Halo Spotlight: Brandon Smith

He could smell the decay and rot everywhere, looming like an ever-present companion. Death.
Had it been months? Years? He wasn't sure any more. It all blended together now. Endless hours of grueling labor and cruel punishments, mixed with screams and pain, abuse, mocking laughter, slopping rations. It was some hellish nightmare, day in, day out, day in, day out...
It was ending now. Pushing himself out of the mud, he saw the plan was working. All around him, the prisoners scrambled about, lashing out at the Jiralhanae slavers as best as their weak bodies would allow. Only a handful of them had weapons and they bore no clothing, but they fought with as much fury as they could muster. But it wouldn't be enough.
He could see them everywhere, even as he slipped and scrambled through the mud and gore. Corpses, all around him. Kneeling to hide from the guards, the dead bodies were inches from him and it terrified him. He'd known these people, strained alongside them, and now they were throwing their lives away. Could he make a difference? Could he save any of them? He didn't know.
A Jiralhanae warrior roared nearby, breaking through a compound wall and sending rubble scattering across the field. Adrenaline strained through his veins, compelling him to run as best he could. The exhaustion was getting to him. He wouldn't last much longer.
At last, he saw it. The ultimate goal of the revolt: a slaver's shuttles. Other slaves had reached it, but three Brutes guarded it vigilantly, easily deflecting the attacks. He paused. Could he risk his life again, when risks like this had got him here?
Fear. The only other constant he'd known on this desolate rock besides death. He had lived in fear ever since his ship and crew crashed, surviving on scavenged meat and dirty water for ages only to end up kidnapped like some animal. The remnants of his resolve flared. There was no turning back now.
He grabbed a metal shard and angled a charge at the Brutes. Distracted by the swarming prisoners, he hoped to surprise them from behind. But as he neared, one of the Jiralhanae turned, his keen nose picking up his no-doubt potent scent, and raised his gun.
He wanted to freeze in fear, to lay down and hope for escape, but he knew there would be none this time. He steeled himself and continued charging, knowing it was foolish. But as he did, another slave threw his own dagger at the beast, allowing him to slice the slaver's wrist and leg. Crying out, the Jiralhanae bent to maul him, but the prisoner stabbed upward and skewered the Brute through his unguarded jaw and his brain.
But now he had no energy left, wounded in leg and arm. The other guards turned to look, but their confusion allowed the prisoners to swarm them harder. With his final resolve, the prisoner began to crawl towards the shuttle entrance until another slave aided him. A half dozen slaves crowded through the doors while the others attacked the guards.
But here, on the edge of freedom, he felt it. Death.
He was one of the only slaves that knew how to pilot the ship. As his consciousness slipped from the pain, he forced them to take him to the front. Forcing himself to remember what to do, he saw the viewscreens: the slavers were closing in. He knew what to do.
Programming the lift off was simple. The coordinates only slightly harder. But the final step... he hesitated. Could he do it? After all this pain and hardship, could he make this call? Did he have that right?
He made his decision and hit launch, starting to close the bay doors. The slaves realized this and scrambled to get inside. Two made it before it closed, while a third noticed as he lost his arm. The craft lifted with but eight passengers, moving out into the atmosphere and then space.
He started to slip from consciousness. What right had he to leave them all behind? Their pain was the same as his. What made him special? The choice would haunt him forever, he knew. But he also knew without this there was no chance to save them all.
As he heard wailing and angry cries, he faded into unconsciousness.
----
The lights were bright as he came to, far brighter than the shuttle or space. Slowly, the world blurred into focus. It was UNSC medical facility around him. He saw a nurse realize he was awake and rush for a doctor. His vision faded, then came back. The doctor had arrived and was saying something to him.
"Brandon Smith", he heard. That's right. That was his name. She was asking him what had happened. What had he seen? But his consciousness began to slip away again: his mind hadn't recovered yet. What he'd seen was too much for him.
After all, could he even describe it? There had been too much lost, too much pain. And at that moment, it occurred to him that this looming feeling of death would never leave...
Category:The Weekly