- Sergeant Murph
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- Noble Legendary Member
Ah, hello again. It's been a looooooong time since I've updated this thread, and I feel it is my obligation to continue this fanfiction that I started more than a year ago (on my first day on B.net, I might add). It deserves an ending. I am going to continue it.
~Murph~
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Chapter Nine
Fears and Fanatics
What a mess I'd gotten myself into.
The situation had been bad enough before, but now it seemed to have peaked in my level of misery. With every moment that I spent in this base, my enemy's base, another part of me seemed to break, and the same damned rhetorical question floated amidst my sour thoughts.
Who am I?
Such a small question that lead to no answers. I wasn't Solonee, the most cowardly Honor Guard in the history of the Covenant itself. I wasn't Solonee the fierce heretic. I was simplyalone. Devoid of all I had once had.
But I had never had much anyway.
"You are weak, Solonee. You are no Honor Guard. You are not fit to protect these Hierarchs. You are not fit to stand in their presence."
For a moment, the memories replayed themselves once more. I could see it all vividly. The Brute, Janerus, his impossibly broad shoulders and menacing red eyes making me feel small. And then I saw my father. The one thing I had clung on to when all seemed lost in my miserable life. I reached outward with my hand, wanting to touch his face, the only part of him that was not armored and battle torn, one final time.
My hand snagged naught but air.
I sighed and shut my eyes tightly, and let the memories take me away.
---
There was only one route up the canyon walls and back onto flat ground: a long metallic lift that served as an elevator for infantry and vehicles alike. Not the most practical way to escort troops from their hideout in the abyss below, but it wasn't half bad for a job that had been done in less than two days.
Anderson glanced quickly around the lift at the other six squads of Marines, each with the same expression ridden with the same anticipation. Or was it fear? Anderson couldn't decipher. He glanced again at Burns, who looked more uneasy than a child getting a pair of socks for his birthday.
"What's the matter?" Anderson said quietly, trying not to smirk at Burns' horrified expression.
"Heights," he replied simply. He swallowed a lump in his throat and forced himself to gesture downward. "I don't like heights."
Despite himself, despite the battle that was about to take place, Anderson threw his head back and laughed. This was a kid that had trained since the womb to serve in the military, who wouldn't miss a sniper shot if he was blindfolded and down an arm. And he was afraid of heights.
"You know, I heard the Navy was talking about recruiting you for a new post," Anderson said wryly. Burns looked up. "What do they call them again? I think it was 'Orbital Drop Shock--"
"Not funny!" Burns' ears had turned red hot, but the entire squad was in stitches.
The elevator finally leveled with the top of the canyon, and Marines spilled off, taking to their posts all across the barren hillside. Turrets sprung from the ground, creating an inverted U around the perimeter of the canyon. A brigade of Warthogs were aligned some ways ahead, each equipped with driver and gunner.
They were ready.
---
Less than a mile ahead, a single Phantom descended down amongst the battle line. The transport had brought with it only two Elites, a Field Master, proud and prepared, and a war-battered, abnormally large Ultra.
The Field Master, Rymn Zanakee, folded his arms as the ship's gravity lift slowly descended him downward until his hooves smacked against the dirt. The Ultra landed beside him, his eyes narrowed until they were but slits that bore no mercy. Zanakee glared at him.
"The Prophets have willed your presence in this operation," the Zealot said. "But I fight alongside my battalion. You are not one of them. You are not welcome, Zens Kovalee. I know of your past." Kovalee turned the flaming gaze aside. His hands balled themselves into fists, so tightly that he nearly crushed his fingers. He normally wouldn't have let himself absorb the anger that was constricting him. He normally would have run this Elite through with his blade, and wouldn't give a second thought to dumping the body into a bottomless chasm. But he wasn't here to do that. He had a job to do.
Only one Sangheili would die by his hand today.
End Transmission
[Edited on 12.15.2009 5:43 PM PST]