Falkeno Weekly Submissions

Page to group all of Falkeno's submissions for the weekly together.
__TOC__
== Weekly 300: The fixer ==
=== Blurb ===
(Normally I'd put this bit below the fiction so I can reference it, but I digress)
So, my relationship to both Halo Fanon, my writing, and how I view my own work can be described as being 'interesting'. So, general background first. When I first started writing halo related fanfiction (before I was part of the site) I was primarily doing it to distract me from the fact that I was stuck studying a business course and was hating every waking minute of it and so needed an escape that didn't involve the use of alcohol, and so, based on how much I had enjoyed the writing fiction part of my high school English studies, I started writing a very bad Halo fanfic (nobody's perfect the first time around). It would be this decision that I would now say "saved my life" as through a teacher noticing me doing it and some blind luck, I ended up on a path that led to me studying creative writing at a uni degree level, attaining both a Bachelors Degree and as of 2023, a Masters Degree in both subjects.
In regards to Halo Fanon itself, I began writing on the site early on the path I have just mentioned (my first contribution was in march of 2019) as both a way of sharing my ideas with a larger audience than myself, and as a way to refine my craft, so far so standard. However, in that time, whilst I have become known as being something of an arse (yes, I'm capable of being self-aware) I can also be someone who has both a vast array of projects that are both extremely complex and interwoven (see my Sisyphean efforts to make the UNSC ship hull codes work, or make the Spartan-II's viable again), and for someone who when is notorious for high standards when judging weekly's.
The reason I write for the wiki, is because I have been gifted with an extremely vivid imagination that means that am someone who can often find his own amusement using just his mind, even during the most boring situations (it can also be a bit of a curse when I need to focus, but not compared to the 'big' issue I have). I enjoy sharing these ideas and helping others with their own projects, its like cat nip for me. However, I am also cursed with an issue that affects me in all aspects of my life, and has gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion. Most people have an inner critic, the voice that tells them when something is wrong or can be done better and I have one too, the only thing is, mine is a complete bastard who takes pleasure in making everything I do feel like its utter garbage, even when it is being praised by everyone else.
I don't know where this has come from, perhaps my parents overcompensating for them messing up my older brother and being too hard on me, even when its actively harming me) maybe its because I overreacted to discovering that (unless your rich) you can't coast through life thinking your smarter than everyone else, because your not. Long and short of it, 99% of what I write I hate because my brain makes me think its aweful, and the remaining 1% is normally because I've banged my head against it for so long I've hit the point where its just 'the best I can do' and leave it at that (this is why I haven't got a single page that is finished, and the two most complete ones are in the process of rewrites). I'm essentially locked in an abusive relationship with my own head and its a daily battle that I struggle with, but am fortunately starting to win through working through my issues irl and hopefully will one day prevail in.
To circle back to the point after this longwinded diversion, Why do I write for Halo fanon? Because its an escape from reality, a portal from a mad world that I can't understand, nor control, to one of relative order where everything makes sense, and I'm pulling the puppet strings. I write for HF, because its enjoyable, it scratches a basic itch I have in my brain, it sates my creative side and focuses imagination into something productive, and even though my inner critic makes it cost at times, there is a cost to what we love, and as self-harming habits go, its the best one I have at hand. 
=== Fiction ===
Ayrton-A384 buried his head in his hands. He was tired, dirty, and cranky, the wine of the Robin Hood’s baffled fusion drives was drumming into his head like the fusion blade that had left the scar in his left side nearly twenty years earlier, right next his stomach that was growling like a pissed off Brute.
The cause of all this mess was Dylan’s rifle, and how Ayrton couldn’t fix the bloody thing. Off course Ayrton knew that to him there were two definitions of the term ‘fix’. The first was the common definition, that being to repair something to the condition it had been before it needed fixing, nothing wrong there. But then there was Ayrton’s definition, take something that is, or sometimes isn't’ broken, and make it better than it was before the fix was made. And Dylan’s scope was the latter.
