Life, through the eyes of a Spartan
Posted By: SeverianofUrth<email@example.com>
Date: 29 April 2004, 1:23 AM
Life, through the eyes of a Spartan.
The day was rather pretty, I think, were it not for the arcs of blue streaking the skies, the screams of men dying renting my ears, and the strange cries of the Covenant piercing through the air. However, the sun rose as always, bringing with it not hope but just a new day of endless, and ultimately futile fighting. But it was still beautiful.
I am Spartan Class II-B, production of a emergency training designed to upgrade existing Helljumpers fast, without the years of genetic modification necessary for a regular Spartan unit by using dekaroia steroids with a slew of side-effects. Only volunteers were taken; and I, I, idealistic then, bursting with pride and love for Mother Earth, signed up for it.
It was disastrous. Out of the 4,035 volunteers, only 132 men and women survived. I was one of them.
I still feel a ache in my bones, result of a accelarated training program designed to produce quickly efficient soldiers without the concern for the men themselves.
I am currently in a orbital insertion pod, waiting for the dropoff. I, we, are scheduled to drop in on top of London, in a massive last-breath effort to reclaim some of the Earth's major cities. I heard the news: no human beings spared by the Covenant's genocidal crusade. Babies blasted apart with plasma, men and women blown to bits with grenade, sometimes taken for training for the Elites. That is, target practice.
I have too much time in these damn things. I've been taking recordings of myself, recounting via the neural-set my personal, amateur philosophies and such.
Still 35 minutes til' dropoff.
My first mission was in the underground sectors of Washington, D.C.E. The labyrinthine mazes of the underground weapon facilities were one of the first targets to be assaulted by the Covenant- and it was one of the first to be conquered. With it's capture went many of mankind's early efforts on plasma weapons, and personal shielding for many of our soldiers. And so, we, the survivors of a disastrous training program, were ordered to retake it with minimal losses.
Our squadron leader was the famed John-117, the last survivor of the early Spartan programs. He didn't speak too much- his AI subordinate or companion by the name of Cortana did all the talking.
The plan was elaborate and complex, bound to fail. We were to somehow infiltrate the compound, bypassing the enforced Covenant security with only thirty men, somehow neutralizing the entire armada amassed there, and retrieving the data codes of our weapons research. Simple, they said. Typical bureaucratic shit, said John-117.
My recordings will cease now, I think. Dropoff time.
-In London, inside the temporary re-coup center-
What beauty London has is long gone, replaced with entrenchments and corpses. Covenant stationary guns pound the building every single minute, until the shaking ground becomes normal. We of mankind are sorely at loss here as to what we might do to reclaim London; very, very much at loss.
Right now, all we are currently doing is engaging in small skirmishes with the occasional scouting foray of the Covenant. This means that I fire off a few round, pack the gun, pick up the superior plasma weaponry of the Covenant, ignore the hunger pangs that the hasty training has brought, and charge their usual set of shieldings. This usually ends in our victory; without Elites to lead them the Jackals pop in a cloud of vermillion when you shoot them.
I shot off some round at a grunt, then grabbed a fleeing jackal by the spine and tore out the back; the soft, squid-like cartilage wavered as I ripped it out. It screamed, and fell. I run along again, letting my MJOLNIR shielding take what hits it can, and punched a grunt, sending it flying. I tore off another grunt's head with my hands, and smashed a jackal in the face with my energy-resistant boots. Then I manned one of their shades and ripped them apart.
It's easy, really, for me to kill.
But how long will this last? How long will our small engagements last, until the Brutes and the Elites storm from their phantoms and take what ground we've managed to gain so far? Not long, I believe: unless we produce somehow ethreal aquastors that we may create with a single burst of thought that can somehow fight, we will lose. It is simple. We, mankind, have fewer numbers, inferior weaponry, and loss of airspace. No amount of heroes or bravery and courage will recoup this.