User:Spartan-091/fanfic

=Halo: Duty, Honor, and Sacrifice=

(Note: This story was composed under the heavy influence of Linkin Park's new album. It may also contain religious references, so those in the Halopedia community who are not religious might be uncomfortable reading it.)

Part 1
A dank, ashy sky covered over the ruins of Ingraham, a major metropolis on the UNSC Colony World Lowenbraun. Fires burned in the distance, smudging the clear view of the city from the heights that loomed above it. Major Benjamin Harter stared out over the blasted cityscape. Scanning the piles of twisted, melted steel and broken glass, he spotted a flicker of movement.

"Here they come! Get ready boys," he hollered back to his squad of bloody, bedraggled Marines; they were the only ones to survive the initial Covenant assault. Major Harter dropped his fieldglasses, and grabbed his M6D Magnum Pistol. Fingering the polished silver ring on his left hand, he momentarily thought of his wife, somewhere across the stars. Then, shaking his head to clear it, he crouched down behind the makeshift barricade that he and Echo squad had erected. Three members of Echo took up ambushing positions behind a fallen concrete wall.

A keening hum announced the arrival of the Ghost, piloted by a Minor Domo Elite and flanked by a gaggle of nervous Grunts with Plasma Rifles. Sergeant Hernandez flicked signals to Private Kerr across the street, motioning for him to prepare a grenade. Kerr pulled the pin, then, when Hernandez stood up, assault rifle blazing, threw the frag. His grenade was joined by Private Donelson's, and both exploded, catapulting the rider from his Ghost. As the trio dashed back to their squadmates in the bunker, Donelson fell, a charred hole replaced what had once been his upper torso.

Major Harter, manning the bunker's autoturret, felt his eyes widen involuntarily. Sixteen SpecOps Elites, energy swords crackling with barely-contained plasma, lunged from behind the wrecked Ghost, roaring alien battle-cries. Major Harter depressed the dual triggers on the autocannon, and a rapid-fire stream of 7mm shells ripped apart six of the charging warriors. Suddenly, the SpecOps soldiers were right on the bunker, leaping over the sandbag walls. In quick succession, Griffiths, Mayhew and Aziz were slashed into pieces by the fearsome blades.

Harter, Hernandez, and Kerr drew their sidearms and, concentrating their fire, brought one of the screaming Elites down. By then, the Covenant troopers had closed to close combat range, and the three Marines grappled with their assailants. Wrestling with a hulking Elite, Kerr managed to put a round through its skull, but not before his arm was wrenched from its socket. Biting back the pain, he lunges at another black-armored foe. Major Harter, pistol recovered, drills three rounds into his Elite's skull, then whips the weapon's butt against the temple of another. The alien crumples, shards of its skull driven into its brain. Its arm, limp now, fell from its sword. Turning, Harter saw Kerr let out a choked gasp, sliding from the dead Elite's blade.

Hernandez, meanwhile, had engaged and destroyed three of the hulking aliens. Their blood mixed and mingled with his own as he fought desperately with yet another. Harter, turning just in time, fired wildly at a beserk SpecOps. The alien cried out, its voice a harsh gargle of pain, and slumped over, a rattling groan escaping its lungs.

Harter screamed as the sword ran clean through his thigh. Spinning angrily on the Elite behind him, he clasped his fingers around its neck and squeezed. The Elite's powerful fingers brushed ineffectually at Harter's hands, and with a final choking gasp, it expired. Harter yanked the sword from his thigh and deactivated it. He heard a roar, and saw the last Elite, a Special Ops Commander, his white armor glimmering in the gray light of the afternoon sun. The Commander yanked a grenade from his hip pouch, armed it, and threw it at Hernandez. The sergeant saw the glowing blue plasma orb and looked up at the argent-armored Commander.

Harter heard Hernandez mumble, "Our father, who art in heaven..." The tough marine NCO tackled the shocked Commander, and both exploded in blue-white blast. Harter got up from where he had fallen, the armor on his back melted from the blast.

Over the wounded Major loomed the twin silhouettes of a Hunter pair. Drawing his pistol, Harter killed one of the gargantuan aliens, hitting it squarely in the unarmored orange flesh of its midsection. Crying out in pure anguish, the dead Hunter's mate lunged at Major Harter, driving its rigid spikes through his stomach. As blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, the major shakily raised the M6D and fired. A spray of orange covered him as the Hunter's head exploded, torn apart by the pistol's final AP round. The giant beast's quills retracted and Harter fell to the ground.

As the darkness gathered at the edge of his vision, a golden Zealot, escorted by tough-looking Elite bodyguards stood above him.

"You fought surprisingly well for a Human," the Zealot growled. "Die quickly, by the hand of Manra 'Vrakitee." The Zealot raised an overcharged plasma pistol and released the trigger. Harter did not feel the blast that vaporized his heart and lungs. He did not see the Elites burn the bodies of his companions. He saw white light, and was enveloped by a great sense of warmth and satisfaction. A male voice spoke, booming with pride and affection. "Well done," He said, "good and faithful servant."