Lifting his head from his dirty palms Ayrton re-ran the root cause of the problem, of how Dylan had reported a lag in the link between the weapons scope and his HUD that had made leading mobile targets nearly impossible as he couldn’t account for the lead. Naturally Ayrton had responded by rebuilding the smart-link system to not only solve the issue, but had increased the refresh rate by 0.03%, improved the scopes display resolution to make targets easier to spot, and had increased the weapons effective range by another 4ft.
To anyone else, that would be an impressive feat, and the small voice in the back of his mind told him as much, but to his much louder inner critic not only wasn’t that good enough, his entire endeavour had been a failure. He had to improve the accuracy, get the refresh rate quicker, make it so Dylan could see the snot in the elite’s nose before he replaced it with a bullet hole.
Ayrton rubbed his brow in frustration. He needed to do something else with his free time, preferably something that didn’t drive him up the wall. But what could he do? Chrissie messed around in flight simulations by piloting ancient aircraft in skies that were just as old, Noah and Hannah would fill their time in the prowlers kitchen making meals that could at times give the ships food processors a run for their money. Hell Beth had filled up her journal drawing stunning artworks… Ayrton caught himself, best not to think of her in the long run.
In truth, building and repairing things with his hands had always been a go to thing, for once using them to make something rather than destroy it with a pull of his right index finger. But at times it felt like an abusive relationship, never being happy with his work even after everyone told him it was ‘good enough’ or ‘perfect’. Maybe to them maybe, but not to him, never to him. 
Ayrton looked at the disassembled scope before him, thinking of what most other people would do in his place, but all he could think of was alcoholism and drug abuse, but his Spartan physiology made the former impossible and Gwen kept the medical supplies too tightly secured for the latter to be feasible.
He sighed to himself, took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, and got back to the task at hand. Surely he could squeeze another few inches out of the thing.
== Weekly 307: White Elephants ==
At best the atmosphere in the command bridge of the UNSC Vanguard could be described as like being at a funeral. Of hushed voices of people conveying words that in the long run meant nothing as they tried to hide their emotions, all to the backdrop of death. And in a sense that fit in the mind of Dr. Daniel Boone, because on the view screen in front of them, was nothing but death and destruction.
The UNSC had assembled a force of 70 warships, a force so mighty that it would be considered overkill only a few years earlier, filled with cruisers, carriers, destroyers, and frigates, all crewed by the finest men and women that the UNSC had to offer to defeat an enemy that numbered a mere eight combat ships operating around XI Boötis A, and they’d nearly lost half of it already for no return.
“Christ, I hope you and the eggheads back home got it right this time, because the way things are goin, we’ll be lucky to live to see our court marshallin,” Admiral Wilhelmina Williams muttered quietly to Boone as they both surveyed the carnage laid out in front of them on the ships tactical display. Known as Aunt Billie to those who served under her, Brown had been in the service long before Boone had even drawn his first starship in crayon, let alone designed the ship that they were now standing aboard.
The Vanguard-class battleship had come from a time when the UNSC had considered their sole threat to be their position of power to be the supposedly allied, but in reality Insurrectionist infested Colonial Military Authority, or CMA for short. Back then, there’d been a sort of cold-war between the two services, each vying for bigger and better warships to outdo whatever the other had just built, and the Vanguard’s were no exception.
When he’d been picked to head the project, the young Dr. Boone had thought it would be the launch point that would catapult his career to a level not seen since Shaw and Fujikawa had cracked faster than light travel, and no bell or whistle had been too small for his baby. Unfortunately, one of those bells had been the then brand new Super Heavy MAC guns that many had labelled as a revolution in their field, only for the revolution to be exactly what not to do when designing a MAC gun. Simply put, the gun didn’t work, in fact the first ships they’d ever damaged were the ones they’d been fitted to, and unfortunately for him, the only ships fitted with the damn things was his. Of course there had been other flaws to the class, namely how they’d been built to fight a war that hadn’t happened and couldn’t properly fight the one that had, but the MAC issues had been their Achilles heel, one that had turned his magnum opus, into a stain on his career.
