Bastille Day
D+ 7:52
Sierra G308 Mission Clock
Dionysus VII {Lightly Reconnoitered Extragalactic Space}
April 14th, 2561 [Military Calendar]
The SPARTAN's MJOLNIR Mk. 7 Recon armor made almost no sound as he traversed the ridge overlooking the broken down facility. The mission was a milk run, an obligatory solo job so ONI could evaluate his fieldcraft and sabotage skills before assigning him to a permanent unit. He dropped to prone and detached the SA-K19 Antipersonnel Sniper Weapons system from the magnetic clips on his armor's backplate. The SPARTAN aimed down his sight, toggled night vision, and surveyed the Covenant prison camp.
The wall around the facility was so low and decrepit that it was a wonder the prison had any prisoners left at all. Had the cells been filled with any creature except Unggoy the jailers would have made an effort to repair the facilities but seeing as the last Sanghelli prisoners had been transferred away there was no point. The SPARTAN zoomed in further: a clutch of Kig-Yar chittered at each other around a portable induction heating unit and numerous brutes patrolled the perimeter. Easy pickings. Deftly he wiped the frost from his Oracle scope and prepared to fire. Three hand-loaded, sabot-stabilized rounds whizzed away from the SPARTAN's position on the ridge.
Chur'Chim'a was about to launch into another practiced diatribe about how terrible this posting was when the induction heater he had hauled out into the courtyard exploded in front of him, obliterating him and his Covy brethren. Two brutes turned and bolted towards the commotion, a duck, or perhaps a diving roll, could have spared them,t but they didn't have time to think about that as the SPARTAN's meticulously ranged shots tore through them.
The SPARTAN slid down the cliffside cradling the rifle in his gauntleted hands. The crisp air mixed with the distinctive smell of dead brute as he took long, slow breaths through his helmet's vents. He picked his way across the courtyard policing weapons and ammo. He then made his way to the first in a complex of buildings and flattened himself against the wall. The SPARTAN rounded a corner and stopped short, the air shimmered in front of him. Active Camo. A brute stalker, no doubt.
The SPARTAN drew his combat knife, a thin layer of frost already forming on the blade from brief exposure the elements.With purpose the SPARTAN rose and plunged the knife into the area around the cloaked enemy's neck. The blade rebounded with a clatter as the active camo failed, revealing an aging Covenant portable antenna with a camo generator strapped to it. The SPARTAN swore under his breath as unintelligible alerts rang out across the camp. The howl of a Brute Chieftain's war cry joined the din.
A squad of Skirmishers sped towards the site of the rigged antenna, the SPARTAN ducked as a barrage of blamite hurtled past his head. He rose from cover wielding his M6VS Silenced Magnum in one hand and a scavenged Plasma Rifle in the other. Swiftly the Skirmishers fell. A small contingent of Brute infantry moved up and ducked behind a purple ammo crate. The SPARTAN had only a moment to ponder why the brutes weren't attacking when a Type-26 Assault Gun Carriage barreled towards him from an the left. The ground shuddered and the SPARTAN was showered with pearlescent Covenant alloy as the Wraith's first globule of plasma missed him and struck the wall he had been behind moments earlier.
The SPARTAN looked at the Wraith, then at the brutes in cover further down the corridor between the main prison structures. With a nod he lowered the blast shield that was perched atop his helmet into place and sprinted down the corridor. His shields flared as his armor was peppered with fire from the Brute's Spikers. As expected the Wraith boosted to follow him down the corridor and (also as expected) lodged itself between the two buildings. One of the Brutes ran for him, dropping his Spiker and growling. The SPARTAN drew his magnum and fired several glancing shots at the berserked brute. Again he called upon his combat knife, driving it into the Brute with deadly results. The momentum from the contact allowed the SPARTAN to spin in air and land a quick hit on the second, covered, brute with his Magnum. The Brute rose, poised for battle, the SPARTAN grabbed the barrel of Brute's spiker and pushed it upwards directly into the Brute's face. The creature's shields flared and fizzled with the impact and a swift shot from the SPARTAN's magnum finished that fight.
Plasma fire from the crippled Wraith whizzed down the corridor as the SPARTAN ducked behind the same crate that had shielded his assailant. They were shouting now, the gleeful horde of Unggoy imprisoned in the facility who had been watching the scene from the small windows in their cell blocks.The howling reminded the SPARTAN of his objective: Free and Arm the Unggoy prisoners. ONI's hope was that the vengeful Unggoy would slaughter their jailers and allow mankind and their allies to claim the world. Seeing no more enemies aside from the beached whale replica that was the Wraith the SPARTAN moved into the first cell block. A central control panel sat against one curved purple wall. The SPARTAN moved towards it and swiped his hand across the holographic display. Swiftly the plasma barriers fell and the Unggoy surged out. The SPARTAN was about to turn to admire his work when the Chieftain brought his hammer down on the SPARTAN's back.
The SPARTAN fell into a quickly expanding puddle of his own blood, his silver visor caved in with the impact and he spat bloody chunks of octuple laminated corning-glass out of his mouth. The Unggoy piled onto the Chieftain and wrestled his sidearm off of him. With practiced speed one of the Unggoy, a Deacon, charged and fired the Plasma Pistol at the Chieftain's head. In a vain attempt to dissipate the charged shot the Chieftain's shields overloaded and fell. Without his HUD the SPARTAN felt blind, he raised the bloody magnum with a shaking hand and leveled the notch sight with the Chieftain's hideous face. A shot rang out and the Chieftain recoiled as the bullet impacted and did its work.
The SPARTAN thought of biscuits, fluffy, instant rising biscuits. The biscuits served in the UNSC Dresden Fires' galley. He'd been told by an instructor that you had to think about something that made you happy when you were severely wounded. Supposedly the stimulation stopped your nerves from shutting down; but knowing the instructor she was probably just making sure her SPARTANs didn't die in anguish like her friends.
The biofoam injectors (something which his instructor's friends did not have) in the SPARTAN's suit activated and pulled him away from his blood loss induced fantasy. He searched in his mind for the proper contingency phrase. Remembered back to the stark white briefing room and the fuzzy SatMaps, and the explanation of why anyone would want to break into a prison. He found the phrase and powered up his ECom: "Bastille Day" he muttered.
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The gray-green objects came closer and closer to Kipflip, they moved like flying Baholan Swamp Crabs. [If only he had a rock.] The grunts darted down the plasma scarred corridors towards the main courtyard where the exciting objects were hovering. All at once the doors on the back of the objects hissed open. Kipflip had not seen a Sanghelli in many units but he felt its commanding presence. So as the Sanghelli in the iron armor jumped out of the object and landed gracefully on the ground below he and his brethren stopped in their tracks. The Sanghelli roared and the Unggoy coursed up the ramps and into the vessels.