Pain. That was what Jorge noticed first. All over his body, a persistent, dull ache. He slowly opened his eyes, and took in the lovely close up of the dirt and rotting leaves an inch beneath his visor. Pushing himself up, Jorge got to his feet, albeit somewhat shakily. Spartan he may be, but a fall from that kind of altitude was never fun, and his body was making sure to remind him of that. Steadying himself, Jorge looked around to try and get his bearings. Unsurprisingly, he found himself in the middle of a dense forest, surrounded by thick underbrush and towering trees. It appeared that the sun was beginning it's descent, a few faint golden rays poking through the trees from the east. Or maybe it was dawn. Jorge had no way of knowing where the sun rose and set in this strange new place. He looked up, studying the mountain visible far above him, and could see the form of the carrier draped across it's forested slopes. With his destination in sight, the Spartan began to walk, his gait somewhat awkward as his bruised and battered body ached in protest to the movement. Jorge quickly got over it. He was no stranger to pain, and was used to pushing his body when it wasn't feeling very cooperative.
As he trudged through the thicket, he kept his head on a swivel, taking in every detail. Plants of every shape and size stuck out in inconvenient places, leaving no real path for him to follow. The supersoldier noticed that he did not recognize any of the local flora, which further confirmed for him that he was not on Reach. Jorge wondered how he would survive in an environment where he did not know what was or was not edible? He didn't even know if the atmosphere was breathable. How would the Spartan test these things? Hopefully there was some form of intelligent, non-hostile life form that would be willing to help him out. Yeah right. Jorge thought skeptically. He doubted he would find anything other than pissed off Covenant soldiers. That, of course, was the other reason to keep alert. The supersoldier was unarmed except for the M6G pistol on his hip, and he really wanted to ensure he was equipped with something more substantial should he encounter survivors from the ship's crew.
As the soreness across Jorge's body gradually wore off, his pace quickened, and his movements became more fluid. He silently picked his way through the forest, moving surprisingly quietly for an 8 foot behemoth in bulky power armor. His stealth was the result of hundreds of exercises conducted on Reach during his childhood, he and his Spartan brothers and sisters working together to evade and outsmart their instructors as they hunted each other through Reach's various environments, using only what meager equipment they were dropped off with and whatever they could steal and scavenge from the training staff.
Jorge breathed a contented sigh at the thought of his fellow Spartans. He swelled with pride at his actions, sacrificing himself to save his kin. And the best part was he wasn't even dead! Granted, being stuck on an alien world with no idea how to get back to Reach wasn't ideal, but given the alternative, Jorge wasn't in the mood to complain. All in all, things had turned out much better than he had expected. Live to fight another day, he thought to himself. Spartans were nothing if not practical.
Jorge was snapped from his reverie by the subtle crunch of footsteps through the vegetation. He quickly slid into a patch of dense, thorny bushes, concealing himself with barely any noise at all. He stared towards the direction of the footsteps, only to notice that they had suddenly stopped. As the Spartan swept his view slowly back and forth, a small twitch caught his eye. His eyes snapped back to where he thought he saw the movement, and studied the patch of foliage intensely, not daring to so much as blink. The leaves shifted again, and then he saw it: long, avian snout, a head full of ruffling feathers, and beady yellow eyes. A Skirmisher.
The creature sniffed the air, cocking it's head slightly in a jerky, bird-like manner. It slowly inched it's way out of the underbrush, moving in a perfect silence that not even Jorge could hope to match, it's long, multi-jointed legs striding forward carefully. It was no wonder the Skirmisher had been alerted to his presence; Kig-Yar such as Skirmishers and their smaller Jackal cousins had excellent senses of smell, sight, and hearing. Even the minimal amount of noise he had made had been enough to tip off his hunter. They were excellent trackers, and were often the bane of careless marines. Though physically rather frail, they were still a nasty addition to any Covenant force.
As the Skirmisher stalked nearer, Jorge slowly reached a hand towards a small branch, and deftly snapped it with his fingers. The Skirmisher jerked it's head in his direction, growling and clicking in it's own language. It drew it's weapon, a Type-25 plasma pistol, and leveled it in his general direction, approaching cautiously. Sweat beaded together on Jorge's forehead. He would have to do this quickly.