But whilst his career had somewhat recovered since then, he’d never quite given up on them, even after they’d been stuck in mothballs and left to rot, naively still trying to fix his mistake, and dreaming for the chance to show what they could do, other than as just some white elephants destined for the scrappers torch. So when the Alien alliance called the Covenant had declared war on Humanity, Boone had found his childish daydreaming to a now terrifying reality. Not since their construction had so much money and resources been thrown at the class, no expense being spared in a desperate attempt to halt a seemingly unstoppable enemy.
“So do I ma’am, because I couldn’t live with these things being a pup twice in one lifetime,” Boone responded as he steadied himself against the table's handrail. Not that expected to live if the lump of fear that had been steadily growing in his belly was proved accurate.
Why did I insist on being aboard the first ship to go into action? I should have been sat in my office back in Sydney, trying to get a handle on the barrage of weird and wacky designs that have flooded in since we realised exactly how fucked they are.
It was pride of course, the same pride that caused him to muck up the ships the first time around, and it was that pride that might be about to get him, and a lot of good people killed.
“We’ll at least we’re bein honest,” Brown remarked before turning to the ship's captain, “How long till we can see if we’ve got teeth, or if we’re just a chew toy, because I’ve only got half battlegroup left and targets need assignin”.
“Both SMAC’s are ready to fire and all other weapons are green as well, but guns is worried if we’ll get a second shot with that monster tearing us to hell,” Captain Holme replied, gesturing at the hulking form of what the UNSC had designated as a CAS-class assault carrier that was currently in the process of decimating the last of ships that come out of slipspace too close to the enemy.
“Well I guess we get to see if the Doc’s done his job, cus if we’re only getting one shot off we might as well aim for that fucker with everything we’ve got!” Brown barked as she began rattling off her orders like machine gun fire. Not that Boone was listening, his entire focus having been consumed by the enemy vessel.
Fuck, if that monster is their idea of an assault carrier, I don’t want to meet whatever their battleships are!
Beneath his feet the decks began to tremble as energy surged into the SMAC coils prompting all the fears he tried to put out of his mind to come flooding back.
What I got it wrong again? What if the SMAC’s tore the ship apart? What if they didn’t do anything to that beast? What if…
Boone was nearly thrown from his feet by the recoil of the SMAC’s firing, but he never let his gaze stray from their intended target as two lances of golden fire, one behind the other, streaked across space to be met by two pulses of the Covenant’s vaunted shielding technology. Then a colossal ball of pinkish flame bellowed from the carrier as the ship sheared away like a monster trying to run from its righteous end only for its shields, fatally weakened by the SMAC rounds to fall to the horde of Archer and Shiva missiles that tore into its metallic purple hull like a swarm of piranhas as the mortally wounded ship wallowed in the vacuum like a dying whale.
At first there was silence aboard the bridge, then a raucous cheer erupted as all the pent up fear and anger came out, as Boone let out a sound that was half laughter, half crying.
“Alright people settle down! The doc’s done his job, now we’ve gotta do ours, cus its time to live up to this ship's name and there's a lot more alien fucks to introduce to their ancestors!” Brown shouted above the din to silence the crew, but even she couldn’t hide the grin on her face as she turned to give Boone a slap on his shoulder “We’ll doc, I guess we need to find a new name for these beaut’s, cus they ain’t white elephants anymore!”
==Weekly 321: Fallen Oak==
Lieutenant Kieran Blair slammed into the bulkhead like he’d been launched from a catapult. Shaking his head to try and stop whoever had decided that his skull made a perfect belfry to practice bell-ringing, Blair slowly replayed the last few hours to try and work out exactly what had just happened.
