quickly checked the company status roster. Jesus! Only twelve men left?!
      He didn't have time to worry, because the squad of Elites, angered that these humans would not yield, drew their plasma swords and attacked in a blind rage. An Elite with its shields knocked out by the grenade was easily cut down by Art, but after he fell, a second alien charged in from behind the first, surprising the Marine. The Elite slashed with his glowing blade, and neatly bisected Art's rifle, which clattered to the floor. Art drew his submachine gun and lit the bastard up. The Elite's body rattled, followed by a flash of its shield failing and bullets mangling its body.
      Phew!
      Art ejected his SMG clip and slammed in a new one. Looking around the floor that was slick and slippery with bloody ichor, he saw that all of the Elites were dead, a few already killed by the grenade. He now looked clearly at his fallen Marine brethren, and saw that they had died horribly. The spikes jammed into their torsos, necks, heads and limbs. Art could see Captain Winters' behemoth corpse, punctured in five different places, bleeding profusely.
      The deactivated plasma sword in a four-fingered alien hand that was missing a body caught Art's eye. Unmindful of the alien voices—which seemed surprised by the deaths of their commanders—coming from below, Art pried the odd-looking artifact from the hand.
      He activated it, intrigued by the crackling, bright glow. Swinging it around a bit, Art noticed that the sword was a meter-extension of his fist, pretty easy to use. Powerful, too.
      "Hey guys," he called to his fellow Marines. "These might come in handy."


      At last, the Covenant decided to charge up the stairs one last time, using the remainder of their soldiers. Though their Elite and Brute leaders were dead, surely they could destroy the humans themselves.
      When they reached the top of the two staircases, they could not believe their eyes.
      The remaining twelve humans stood with heavy weaponry—shotguns, rocket launchers, SMGs—and half of them held their masters' plasma swords. A blasphemy of the highest order.
      The humans ignited the Forerunner relics, their way of saying, "bring it."
      The incensed crowd of aliens blindly charged the humans, screaming curses.
      Art, armed with a sword in one hand and an SMG in the other, sliced his way through the crowd. Grunts became ribbons; Jackals disappeared in a gout of blood. As for the Hunters, Art let them charge at him, then dodge out of the way, stabbing them in the back. The other Marines dispatched the aliens in a similar manner. Lance was noticeably giddy to use the plasma sword, like some kind of chef that had not had something to cut in years.
      At last, the final Covenant soldier fell. Art, Lance, and the rest of the soldiers sighed in relief.
      "We did it, man," Lance said, exhausted.
      "Yeah," Art agreed.
      Suddenly, a roar of an engine pierced the soldiers' momentary peace and quiet. The soldiers rushed up the stairs to find two transport 'Hogs sitting on the road.
      "The Covenant are closing in on this area with reinforcements!" one of the drivers called. "We're evacuating to the north right now!"
      As the weary Marines piled into the backs of the "Hogs, Art hesitated, and said, "I'll be right back."
      Art walked back to the stairs, and wrote something in big block letters. He then ran back to the transport, and they drove away, never to return.


      Later, in an overrun Piccadilly Circus, a Jackal noticed the scribble on the sign. He had noticed it from the way that it contrasted from the color of the rest of the sign, but could not read it. He squawked with nonchalance, and moved on.
      However, had he been able to understand English, he would have read:
      Here there be dragons.

End.

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