//------------------------------// // “This is why we can’t have nice things.” // Story: Warriors // by PseudoFiction //------------------------------// Marko-G301 was a headhunter incarnate. A trophy hunter. A predator. It wasn’t just the armour he wore that gave it away – olive green semi-powered infiltrator MJOLNIR with sleek impact plating slotted over key sections of his body. His wrists and collar were adorned with a mixture of trophies, canine teeth he’d bashed from the faces of elites, finger-bones from the jackals who’d particularly annoyed him, shards of glassed hunter armour and shreds of grunt respirator piping tying the whole ensemble together. It wasn’t even his eyes, orbs of pale blue that betrayed the teenager’s lethal instinct. It wasn’t even the tribal tattoos stretched over his clean shaven head. It was the state of mind. To be a Spartan-III commando of Earth’s UNSC was to be an emotionally detached killing machine. To be a ‘headhunter’ was to be a full-fledged angel of death. Headhunters were essentially armies of two, individuals plucked from the Spartan-III super soldier programme and shrouded in secret and mystery to be deployed on high risk missions far behind enemy lines. The average Spartan-III usually racked up at least twenty kills on a single suicide run. The headhunter pairs were expected to rack up body counts in the thousands… each. Spartan-III commandos were by no means the most sane of the bunch, volunteering into service at age six and deployed into the field by early teens. But to be a headhunter and excel at it – orbital drop shock troopers eat your heart out – that took a whole fresh kind of bat-shit-insane. Though just because he was an unstable murderous maniac didn’t mean he didn’t get to be artistic about it though. Where he sat, Marko kept the finger bone of his most recent kill clutched between an armoured thumb and index finger. Holding the bone high to catch the sunlight, he held the blade of his combat dagger like an artist carefully cradling a brush or stylus and ran the tip over the finger bone, leaving delicate little etchings. The intricate scrimshaw decorated most of his trophies, either honouring those who had fallen before him or re-enforcing the fact he was better than them and fucking owned them. Ishmir knew Marko well enough to put his money on the latter. Headhunters operated in pairs, two being the magical number. And of course despite rank, which of them was the leader and which was the sidekick was always up for debate. Though whenever he was dragged into debate over which one of them was Robin and who was Batman, Ishmir-G314 would usually argue that because the UNSC issued him the fancy gear, he got to be Batman. It made sense. Ishmir was the more reserved of the two. He had the cool head, the moral compass that always pointed north and the brains that came up with the plans that prevented the duo from getting their faces fuck-started on every engagement with the Covenant. His armour was distinctly different from Marko’s, and not just in aesthetics. Ishmir didn’t collect trophies or personalise his SPI MJOLNIR much. He wasn’t one to care about looks. Just function. With improved armour interfacing, sensors, stealth systems and highly advanced head’s up threat analysers, Ishmir’s MJOLNIR certainly had plenty of function. Together they were the pinnacle of UNSC warfare; the best equipment, training, tenacity and conviction. Lifting his eye from the scope of the sniper rifle, Ishmir averted his attention from the active warzone for just a split second. Enough time for him to look across the rooftop and spot Marko prettifying his armour with a new finger bone. The Spartan-III was peering back through his scope before Marko even knew Ishmir had looked. In the next street the headhunter watched a cluster of marines pack up their gear. Word had come down from the FOB for the small expeditionary force to pack up shop and report to the carrier in orbit. Scenes of marines packing their bags onto the run down ‘warthog’ jeeps standing idle were happening all across the planet as the UNSC evacuated in lieu of a Covenant assault. In the distance were the war-drums of plasma fire bombarding cities, turning villages, countryside and everything else in their wake to glass. Sporadic rattles of gunfire and whine of energy weapons indicated there were still firefights on ground level as human forces struggled to stave off the advance of alien shock troops. The planet was already lost. The UNSC just refused to let the Covenant have this world and the resources so easy. It was the main reason Marko and Ishmir were planetside. Asset denial. But first things first. “You about done prettying yourself up?” Ishmir asked softly. Even in an active warzone, voices carried. And he didn’t want to give away their cosy little over-watch position. “Dirty-coy is almost packed up and ready to move.” “Almost is not ready.” Tucking away his latest art-project, Marko reached over and hefted the large drum-fed machine gun he’d been lugging around with him. “Want me to give ‘em some incentive to move faster?” Ishmir slowly shook his head and pinged the marines down the road on the radio. “Flintlock-one to dirty-coy, you ready to roll yet? My partner is getting… shooty.” For Spartan-III’s, fourteen was the new thirty. And shooty was the new antsy. “Solid copy, flintlock. Thirtieth-company is almost ready. Give us five.” Both Spartans grinned at the good news. “Music to my fuckin’ ears,” Marko sighed as he retrieved his helmet and crawled into position beside Ishmir. Marko’s helmet was another lavish boast of his artistic flair – he’d scratched a face of death right into the domed gold tinted visor. Etched in a tarnished white as if it had been left by an explosive blast to the face was a distinct smiley-shape, big round eyes of gold with a long ear-to-ear smile pulled shut with gruesome