His ship, the Marathon-class cruiser Royal Oak had jumped into a system that only had a basic system ID to reinforce an advanced force that the rumour mill claimed to be Spartan’s, only to discover a bloody Covenant Flotilla waiting for them. Naturally, the veterans of Battlegroup Churchill, bloodied by New Constantinople and New Harmony, had responded to this situation in a manner that no doubt would give Admiral Cole a smile and had gone to Battlestations and bore in on the aliens. Especially as even from his position in the cruiser's point-defence control centre, nobody could’ve missed that the bastards had been sporting enough to be so spread out that they couldn’t provide a cohesive defence, as if they wanted to die for their gods.
Things had gone quickly after that, the ship's twin heavy MACs crashing out a constant barrage as the missile, plasma torpedo and fire from both sides point-defence weapons had cris-crossed the space between both sides as The Oak had led the Salamis and their escorting frigates into the Covenants meagre left flank, had sent their opponents to the cold embrace of the vacuum of space at the cost of all their Frigate’s, and had just come around to help the flagship deal with a fearsome ORS-class heavy cruiser when…
“Fuck,” the word fell from Blair’s lips as he realised that the ship had been hit by the enemy cruiser, and from how he’d been thrown across the compartment from his position above the port gun director, hit hard. And that meant that they’d have to reply in kind.
“Alright people, back to…” Blair began to shout, the ringing not quite gone from his ears as he began to the order to get his department back into the fight when the lights flickered, failed, and then were replaced by the red glow of the ship's emergency lighting.
No… no, no, no! The words stumbled drunkenly through his head even as the ringing was replaced by the one sound that a Navy sailor wanted to hear on a ship in battle, the howl of the abandon ship claxon.
“Lieutenant, you ok?” someone asked as a figure appeared over his prone form, the question of his merit as an officer snapping him back to his training. The ship was going down and his only job now was to get as many people off her alive before it was too late.
“I’m fine, we need to get everyone to the lifeboats, the nearest stations are…” Blair was interrupted in his orders as pain flooded through his left arm as he tried to haul himself off the deck and forced him back down to the metal as he realised that the question hadn’t been directed at his shock over the loss of the Oak, but instead at the now obvious wound he’d taken when they’d been hit and that the adrenaline pumping through his veins had done its best to mask.
“Easy sir, your shoulders busted real bad, let me help you up,” the voice explained as the figure grabbed him by his good arm and hauled him to unsteady feet. “Alright people you heard the LT, get to the lifeboats and get off this tub!” the voice boomed with an authority that could only be from Chief Petty Officer Inaba, the deck supervisor and the oldest sailor under Blair’s command. “Keep ahold of me sir, I’ll get you out of here,” Inaba said like a father talking to a child as he placed an arm on his shoulder, no doubt he figured Blair had a concussion, which by the racket still in his skull, he probably did. But just because he was injured didn’t mean he could shirk his duty to his people.
“No, you need to get to the lifeboat station and make sure everyone gets off safely, I’ll bring up the rear,” Blair retorted as he politely, but firmly used his one good arm to remove Inaba’s arm and gesture towards the lifeboat station. To some, Blair’s refusal of help despite his injuries might be considered an attempt to imitate one of those officers from the old stories who casually disregarded their wounds to continue to lead their men, but to him, it was a sound tactical decision. If the compartments between them and the Bumblebee’s were vented, then he wanted someone who could think clearly to find a way around. Briefly, Blair thought Inaba would argue the point and insist he stay with him, but then after reaching the same conclusion as his officer, the burly man nodded in consent.
“Got it, Ashton stick with the LT, rest of you follow me!” Inaba shouted as he started for the door, conceding the point, but showing his concern for Blair’s condition by assigning him an escort to make sure he also made it to a lifeboat.
“And Chief, tell the pilots not to land on the planet, the Covie’s fighters weren’t up here with us and I’d bet they’re down there harassing the Spartan’s so our best chance is to stay in orbit and wait for our birds to find us!” Blair added, momentarily the fog clearing enough to remember that the point-defence guns hadn’t seen any of the ubiquitous Banshee’s or Seraph’s that accompanied Covenant formations.
