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Fan Fiction

The Brute Mentality
Posted By: SeverianofUrth<residentpark@aol.com>
Date: 7 July 2004, 3:40 AM

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      The Brute reared it's head back, towards the dark, apocalyptic sky. A scream of anguish and frustruation issued from it's throat; it held within it hate, and a melancholy promise of revenge.
      It was stranded, stuck inside a collapsed building. He had been tricked there, he and his fellow brethren; they had followed orders, slaughtered the human contigent that had been holed up inside a small installation. But it had all been a gods-damned trick; the traitrous Elites had bombed the building afterwards, sealing him in.
      He had dug himself out, feeding on the bloated corpses of humans and towards the end the untreated corpses of his brethren. The taste had been horrible; with every nefarious bite he had promised revenge, cursing the betrayors, as blood dripped from his fangs and trailed down his gravity-ridden muscles.
      The planet's gravity, stronger than his own homeworld, sagged his flesh and took his breath with the slightest toil. But he had worked on; moved aside the countless weights' worth of debris until, at last, he had reached air, the air so foreign and holding only bitterness that had welled up within his stomach.

      He walked, occasionally taking ahold of something that caught his interest; a rifle, a blade, some unused grenades, and a piece of the Brethren's sacred armor. He took the pauldron, the purple metal glistening in the silent moonlight and the occasional trace of aritificial lighting, and fitted it to his own naked shoulder. It fit well.

      A plan began to form within his head; he knew that although the rest of his brethren would revolt if they heard about this... travesty, this thing that left a foul taste in his sensors, they would be put down after a horrible fight. They would be massacred, and he could not afford the genocide of his race just for the petty fulfillment of revenge. No, he thought, he would do this himself.
      The accursed Elites would be locked within the prayer vaults at night, he thought. Only the contemptible Grunts and the weak Shield-Bearers, the Jackals, would be guarding the temporary base. He grinned: the Grunts would no doubt be nodding off as they sucked with abandon their food-nipples, and the Jackals would no doubt be too busy interbreeding... He barked.
      Although both his primal instincts and the honor as a warrior demanded him to charge in, roaring and slaughtering, he knew that to do so would be both idiotic and altogether suicidal. So... The prayer vaults, if he remembered correctly, could be put in emergency stasis in case of a emergency evacuation by ship, putting it's users in temporary combination of euthanasia and body-binding force fields. But a outsider, unaffected by the drugs, could do whatever he pleases to those within... He barked as he imagined of what he would do to those that had betrayed him and his brethren.

      He reached the building, a small, squat installation of white and blue, outside guarded by the occasional Grunt whose head drooped with fatigue and boredom. He drew the human rifle, and shot with all his skill the grunt outside.
      It fell, head blown off. No alarm was rang, mainly because the kill had been clean. The brute ran to the building then, taking advantage of this lull in the security.
      He reached the wall. A door, painted over with the siguls of the Templar Prophetica, stood between him and his revenge. Blood urged him, cried for him to smash it down; but the cold, rational mind that was unique to his heritage won out, and he merely took the limp body of the Grunt, and ripping it's hand off he inserted it into the altar. It clicked, and the door opened soundlessly.
      He creeped silently into the interwinding hallways, the pathes splattered with blood both human and Covenant. Occasionally he spied a forgotten, or looked-over corpse of a slave (grunts, or jackals) and sometimes humans. But he encountered no resistance, for some avoided him, whilst others were too busy in their own particular business to take much notice of him.
      A sign of Warding stood in front of a doorway. A Grunt stood guard over it, and when he tried to get in through the door, it squeaked and attempted to get in his way. He merely picked up the slave, and dashed it's head out on the door. The door dilated; he stepped in.

      A row of purple vaults stood in a neat line against the tall steel wall, and he smelled the Elites locked and hypnotized within. He strode over to a command console, and accessed the emergency override.
      A alarm began to ring, inaudible to his ears, but a keening cry to other races. He stopped it, then with a feral grin opened the prayer vaults.
      Inside the Elites stood, locked by shimmering force fields. He grinned as he stood, claws extending.