looking cross-stich. “The sooner we’re off this rooftop the better, Ish,” Marko admitted as he tucked his SAW under himself. Ishmir didn’t move, prone behind his sniper rifle. “Don’t jinx it, Marko.” “I mean, we’re all exposed up here.” “Don’t jinx it.” “You have a contingency plan in case a Covenant banshee shows up and spots us fucking about up here?” Ishmir sighed. “Please stop trying to jinx it.” Unfortunately it was far too late for that. Over the thrum of battle raging in the distance they could hear it. The distinct wail of a Covenant multi-purpose fighter’s engines. As per the craft’s namesake, it sounded exactly like the wail of a banshee; terror incarnate, airborne with twin-linked plasma cannons and a fuel-rod launcher ready to deal out indiscriminate death. Rolling onto their sides the Spartans looked up and spotted the craft in an instant. It hung above them, bobbing slightly from side to side in a zig-zagging motion as it scanned the rooftops below. The fighter was a sleek model with a rounded nose and an elegantly back-swept tail. The ‘wings’ for lack of better term were stubby little appendages on either side of the smooth fuselage. As if detecting the movement of the headhunters, the banshee pulled a tight turn that would have torn any other UNSC fighter in half while flying in-atmosphere. With a spiralling motion, the wingtips tracing vapour trails through the air, the banshee bore down on their position, guns glowing hungry for the consummation of souls. “Okay, that one’s on me,” Marko commented. “This is why we can’t have nice things.” Ishmir wasted no time in forcing his helmet onto his head and scooping up his rifle. “JUMP!” The winged demon hurled white hot death down upon the duo, and they were launched from their perch as if they had grown a pair of wings of their own, propelled by a flaring explosion of crackling blue energy flashing through billowing clouds of dust. The banshee raked its fire from the rooftop down to the street and strafed the line of Marine Corps warthogs without pause. The blazing stream of death from the banshee cascaded over the marines of dirty-coy. Thirtieth-Company scrambled for cover immediately as the warthogs caught in the plasma fire jolted and rocked from side to side with the impacts. Burning projectiles scorched, buckled and melted armour. Paint bubbled and liquefied. The heat caused the pavement to crack and pop. One of the vehicles took a full salvo to the bonnet, windscreen shattering before the front end popped like a frag grenade. As the first warthog burst into flames the headhunter pair hit the deck hard enough for them to bounce on flashing shields. Their personal force fields popped out of existence from the trauma and instead of skating, the scraped to a halt on the asphalt. Ishmir ground to a halt on one shoulder, feeling the joint pop as he tried his best to cushion the fall of his sniper rifle. Smoothly shouldering the weapon he swung the muzzle around and rolled onto his back, legs spread for stability as he scanned the sky. But all he caught was the vapour trails of the banshee’s stubby wings against the grey cloudcover. Letting the butt of the rifle slide off his shoulder, Ishmir sat up only partially with the sniper rifle cradled diagonally across his chest plate, giving him enough space to sight where Marko lay on his back, SAW scanning the sky with unfaltering resolve to return fire. “Marko, get to hard cover!” Ishmir ordered as he scrambled over on two legs and one hand. “Oh yeah! Genius idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” Marko snapped back, but didn’t move. Sitting up, he sighted that flying bastard and squared the banshee in his weapon’s iron-sights. Dipping the front sight post a little low, Marko squeezed the trigger. In response the weapon chugged, a heavy rat-tat-tat drowned out only by the headhunter’s quickfire profanities matching the cyclic rate. Tracers were slung into the sky, scything through the air around the banshee with only a handful of lucky hits sparking against the hull. As the vehicle dropped and rolled evasively, Ishmir dropped his gaze from the flier and grabbed Marko by the back of his armour. With his sniper rifle cradled protectively across his chest like a newborn child in one arm, Ishmir pumped his legs. The seat of Marko’s armour scraped loudly, paint peeling away as his buddy dragged the shooting Spartan back to the building they’d jumped from. The roof was on fire, but the walls were still sturdy enough to provide some cover. Dragging Marko into the shadow of an alcove, they ducked down low as the banshee came around. But even though Marko’s fire didn’t damage the vehicle, the evasive roll had dropped it to the deck, so too low on the next pass the banshee didn’t get an angle to fire on the marines or Spartans. It merely shot overhead, screaming as it fought against gravity for altitude before making another pass. Marko was screaming at the top of his lungs as he checked the machine gun’s drum magazine. “GrrAAAAAAAGHH!” “Better?” Ishmir asked a little tartly. Marko threw the weapon to the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. In contrast his voice was very calm. “Better.” “Here, let me try.” Leaning out, Ishmir shouldered his rifle and took a knee. “Cursed by the ground for our sake.” He angled the barrel upward and took a few long, calming breaths. “Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us.” He squeezed an eye shut and peered through his scope. With an electronic whir the small silhouette of the banshee sprang closer and sharpened. “For out of the ground we were taken, for the dust we are…” He placed the reticule square over the nose, then anticipating the side to side drift of the target, settled his aim on a tiny slot where the cockpit canopy left a small gap on the side of the fuselage. He squeezed the trigger back to the first pressure point and