“Copy that sir,” Inaba replied before he disappeared from Blair’s sight as he led a growing procession of Naval personnel towards the relative safety of the lifeboats. Blair, accompanied by a nervous, but dutiful Crewman Ashton waited until nearly everyone had passed them before they staggered off after the others, each step seemed to take an effort that Blair could barely meet, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other. Despite this Blair occasionally needed Ashton’s help to steady him as the dying ship shuddered, no doubt distant bulkheads blowing out under the pressure of the ship's atmosphere against the vacuum of space.
Finally, after what felt like hours of walking around impassable compartments, but had only been a few minutes, Blair and Ashton finally arrived at the lifeboat stations, finding all bar one had already left, and Inaba standing at its door waiting for them to arrive.
“I was starting to get worried about you two, now c’mon, there's three seats left and this is the last boat outta here,” Inaba smiled as he reached out and helped Ashton steer Blair into a crash seat before he and the crewman secured themselves. Looking forward Blair locked gazes with the lifeboat Pilot, who by her Marine uniform, had probably been part of The Oak'’s security detachment. Blair was about to ask what she was waiting for before he realised she was waiting for him, the most senior person on the lifeboat, to give the order.
“Alright pilot, get us clear of her,” Blair said, forcing the words out as the adrenaline that had flooded his body finally started to wear off, unmasking all the pain of his injuries.
“Affirm, hold on back there,” the pilot announced as she turned back to the controls and initiated the launch sequence. Blair gritted his teeth for what came next and forced himself not to scream from the g-force as the Bumblebee cannoned out of its launch tube and flew clear of the ship before finally it slowed and stopped before it could fall into the planet's atmosphere, just as Blair had ordered. “Alright, we’re clear, I suggest that we break out the medkit and patch up any casualties, the last thing we need is anyone bleeding out whilst we wait for a pickup,” the pilot said prompting a sigh from most of the rest of the boat before the more able-bodied began floating around to treat their less fortunate colleagues.
Blair was fighting to stay conscious as the pain now unobstructed ran rampant through his body as he hung in his harness, silently thankful for the lack of gravity that made his wounds slightly more bearable. Despite his insistence that they help treat the others and let someone else deal with him, another Marine, a corpsman, focused on tending to his wounds which now consisted of a few definitely cracked, possibly broken ribs to go with his obviously broken shoulder, along with his now confirmed concussion.
“Good news people, whilst we’ve been sitting here, the Battlegroup kicked the crap out of the Covie’s and there's a bird from the Salamis coming to get us, so hang tight just a little longer and before long we’ll be getting cold ones on the house,” Inaba announced from where he’d taken post at the Lifeboats comm station to listen to the UNSC traffic, a smile growing on the older mans face before he turned to give Blair a respectful nod.
Blair let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding in. They were safe, and soon they’d been behind the armour of a Halcyon-class cruiser. Blair returned Inaba’s gesture, and then, lacking any further duty to do, permitted himself to finally pass out.
==Weekly 323: Life and death==
 This section takes place shortly after Spartan Ayrton-A384 had fallen from a catwalk in the reactor of the downed cruiser Pilgrim's Solace after an explosion caused him and Flotilla Commander Riko 'Kasamee to fall to the bottom of the reactor space during a mission to rig the reactor to destroy a large covenant ground force and deny them access to a Forerunner complex that the Spartan's had been sent to deny to the enemy. 
Slowly, Ayrton lifted himself off of the purple metal deck into a sitting position, his ears ringing with the sounds of his armour screaming warnings about his armour until he silenced them. He wasn’t sure exactly how far he’d fallen, but between the numerous things he’d hit on the way down and by the handful of failed sensors, a leak in the hydrostatic gel layer, and a warning over the integrity of his suits back plate, it had to have been quite far. At least his armour had taken the brunt of the damage, although he was certain he’d feel every blow he’d taken once the adrenaline wore off.
“Grizzly Team, this is Grizzly One, do you copy?” Ayrton called over the TEAMCOM as he stood, hoping to hear either Willow or Beth respond to tell him that their objective was completed and that they’d either come to find him, but only hearing static in return. “This is Grizzly One, can anyone hear me?” but still only static offered a reply. Opening the comm panel on his HUD, Ayrton confirmed that his armour was still transmitting his messages, meaning that either everyone was dead, or more likely the covenant reactor was leaking out enough radiation to interfere with the radio.