The Kig-Yar slowly but steadily closed the distance between the two warriors, sniffing the air as it came closer. It took another step, and suddenly the bushes in front of it exploded, a massive green and orange juggernaut rushing out to meet it like a freight train. The alien yelped and jumped backward, getting off a single shot that spattered uselessly against the MJOLNIER armor's energy shields. The Spartan caught the Skirmisher by it's leathery throat, and with a single movement snapped it's neck as easily as the twig he had used to grab it's attention. As the body went limp in his hand, Jorge tossed it into the foliage where he had been hiding. No use alerting any of it's friends to his presence.
He crouched down, scooping up the Skirmisher's dropped pistol. It's smoothe, almost elegant design seemed to indicate that it was anything but a weapon. Jorge knew better. All of the Covenant's designs may look pretty and organic, but those particular aesthetic choices now represented death and destruction to any human who saw them. Though the plasma pistol was not exactly the most formidable weapon he had ever wielded, it would do for the time being. Stowing the alien handgun, Jorge continued on his way, albeit far more carefully now. His fears of Covenant survivors having been confirmed, he would now need to exercise caution to avoid walking into a situation he wasn't prepared for. However, this meant slowing down considerably. Jorge had been fairly content with his progress before, but now he felt as though he was crawling along at a snail's pace.
He picked his way through the ever-darkening forest, doing his best not to step on anything that would give away his position. A few times he would step on a hidden branch or a dry leaf, and cringe as he heard the vegetation crack beneath his armored boot. But it seemed lady luck was on the Spartan's side for the moment, as he had not yet run into any more Covenant soldiers. Jorge hoped against hope that his good luck would hold, at least until he found a larger gun.
As he continued his journey towards the looming mountain, the Spartan listened closely to the sounds of the wilderness. There was definitely some form of native life in this world, as Jorge could hear the various animalistic cries and calls of creatures echoing throughout the trees, and he could hear the scurrying of small animals throughout dense underbrush around him and in the thick canopy of leaves above him. These sounds brought him back once again to the question of his survival. Would he be able to eat anything here? Would these native animals even have the same basic biological functions as him? What if they relied on photosynthesis, or filter-fed? The Spartan shook his head. He would cross these bridges when he came to them.
Suddenly, a loud roar shattered the relative quiet of the forest. Jorge instinctively dove for cover, landing face down in a patch of tall grass. The roar brought back unpleasant memories of guta attacks on Reach. Jorge had no problem facing down alien commandos armed with powerful energy weapons, attacking armored columns of tanks, or storming well-defended fortresses, but there was something about the unbridled ferocity and brutality of a non-sentient predator that Jorge found unsettling. Sure, a human can be dangerous if you put a gun in his hands, but some creatures were born dangerous, already equipped with all the tools necessary to be a lethal hunter. Jorge was not a man who scared easily. But he would be lying if he said he was at all comfortable knowing he shared the same square mile as whatever had made that noise.
He would have been content to lay there in the grass for a while, had he not then heard the unmistakable whine of plasma fire, followed by another bellow from whatever sort of creature was out there. With a sad sigh, Jorge pushed himself to his feet, and began moving through the vegetation towards the sounds of the fight. Though he tried to approach quietly, he prioritized speed, arriving at the scene in a matter of seconds. The soldier lithely slid into a dense patch of fan-shaped ferns, and then looked out towards the spectacle unfolding in front of him.
A Sangheili minor stood amid a fire team of Skirmishers, firing it's plasma repeater in short, controlled busts as it issued orders to it's squad in deep, guttural yells. Jorge followed the streams of plasma fire, and his eyes widened in shock. A huge, charcoal grey crocodilian was tearing through the trees toward the Covenant troops, purple blood staining the yellowed fangs that jutted out from it's gums. Massive spikes and scales decorated it's thick hide, and the thing's eyes seemed to glow a malevolent scarlett. It's muscular legs propelled it forward at a speed that didn't seem possible for such a large beast.
The Elite shouted another quick order to it's troops before diving to the side, out of the crocodilian's path. Most of the Skirmishers managed to jump out of the way as well, but two of them weren't quite fast enough; the Kig-Yar were quickly snapped up, disappearing into the the creature's jaws amid a spray of blood, gore, and severed limbs. Jorge blanched at the sight, grimacing in disgust. The creature licked it's fangs, savoring the bits of flesh clinging to the insides of it's mouth.
