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 also contains religious references, so those in the Halopedia community who are not of religious persuasion may 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, satisfaction and awe.

Part 2
The picture frame's glass was spattered with teardrops. Crying softly, Angel Harter let the picture of her and her husband slip from her trembling fingers and fall into her lap. Her bobbed brown hair shook with every heaving sob, and the question "WHY?" pounded in her head. Why was he taken away from her? Why, why, whywhywhy?! She was doubled over in her quarters' chair, running her finger along the smooth cold (oh so cold!) surface of her wedding band. In her clenched right fist, she held the only thing left of her husband; the identical twin of her ring was charred with plasma scoring. Swallowing, she ran her hand across her red-rimmed green eyes and bit her lip to control her grief. Through tear-blurred vision, she glanced at the Slipspace timer. Three minutes to Realspace. Without looking at it, she delicately placed the framed tri-d on her desk and trudged into the cabin's restroom.

Running some water from the faucet, she splashed it against her face. Steeling herself, she took the tri-d print from the desk and placed it in her pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, Angel stepped into the hallway and entered the lift to the bridge.

The bosun on the bridge snapped to attention and gave Angel a smart salute. "Captain on deck!" he bellowed. She returned his salute and spoke softly.

"At ease. Status report."

The red-headed kid from Helms spoke up. "We're exiting Slipspace now, ma'am. We'll make those SOBs pay!"

The streaming vortex of Slipspace faded away and was replaced with the quiet starlight of the Lowenbraun system. Sleek Covenant warcraft floated motionless in the void, and a cluster of fleet tenders orbited around the armada. The six UNSC ships of Task Force Bravo Four-Nine popped one by one into Realspace, right on top of the Covenant vessels, and ignited their giant fusion engines, accelerating towards their unaware opponents.

-

Zealot Fleet Commander Manra 'Vrakitee was not aware of the Human Cruisers until the first high-powered MAC projectile smashed violently into a neigboring Attack Frigate, slicing right through its unshielded hull. Curse the Human filth! 'Vrakitee cried to the gods, They have caught us during resupply! Turning furiously towards the Major Domo manning weapons, he roared, "Heat up all plasma lines for firing! Bring our shields up to full!"

"But Noble One," the Elite protested, "The supply craft has not yet left our area! If we power up now, it would-"

"Silence! Do as I say! They shall be with us on the Great Journey!"

Inclining his head, the weapons officer turned to his controls and did as he was commanded. As the shields were raised, the tiny supply vessel servicing 'Vrakitee's ship rammed into the forcefield and ignited in a silent conflagration.

-

TF Bravo 49's Cruisers opened fire, the argent streaks of Magnetic Accelerator Cannons and and the vaporous trails of Archer missiles streaking inexorably towards the helpless Covenant Armada and impacting upon the purple-silver hulls. Five Covenant ships were swiftly obliterated, cut into pieces by the high-velocity slugs of the MAC guns. A sixth, wounded, limped away from its attackers, its engines sputtering.

Angel Harter was the first to see the giant ship in the midst of the reeling Armada, and her eyes narrowed. "Weapons! Get me a profile for that ship right there!" She pointed towards the oversized craft. "Ma'am, our database has something that looks like it, but nothing that big. It's a tender of sorts... The Covies have to refuel too, I guess."

The Commander swung around to the Navigation officer. "Lieutenant, plot an immediate course for that ship. Engineering, confirm that Cole Protocol has been successful."

"Aye-aye, ma'am, course plotted."

"Cole Protocol is successful. Ship's data archives purged."

-

'Vrakitee watched with glee as the plasma weapons of his Battleship disgorged their fiery loads. Silvery-blue plasma burned towards the pathetic Human attackers, destroying three of their puny craft and critically damaging two more. One, he saw, was powering straight into his glorious armada. His four mandibles splayed apart in grim satisfaction. Those fools will die a meaningless death, he laughed to himself.

-

Angel rounded on her bridge officers. "Abandon ship. Go to your escape pods and get out of here." The bridge officers, startled, hesitantly obeyed the order. Red lights pulsed throughout the ship, and Angel heard the slight hiss of the bridge lifeboats launching. Calmly, she walked towards the Weapons console and hit three keys. The display showed the NOVA bomb in the launch bay to be armed and ready. Turning to the Engineering panel, she lifted the glass box that covered the button she was looking for. Glancing at the viewports, she saw the Covenant supertanker grow larger and larger. Closing her eyes tight, she pressed and held the red button down. A beep sounded. Angel released the button and slumped behind the panel, clutching the framed tri-d closer to her chest as the timer counted down.

10...

9...

8...

7...

6...

"See you on the other side, Ben," she whispered, and a lone tear rolled down her cheek.

5...

'Vrakitee turned confusedly to look at the holograph again. What was that Human ship doing now?

4...

"Weapons!" he bellowed. "Fire on that cruiser!" The Elite at the station looked confidently at his commander.

3...

"Plasma lines will be ready in five seconds, Noble One." 'Vrakitee nodded.

I don't understand... he mused, and then it hit him.

2...

"Helms! Full away! Get away from that ship! Do it! Now!"

1...

The blue armored Minor moved to do so-

0...

And a bright light blinded them all, filling the viewscreens for a ageless second as Angel Harter's Cruiser initiated self-destruct. Soon, the NOVA bomb in the weapons lauch bay was touched. The cluster nuclear warheads went off in a gargantuan explosion, lancing out kilometer-length flares of destructive energy that swept away everything in their way, including the supertanker. Fuel tanks loaded with highly-flammable liquids ignited and blossomed into a horrendous jet of flame, adding to the NOVA bomb's destructive shockwave. The fiery disc expanded, faster and faster, consuming the entire Covenant armada with a terrifying hunger.

'Vrakitee barely had time to scream before the hot energy tore his flesh and bone away, vaporizing his muscled body in a fraction of a second, and obliterating his once-proud command.

Minutes later, as the void sucked away the force of the shockwave, all that was left of the Covenant Armada of Wrathful Judgement and UNSC Task Force Bravo Four-Nine was floating chunks of charred and singed alloy.

At the heart of this huge debris field floated a pair of silver rings.