Oh for fucks sake! He was stuck alone in the bowels of a grounded Covenant cruiser with a leaky reactor above him that had just been rigged to blow, this was a fine spot to end up stuck in alone. Then, before Ayrton could workout his next step, a crashing sound snapped him back to his predicament as a red dot raced towards him. 
Spinning around, Ayrton had barely enough time to see a roaring Elite in white armour, the one he’d seen on the walkway before it had collapsed lunged at him with a wrist mounted energy dagger at him, instinctively Ayrton before he dove out of the path of the blade moments before it would have taken his head. 
Rolling as he landed, Ayrton immediately went for his side arm rather than try and find his Battle rifle with which he could have put the hinge head down with ease. But before he even had his M6 off its mag holder the Elites foot met his chest, kicking him hard enough to stagger him and send the pistol tumbling from his grip before unleashing a flurry of strikes that Ayrton was forced to backpedal to avoid.
The Elite was quick, very quick, and worse still it knew its weapon. Only Ayrton’s augmentations and luck had kept him alive but now without a pistol or rifle he was down to only a combat knife and the training that had been drilled into him. Diving out of the way of the next slash, Ayrton threw himself clear long enough to draw his blade before he was besieged again. He just needed an opening, one gap in the attacks and he could stick the blade in the Elites throat and end this duel in his favour.
But instead of keeping up the pressure, the Elite paused as if it was studying him then suddenly disabled its blade, confused Ayrton wondered why an Elite would willingly disable its weapon, then the reason became clear as the alien used its right hand to pull a weapon from behind its back. To Ayrton it looked like a vicious instrument, composed of a long metal dagger merged to a scimitars blade at its base and held with a curved handle, almost like a rifle's trigger guard between its two blunt edges. For a moment the Spartan wondered if the Elite was showing one of its species' rumoured acts of chivalry, but between the weapon's longer reach, its proven skill with a blade, and the murderous grin on its face it was clear the alien had decided to have some fun with him. And it would be Ayrton’s job to disappoint him.
For a moment the two opponents stared at one another then the Elite launched a stabbing attack at him which Ayrton dodged easily and was about to counter when, with a twist of its wrist brought the curved blade around forcing him to use his knife to block the strike. Another kick to the chest forced Ayrton back again and nearly opened him up to a downwards strike that had to backpedal to avoid, then roll to his left as the Elite stabbed at him again with the dagger prong. If the Elite was good with the energy dagger, then with this it was an expert. If it was an energy sword then he’d have been dead already.
Realising that he needed to force the initiative Ayrton, now on the Elites left flank went on the offensive and lunged at the elite’s open side. Only for the Elite to grab his blade hand with its open left and turned to bring its own weapon around. Ayrton slugged the alien in its mouth with a left hook and stunned it briefly as its shields flared, just long enough to free his right and prepare to bring his knife in for another attempt to land a blow. But the alien was just as good on the defence as it was at attack and rolled with the blow and spun around his own strike to try and deliver its own attack with the dagger which Ayrton only narrowly avoided, but could only watch in alarm as the curved blade scraped across his chest plate in a shower of sparks. Half a second later on his dodge and the elite would have done to him what he’d tried to do to it.
The Elite didn’t let up now, delivering a volley of back and forth slashes that forced Ayrton to backpedal rapidly towards a bulkhead to avoid having his throat slit, but he was waiting for an opportunity. And as the Elite began to move to swing the blade back from left to right, Ayrton dropped down and moved to break through its weakened shields and deliver a decisive blow by burying his knife in the aliens' exposed guts.
