A Baptism of Sorts

May 20th, 2546
Sargasso
1300 Hours
“Ten seconds.” The words were met the noise of preparation; magazines were slammed home, slides were cocked, from the sounds of all the weaponry, one would expect a platoon to be inside the bulky transport craft known as a Pelican. One would think. 
In actuality it was only three, Katie-301, Reggie-291, and Lancaster-205. They were SPARTANs, humanity’s last and greatest hope of survival in the face of extinction at the hand of the Covenant Empire. Abducted at age four and replaced with a flash clones, which would die within months, these super-soldiers were put through the harshest training known to man, enhanced with augmentations that killed and mutilated the unlucky ones, strapped into advanced armor, then, stepped onto the fields of war at age 14. They were the best. They had to be. 
Lancaster held his MA5B assault rifle loosely at his side, to normal soldiers this weapon required both hands, but to SPARTANs like him it may as well have been a toy. He still used both hands to fire it, every round counted against the Covenant. They couldn’t afford a miss. “Objectives are clear. Land. Defend the evacuation site. Then, push into enemy lines. Simple shit SPARTANs, I know you can handle it.” The voice echoing through the SPARTANs of Maroon Team belonged to Lieutenant Commander Silas Thomas. Silas was their handler, and may as well have been their owner along with the rest of the Office of Naval Intelligence. 
Katie looked to Reggie and nodded reassuringly. The two of them had always been together, had always been Maroon, Lancaster had not. During augmentations they lost Frank-288, and Lancaster had replaced him. Originally Lancaster-205 had been a part of Cobalt Team, along with Marcus-226, and Jason-243, but they were both gone now. His brothers who he’d been through hell with were gone. Silently, Lancaster watched as the rear door of the Pelican lowered, letting in the light of Sargasso’s sun, casting it’s glow over the olive MJOLNIR MKIV armor worn by the titanic teenage warriors. “Let’s move Maroon!” Katie exclaimed, jumping from the Pelican, followed by Reggie, then Lancaster.
Landing with a thud, the 7’1 super-soldier rose up from his landing position and looked about. Death was everywhere. The site was at the edge of a burning city. He stood where the last of the colony’s population were supposed to be protected as they were taken off the forsaken world. One could mistake it for a mass grave. The UNSC Marine Corps troopers and the civilians they had been sent to defend were strewn about. The marines were all but decimated. Of those not yet dead some were slumped against walls, barely holding up their weapons. Others had thrown themselves over a group of civilians to shield the innocents. A futile gesture, Covenant plasma would go right through them.
Katie ordered Lancaster and Reggie to spread out with a series of hand gestures. They’d get people to safety when the red dots on their radars disappeared. With his rifle raised, Lancaster moved in the direction of a cluster of the dots. 
He stepped over the mangled bodies and groaning survivors, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the group of froglike aliens with massive tanks of gas on their backs. They were the smallest breed of the Covenant at five feet max, and they also would eat anything. Another man would likely vomit at the site of the grunts tearing into a group of bodies, one alive and screaming in agony. Not Lancaster, he was a SPARTAN. There was a wet crunch as his foot crushed the skull of a fallen grunt. Fluorescent blue blood splashed up onto his armor and the grunts feasting on the carnage turn towards him looking at him in absolute terror. 
He squeezed the trigger. Suddenly, his rifle began to lightly thump against his shoulder spitting 5.56 rounds into the aliens. They jerked back, squealing in surprise as the bullets punched holes in their black leathery skin, oddly colored blood spurting from the fatal injuries. He didn’t let go until the rifle simply let out a click noise instead of bullets. He knew he was out of ammunition, but reloading took too long. One grunt, its arm torn clean off by the hail of lead, turned to run. Lancaster yanked it up by its head into the air.
The SPARTAN’s massive armored hand easily wrapped around the diminutive alien’s skull, and squeezed until a resounding pop was heard. Blue blood spattered along his forearm and chest as he dropped the alien’s limp corpse. Mashing the eject with his thumb, the weapon’s sixty round magazine fell from the weapon and clattered onto the pavement as he slammed a new one home. The indicator lit up with a big ‘60’ and he whipped around to see the one survivor of the grunt’s gruesome activities. If you could call the condition the man was in surviving. Clawing his way out of the pile of bodies, he dragged himself away, tears of agony streaming down his face.
His stomach had been ripped open his entrails dragging alongside him, his right thigh had been mangled so that bone was visible, and his left leg had been ripped off at the shin. Lancaster aimed and fired, the round slammed into the man’s skull and he went limp. It was a mercy killing plain and simple. “Clear on my end.” Lancaster broadcasted, looking across the site to Katie and Reggie, both finishing off grunts with ease. “Same here.” Reggie replied back. 