Then out of the corner of his eye, Jorge noticed a small blue orb of light sail through the air, landing on the back of the beast's head, where it clung to it's scaly skin. The creature did not seem to notice, continuing to enjoy the remains of it's kill. Until the plasma grenade detonated in a blue flash of crackling energy, blowing open it's skull and cooking the contents with a wave of super heated plasma. The crocodilian dropped to the ground, dead, thick, acrid smoke billowing from it's head. The Sangheili minor strode casually up to the corpse, examining it's handiwork. After a few moments inspecting the ruined cranium, the Elite walked away, apparently satisfied with the kill. It barked out another order, and the surviving Skirmishers formed up on their squad leader, keeping their guns up and their eyes sweeping the surrounding area, on the alert for any more threats.
Jorge gave them a them a thirty second head start. He needed to keep some distance between himself and his quarry to remain undetected. As soon as they were out far enough, Jorge slid out from the foliage and followed, stalking forward gracefully. As he passed the smoldering carcass of the great beast, he checked the grisly remains of it's prey near it's gaping maw, looking for any sort of equipment he could scavenge. Unfortunately, there was nothing left but a few torn limbs and purple blood stains soaking into the thick layer of rotting leaves coating the ground. The crocodilian must have eaten their weapons and armor. The Spartan examined the wound on it's head, thankful that he couldn't detect what he assumed must have been an awful smell. He had experienced the stench of flesh being cooked by plasma before, and it was something he tried not to think about. Jorge quickened his pace, eager to put distance between himself and the carnage.
As he turned to look back ahead, he stopped dead in his tracks. He had lost sight of the Covenant fire team. They were nowhere in view, which meant one of two things: either they had been moving more quickly than anticipated, or...
Streams of green and blue light erupted from the dense thicket ahead of him, the high pitched pulsing of plasma weapons drowning out the normal sounds of the forest. Jorge jumped to cover behind a boulder, plasma slapping against the other side. He drew his M6, leaving the stolen plasma pistol on his hip. He needed precision right now. He waited for a lull in the onslaught, and climbed up the boulder, peeking ever so slightly over the top, his eye staring down his pistol scope. The Spartan traced the streams of plasma back to their sources, the brightly colored flashes pinpointing each of his assailants.
Though it was easy to tell where the Elite was from the bluish purple color of the shots fired from his plasma repeater, it would be next to useless to fire at a shielded enemy with his pistol at this range. Instead, he picked out the feathered head of one of the Skirmishers. Lining up his shot, he squeezed the trigger, and watched with satisfaction as the creature's head jerked backward with a puff of purple, and it fell to the ground. However, the keen eyes of the other three Kig-Yar had seen his muzzle flash, and redirected their fire to the top of the boulder, with the Sangheili quickly following suit. He slid back down as the roiling plasma impacted on the rock, sizzling and bubbling like eggs cooking on a hot sidewalk.
Jorge ran to the left side of the boulder, and leaned his pistol out to return fire. This time, however, the Skirmishers were ready for him, and redirected their fire onto him the moment he revealed himself. He jerked back into cover as the hot plasma flew past him. Thinking quickly, he reached to his belt and pulled an M9 HE/DP fragmentation grenade from a pouch. Priming it, he threw the grenade up and over the boulder in the direction he thought the Skirmisher he had been trying to sight on was. Jorge waited for a second or two, then...WHUMP. The concussive thrum of the grenade reverberated through the air, and the armor-clad warrior sprinted around the edge of the boulder.
Time seemed to slow down for the Spartan. He watched plasma fire crawl through the air as it made it's way to where he was hiding. He followed each of the green trails of light to their origins, picking out the Skirmishers dug into their firing positions. The supersoldier fluidly raised his pistol as he ran, firing off three shots in rapid succession. The first shot missed, splintering a tree trunk to the left of his target, but the next two found their mark, tearing into it's small frame. First target down. The second target had been fairly close to the grenade when it had exploded, and was crouching down, attempting to shield itself from the blast. Jorge fire a single round, catching the Skirmisher in the back. The .50 caliber round killed it instantly. The third target, by now having had enough time to track Jorge as he ran from cover, was firing at him, it's pistol shrieking as it discharged. He fired another burst of three shots at it, the first one catching it in the head, decapitating it, while the last two shots flew over it's stumbling body.
