Reprisal

Flame and smoke riddled the air, nothing but the smell of scorched metal and flesh, the crackling sound of the open fire being the only lullaby to those caught within its choking grasp. A sangheili crawled through the rubble, their broken body pushing off rubble and shards of metal as the Elite attempted to make its way away from the blackened wreck that used to be a Banshee.
The monotone tune of the crackling blaze was suddenly overwhelmed by the heavy footsteps belonging to the only kind of factory-born beast that roamed the battlefield that day. Smoke and dust gave way to reveal the wide and aerodynamic build of a HRUNTING Mk. III [S] Cyclops. 
“..and all the harm that I're e’er done- alas it was to none but me..”
The hoarse voice of the pilot came blasting through the vehicle’s speakers, each word laced with a thick and bellowing Scottish accent.
“..for all I're done for want of wit - To mem'ry now I can't recall.”
The Elite couldn’t help but look up at the towering six-teen feet of titanium and hydraulics in a mix of confusion and horror, the blackened blur of its silhouette almost resembling a malformed Mgalekgolo lacking a ‘head’.
The voice of the Scotsman had some tune to it, presumably that of a song to accompany the lyrics he was prattling, but it was so devoid of tuning and finesse it might as well have been a drunken babble with the occasional jingle. 
“A'richt, noo let's hae a look-see.”
With a hiss, the front of the tall two-legged walker opened up, swinging upwards with a characteristically hydraulic whir. Out from the cockpit crawled out a tall man clad in a padded tan suit with wide and tall green armor shoulder pads, a glistening golden visor blocking the visage of the Hellbringer.
Maneuvering his way down from the Cyclops, Tavish landed down onto the mud turned cracked adobe with a weighty and crisp ‘thud’. The true height of the man became apparent, and the fact that he was missing a leg - a metallic imitation of a knee, shin and foot protruding out from his left thigh.
For a moment, the Elite stood incredibly still, thinking that the human hadn’t noticed it crawling out from the wreckage of the fuselage they once called their aircraft.
“C'moan noo - ah kno ye'r aroond 'ere, somewhere. Wid it be better if ah counted tae ten?”
The Hellbringer stepped closer, footstep after footstep cracking the ground beneath him, cracking burnt mud and blazened bones.
“Twent-ee then?”
Spotting a nearby Plasma Rifle, the Elite took no time to lunge forward to grab the armament, managing to grasp it in its four-fingered hand and aiming up. What they hadn’t quite realized was that in the few seconds it took for them to grab the rifle and point it up at their target, the Hellbringer had managed to close the distance - meeting the alien’s two left mandibles with the hardened titanium of his prosthetic knee.
“Foun’ ye.”
The Elite immediately let go of the Plasma Rifle and grasped onto their now shattered mandibles, letting out a shriek of pain only to then manage to mumble something in a language that the Hellbringer couldn’t understand.
“Ye'll hae tae forgive me fur nae taking mah dictionary wi' me.”
The human swung and punted the Elite down with their right hand, knocking the once-honorable warrior onto the ground for a moment.
“Whit wis that?” The Hellbringer snarked.
With a grumble and wince, the Elite sat back up weakly - snorting at the human standing before him.
“Disgraceful human filth - treading on holy ground, forsaking the very air with the fumes of your heresy!”
At this point, the Hellbringer couldn’t help but chuckle and tilt his head curiously at the bitter warrior, letting them go on further with their tirade.
“You and your kind - undisciplined and weak, much alike vermin - nothing but a poisonous blight upon the road to the Great Journey!” The Elite blurted out with a high, condescending tune of superiority within each syllable spoken.
“Weak? Le’ me tell ye aboot weak.”
The Hellbringer took a knee and leaned down towards the mangled Sangheili, the wide frown inside his helmet tightening as the bridge of his nose wrinkled in ire.
“Weak ur th' ones wha prey upon th' wee 'n' defenseless, unarmed civilians - bairns.”
His fist tightened.
“Ye'll fin' none o' that 'ere, nae th'day - nae fae me.” 
Then came the swing.
“For Ortiz.”
Then another.
“For Misha.”
The knuckles of his glove became tinted with purple blood, soaking into the fire retardant fabric.
“For Estes.”
The blows became less rhythmic and more savage with each swing.
“For Mays.”
Vile and meaty sounds of impact came from the punted head of the Elite, cushioned only by the dribbling blood flowing down their face.
“For Bradshaw.”
The 8 feet tall beast of an alien was already motionless by now, the fleshy impacts now accompanied by bones cracking and giving way.
“For Shepherd Company.”
Then one last swing.
There'd be no weakness from Tavish Gillday Glessner that day.
Just reprisal and blood.