“Form up, on me.” Katie ordered, her voice stark and indifferent to the suffering about them. They had known what to expect. Lancaster jogged over to his team leader along with Reggie, then stood quietly. “We don’t have the manpower to carry out the objective and push them back. You two stay, I’ll buy you some time.” Katie stated, selflessly offering herself up as sacrifice for the good of the many.
“Negative, I’ll do it. It’s what I’m good at.” Lancaster interjected before she could continue, his eyes set on the M90 CAWS shotgun she held nonchalantly in her right hand, then to the light machine gun cradled in Reggie’s arms. Close quarters and heavy weapons specialists, he was an assault specialist, pushing people back was what 205 was good at. “No, I’m not sending one of my soldiers to their deat-” She was cut off when Lancaster set an armored hand on her shoulder plate. “We need more leaders. Alive.”
Her shoulders slacked, her chin dropped, she knew Lancaster was the one for the job, but every part of her didn’t want to admit it. “Copy, good luck 205…” Her voice trailed off weakly, it wasn’t right, this was the duty of SPARTANs, fight and die for humanity, but not so soon, no on their first mission. The bit of child in her not stamped out by the UNSC fantasied of Maroon Team one day winning the war together, though the third SPARTAN she imagined with them was still Frank. But Lancaster was family too, all SPARTANs were family. 
She didn’t know what else to say as 205’s hulking figure turned and began walking towards the burning city. “Give ‘em hell SPARTAN.” Reggie whispered over the team’s private frequency, slamming his fist against his chest while civilians and marines watched on, still believing the myth; that SPARTANs never died.
They’d all heard rumors of SPARTANs, but to see not one but three was something else, but as far as they knew, SPARTANs never died. No one had seen it happen, they’d heard stories of hundreds of Covenant falling before the mighty warriors of humanity, but never of them falling.
It wasn’t hard for Lancaster to step up, not only had he been trained for this inevitability, but he was also completely alone in his own mind. Jason and Marcus had been a phenomenal team together, Lancaster simply ran interference for them, he was a third wheel to the duo, but they were still his closest friends. Being the introvert he was, he’d rarely socialized outside Cobalt, Maroon had never taken for him.
Placing the rifle onto his back, he released the grip as magnetized plates pulled the weapon onto him and held it in place, then broke into a jog. A jog to him anyway, to the normal humans it looked like a dead sprint. Scorched buildings and burned out cars were a blur in his peripheral vision, all irrelevant, the Covenant were bound to launch an assault soon, and they wouldn’t be taking it slow, he’d see them on radar.
Or he’d just see them. Jumping into an alley and rolling back up into a standing position he felt his heart race. Peeking out from around the wall he confirmed his fear, an armored column, heading right for the evac point. Bulbous blue Wraith tanks, hovering above the ground as they slowly moved forwards. Lancaster had put a good few kilometers between himself and the other SPARTANs with his run, he had some time. Some.
Scanning the area his eyes fixated on the tube shaped all glass skyscraper before him, and a sly smirk grew underneath his gold visor. The tanks were still a good distance away, he doubted they’d hear him punching through the glass and stepping into the building.
As he moved in, glass crunched beneath his boots, despite the raging war, the building was still pristine and clean aside from a few papers strewn about. The structure was built around a central column, which made it absolutely perfect for what had had planned. 
1430 Hours
	Moving slowly down the streets, the Wraith’s crawled along, grunts walking alongside the tanks as escorts along with jackals, the avian-like aliens which carried an energy shield an a small plasma pistol or were snipers. All was calm, they were carrying out the holy will of their prophets with zealous efficiency, the human defenses had collapsed beneath their mighty assault, and now they were going to stomp those that remained into dust with a rain of plasma. Or so they thought.
Suddenly fire spat from one of the buildings as an explosion thundered inside it, the heat was ferocious, the grunts and jackals shielded their faces from the burning sensation, but the fire was the least of their concerns. Soon the groan of metal bending and slipping filled the air, as the 200 story skyscraper began to lean further and further before crashing into another building, sending glass raining onto the streets. The grunts squealed and jackals squawked, then the chunk of building fell.
It seemed to fall in slow motion, slamming into the wide street, crashing on top of the tanks. Dust and blue fire burst into the air, and alien screams were everywhere. Thermals on. As a cloud of dust settled, Lancaster’s hulking figured stepped through the rubble, walking over the crushed carcasses of Wraiths. 
The attack hammered the tanks, but the infantry, though in disarray, were still present. His rifle kicked against his shoulder as he put a round into the head of a grunt. Squawking, a jackal spun towards him, shield raised, and opened fire with its pistol. Ducking and rolling right, Lancaster avoided the scorching projectiles and opened fire. 
The rounds slammed the shield, but merely pinged off, and before he could adjust his fire, a bolt struck his side. The plates of his armor dispersed the heat, but it still hurt as he whipped around and put a trio of rounds into the grunt shooter. Another bolt caught him dead in the chest, the jackal. Charging forward he rammed his shoulder into the ground and sent the jackal skidding across the ground. Pumping a burst into the creature, he turned his attention to the targets spraying wildly into the dust storm, they couldn’t see him, but he sure as hell saw them.