Ayrton felt the blade stab into gut before the pain exploded in him, he fought the urge to scream as he looked down to see the dagger-like prong buried in his side as every alarm in his helmet went off at once. The Elite had read him like a book, seen him telegraph his move, had dummied him into a mistake, had simply waited for him to walk into its strike, and now was about to gut him like a fish. Instinctively Ayrton’s left dropped to hold the blade in place, then he lashed out with his right to try and return the favour, only for the Elite to grab his right wrist and force the knife from his failing grip and into the growing pool of his own blood.
Then with what sounded like a chuckle the Elite shoved Ayrton onto his back, yanking the blade free as it did so. This time Ayrton lost the battle and let out a scream as the blade was pulled out of him as he crashed back onto the deck with enough force that his head whipped to the right, as his back struck the bulkhead the elite had been backing him into before he slid to the floor in a heap.
Ayrton’s vision clouded briefly as his body was flooded with pain, his head rang from his armour reporting on how much blood he was losing from the wound to his intestines, even as he clamped both hands over it. In the back of his mind he knew he should have been dead, his guts ripped out by the blade in one swift motion but the Elite clearly wasn’t done with him yet, and that thought just made him want to surrender to the pain and die before the Elite could deliver its coup de grâce.
Then through the haze of his vision, Ayrton spotted a smudge of gunmetal grey in the sea of purple metal. It was his pistol, kicked out of his grasp at the start of the fight, lying next to him, concealed from the Elites view by debris. Above him the Elite made that same chuckling sound as it bent down towards him, the blade stained in his blood in its right whilst its empty left forced his head around to make Ayrton stare the alien in the face, no doubt wanting its ugly mug to be the last thing he saw.
“Disappointing,” The Elite muttered in English as it raised the blade to finish him off, then it brought the blade down towards his head.
That was when Ayrton threw his last roll of the dice, his left arm shot up from his wound and stopped the blade and forced it aside as his right grabbed the elite by its chest plate to pull it in range for a headbutt that cracked Ayrton’s visor in exchange for dropping its shield. His opponent briefly stunned, the Spartan’s right hand let go of the Elite and dove to snatch up pistol, thumbed the safety and brought the weapon around as the alien roared angrily as it pulled its sword arm free and was about to deliver a killing blow. Only to have Ayrton shove the gun into its mouth and pull the trigger.
The top Elites skull exploded in a purple cloud as the round blew the aliens brains out of its skull as its lifeless corpse fell atop Ayrton, who could only groan as he struggled to shift this new weight. The Elite had been an excellent swordsman who should have killed him with ease, and Ayrton knew it, but so had the alien and its sure confidence in its victory had been its undoing.
Looks like I’m not the only one who was too sure of himself! Ayrton reminiscing on the words Carter had told him before this mess had happened, forcing a chuckle from him which he immediately regretted as he clasped his left hand over the wound in his chest as he dropped to one knee, his vision doubled briefly from the pain as he used his right to stop him crashing back to the deck.
His armour was still blazing warnings at him as his blood pressure continued to fall, a reminder that he might still join the Elite in death. Quickly he fished out his armour's small med kit and applied the small canister of biofoam to the wound. Compared to his wound, the pain of the biofoam was tolerable as Ayrton only had to grit his teeth to cope with it until the numbing properties took hold and his vision cleared. But even with the wound now sealed, he still had to keep his left hand pressed to the wound to stem the blood that was still leaking out, a worrying sign that the wound was much worse than it looked. Speaking of which, glancing down Ayrton could see the weapon still held in the Elites hand, and remembering ONI’s orders to ‘recover anything of value’ prized it free and secured it to one of his armour's mag mounts. Something to get the eggheads off my back at least.
Looking around, Ayrton spotted an open doorway and staggered towards it, then paused at the hatch to check his only weapon. The M6 was dented and still covered in the Elite's blood, if he ran into more Covie's and it jammed on him with one hand pinning his wound shut, it would be difficult to clear it. With difficulty Ayrton wedged the rear scope against his belt and pushed downwards, forcing the slide back and demonstrating that he could clear the weapon if he needed to. Then after taking a deep breath to compose himself, Ayrton hauled himself through the door and began to find his way out of the crashed ship.
Category:Falkeno