Jorge slid to a stop behind a large tree, breathing heavily. It had taken exactly eight and a half seconds to kill the three Kig-Yar, but to Jorge it had felt like hours of careful preparation and execution. He depressed the magazine release on the M6, sliding the magazine into a pouch on his belt, while retrieving a fresh one and inserting it. He racked the slide, resulting in a satisfying metallic sound. Raising the pistol, he charged towards where the Elite had been, but the alien was nowhere to be seen. Jorge rushed forward through the thick forest, determined to catch his enemy before it could get away, or worse, warn possible reinforcements.
The Spartan raced forward, only to skid to a halt and dive to the ground as plasma bolts slapped into his energy shields. Getting quickly back to his feet, Jorge raised his pistol, searching for his assailant. He quickly found him, for apparently this Elite was done hiding in the bushes and waiting to ambush him. It stood in plain view, firing a steady stream at him from it's repeater, only to have the weapon overheat and stop firing, opening up to vent the excess heat.
Jorge took advantage of this opportunity, firing all eight rounds of the magazine at his opponent. Though most of his shots connected, none of them were the vital head shots he needed to bring it down quickly. Enraged, the Sangheili warrior charged at him, it's long legs quickly carrying it into Jorge with the force of a small car. Jorge was thrown off his feet by the tackle, and was now pinned to the ground, the Elite straddling him and beginning to land heavy blows on his helmet. Jorge caught one of the fists, yanked it down, and sent his own fist crashing into the Sangheili's head, knocking it off of him. He struggled to his feet, the beating he had just received taking it's toll.
The Elite was also back up, and had it's fists raised in a fighting stance. Jorge assumed his own stance, and the two began to brawl, closing the distance and throwing punches into each other with reckless abandon. Soon, both combatants had lost their shields, each fighter's respective armor blaring alarms into their ears to alert them of the danger. The warriors paid no heed as they continued their fight, lost in the thrill of close combat. However, now that there were no shields, Jorge began to gain the upper hand, punching places where his opponent had no armor to protect him, whereas the human was covered from head to toe.
Sensing the alien weakening, Jorge decided it was time to end this. He drew back, and threw a punch right into the Elite's belly, causing it to cough and sputter. As it bent over, he grabbed the back of it's head, and rammed his armored knee into it's face. The Sangheili took a few unsteady steps backwards, it's hands attempting to staunch the flow of purple blood flowing from it's mouth. Jorge noted with satisfaction that it's mandibles appeared to be broken. The Sangheili glared defiantly at the olive-colored Spartan, rage burning in it's eye. If looks could kill, the Elite would have won then and there. But, the pain it had taken proved to be too much, and it's eyes rolled up into the back of it's head as it collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
Jorge looked at the body for a few moments, unsure of what to do next. Then, as the adrenaline began to wear off, the effects of the fight began to take their toll, and the Spartan walked over to the nearest tree, allowing himself to rest against it and slide down into a sitting position. He let his body go limp, simply enjoying the ability to just sit there and breathe, gulping down the stale, recycled oxygen.
Then, Jorge heard the whispering. He looked up towards the source of the hushed tones, which was surprisingly up near the canopy. He stared hard for a few seconds before he saw the movement. It looked like...wings? Sure enough, the soldier could make out the shapes of three small flying creatures above him. As soon as he picked them out, however, all movement ceased. Whatever these things were, they were watching him, and they didn't seem hostile. Well, not yet anyway. Jorge thought grimly. He zoomed in with his visor, trying to get a better look at thses new creatures. They looked like...horses? Small, sure, but there was no mistaking the snouts, manes, and tails. Small talking horses with wings. Weird, he thought, but I suppose I can't afford to be picky.
Jorge weighed his options. He could just ignore them, and let them continue whatever they were here to do, while he struggled his way up this mountain, likely encountering more Covenant on the way. Or, he could try to turn this unknown into a known, and hopefully get some help. So, with his best diplomatic voice, he hollered up to the newly discovered alien species, "Well, are you going to sit up there all day, or are you going to get down here and talk to me?"