Leveling his weapon he opened up, shell casing’s spitting from his weapon as he sprayed with a sense of joy. This was war, this was what he was meant for. Suddenly a rapid burst of plasma cut through his rifle and burned into his forearm. He grimaced and dropped the now useless weapon and clutched his arm, looking to see the source of his pain. It stood at nearly his height, its knees went the opposite way they were supposed to, it looked almost reptilian, and its jaw was split into four mandibles. An elite. He’d only read about them, they were the best.
Whipping an M7 off of his right thigh he squeezed the trigger, the weapon spat rounds into his enemy as he darted back and forth, avoiding fire. The elite was protected by a shining barrier of energy, shields, and they only popped after he’d put half the clip into the monster. Ripping the M7 from his other thigh he finished of the elite, the rounds shredding through the remaining armor and flesh and spewing purple blood into the air as the monster fell back.
Before Lancaster had time to recuperate, as series of projectiles slammed into his back, the majority of the volley shattering on impact, but three pierced his armor. Something had just gotten through the inch thick protective suit. They were buried in his back, and it hurt. Worse when they exploded.
The suit fought to seal itself as fragments flew through his insides. His mind screamed in pain as he whipped around and spewed rounds into his foe. This one was different, amidst the whirling dust he could still tell this one was clad in ornate white armor, and unlike the previous elite, his shields didn’t collapsed as Lancaster’s clips ran empty. Before the elite could reload he rushed, shoulder down, right into the alien’s stomach. Instead of falling the beast simply staggered, dropping its weapon then driving its knee into Lancaster’s visor.
It cracked. Jerking back, Lancaster’s head throbbed and his vision blurred, but he could make out the dual pronged energy weapon ignite in his foe’s hand. “Shit.” He uttered, ducking under a lunge at his head, then catching the hoof kicking at his head. He pulled and the elite fell, only to swipe his legs out from under him. The SPARTAN fell onto his back, grunting as the elite rose up and plunged the blade down. He didn’t have time to react, white hot plasma went through his abdomen. Lancaster went limp, the alien roared in victory, and that was it. Or so the alien thought. 
205’s hand shot up to his shoulder and yanked out his combat knife, then plunged it into the elite’s knee. For a moment the shield held against the blade, like when one pressed their finger against rubber, but then it went through. The shield collapsed and the blade went with a wet squelch, slicing through skin and muscle, severing ligaments. As the Covenant warrior jerked his leg back, the serrated blade simply carved through more of his leg. With his free hand Lancaster wretched the plasma rifle off the first elite and opened fire into the ultra’s chest.
Even Covenant armor boiled away against plasma, and this bastard was no exception. Jerking back, the elite fell. Lancaster didn’t stay to see if he was dead, he go the hell up, and he ran, leaving his knife in its leg.
He didn’t make it too far, augmented speed and stamina failed as he dropped, crashing to the ground, grinding against the cement, clutching his stomach in sheer agony. He looked down, his once shining green armor was now scarred, dented, parts of it melted and malformed, and sections painted in alien blood. He looked down where the blade had ran through him, and there was no blood, it had been cauterized instantly, but the crystalline projectiles did leave blood, a trail of blood was laid out behind him. 
Sitting upright, he propped himself against a wall and looked back towards the landing site. He could not see nor hear any signs of conflict there, he hoped they’d stayed put and not come after him. Lancaster knew they hadn’t, but it was nice to think they cared. No, there were no signs of battle, but a Covenant vessel hanging in low orbit was about to change that.
There was a bright light, and a thunderous roar, his visor increased to max polarization to shield his eyes but he still had to squint as a column of plasma slammed into the ground where the evacuation site rested. Glassing. He’d read about the stuff, and he knew what it did. Within an instant, Reggie, Katie, and every soul at that site had been burned away to ash. “No…” He managed to mutter weakly. 
They were gone, and again he was alone. “SPARTAN-205, I repeat SPARTAN-205 can you hear me?” A voice questioned as his COM came to life. Thomas. Lancaster was silent, everyone around him died, it was a miserable existence and not one he wished to continue. There was no point in answering, he’d die along with the rest of Sargasso. “Lancaster answer me damn it!”
There was desperation in the Commander’s voice, fear, concern. He gave a damn about the fourteen year old supersoldier. Someone cared. 
Sighing, Lancaster opened his end of the COM. “I’m hit bad, but I’m up.” He coughed, blood spattering across the inside of his visor, slouching against the wall. “Oh thank God, alright we’ve got a team heading your way, just stay put.” 
They were coming for him, Lancaster had survived when others had not. Hadn’t seen that coming.