froze like a statue. “And to the dust we shall return.” The sniper rifle kicked violently. His aim rose enough for the banshee to vanish from his sights, and opening his off-eye he peered through the clouds of smoke that erupted from the muzzle brake. A tracer slashed through the sky, showing Ishmir the exact path the bullet took. Bu the stabilised armour piercing round did not meet the intended mark. Ishmir’s heightened sense of sight picked up the miniscule spark of metal on metal as the bullet pinged off the top of the banshee’s canopy and was sent careening off at an oblique angle. Cursing, Ishmir dropped the sniper rifle and scooted back into cover. “Well that didn’t exactly go to plan! I feel kinda silly now.” Rising to a knee beside his buddy, Marko scoffed. “Where the fuck is this ‘God’ fellow you keep praying to, eh?” Almost as if to answer him, the column of warthogs was lit up. Another explosion ripped into the marines’ ranks, throwing an already gutted chasse of a burnt out vehicle straight up into the air. It toppled over the rear bumper and landed roof down on top of the warthog positioned behind it. The crunch of armour and glass resulted in a munitions explosion chaining from the flames within the burning wreckage. Rounds popped in the fire sending projectiles zipping this way and that. A moment later a grenade exploded with enough force for Marko to feel it through layers of shielding and armour. Looking down he saw something skid to a halt nearby. A single tube like device with a series of handles and controls, a bulky built in tracking computer and a shaped, rocket propelled explosive device nestled safely in the firing tube. The Spartan blinked, turning his gaze from the rocket launcher to Ishmir. Marko couldn’t see it, but he just knew that Ishmir was smirking somewhere behind his visor. “There He is.” Marko rolled his eyes. “Smartass.” Both of them jetted from cover at the same time, but Ishmir got there first. Picking the launcher up by the carry handle he lifted it high as Marko dropped to a knee and slid into position. Ishmir placed the launcher on his fellow Spartan’s shoulder then stepped around behind him to inspect the weapon. As Ishmir ran the usual pre-fire checks to make sure the launcher was in good enough condition to launch a rocket without exploding in their faces, Marko kept his eyes locked on the enemy craft. He brought the sights to his field of view letting the tracker lens obscure his view of the banshee’s tail end with a washy green hue. And in seconds, green turned to red as the tracking computer locked on to the flier’s heat signature and programmed the garget into the rocket’s guidance package. A high pitched tone filled the air. “Sweet lock!” “Back blast clear!” Ishmir patted Marko on the top of the helmet. “Ready!” “On the way!” Marko’s finger yanked the trigger back and the weapon fired. In training and in the field of combat, shooting any kind of shoulder mounted weapon was one of the most exhilarating feelings Marko had ever experienced and he looked forward to it on every deployment. The warmth of fire and flame engulfing his body, the dust and rocks swirling around after the back-blast explodes into the most powerful noise human hearing had ever experienced. The rocket launcher was a good time… every time. And today it was made all the more satisfying by the ‘boom’ of the rocket hitting the banshee’s flank. The enemy fighter wobbled in the air, spitting smoke once the curtain of flame had waned. And screaming with emulated agony, the banshee dropped like a rock. It went down on the roof of a nearby hotel throwing dust and debris into the air as it vanished from sight. Marko was on his feet to see the banshee go down, and as the pillar of dust settled in the wake of the crash, he happily dropped the spent launcher to smack a high-five with Ishmir. “Gravity’s a bitch, ain’t she?” In the absence of the banshee’s wailing assaults, the soft hum of far off firefights and ship-to-surface bombing returned to the street. The flash-boiled tarmac hit by the plasma attack bubbled and hissed. The warped frames of the gutted warthogs clicked and groaned as their structures cooled in the breeze. Marines were shouting to corpsmen, pointing any who could help to those that needed help. One or two screamed in pain clutching stumps where limbs were once affixed. Others lay still and silent, their flesh still smouldering and smoking. It was a gruesome mess generated in just a few minutes and some quick strafing runs. Among the wounded was a hard-ass staff sergeant. The way he shrugged off the charred fatigues melted into his left arm and proudly strode through the banks of thick smoke to meet the approaching headhunters spoke in volumes of how many scars he already had. Despite the fact he must have been in considerable pain, the man kept his assault rifle clutched in his good arm and walked like he was on parade. “Staff,” greeted both Spartans as they came to a halt in front of the man. It was standing next to that mountain of a sergeant that the full extent of their physical augmentation showed. Only fourteen years old and they towered over the staff sergeant at six-foot-ten and one-hundred-and-ten kilos bone dry. They were as per their namesake, legendary warriors through and through. Bred for battle, tempered for war and outfitted to win at any cost. “Good kill, flintlock. Sure am glad you’re on our side!” The staff sergeant gave a satisfied nod, observing the plume of smoke spitting from the roof of the hotel the banshee smashed into. “This area needs to be locked down for cas-evac. My marines can handle the street. Get in that building and double check the pilot didn’t survive that crash.” “We’re all over it, staff.” Ishmir reached down and tugged his pistol from the mag-holster on his hip. “Marko, let’s go hunting.” Readying his own sidearm, Marko enthusiastically racked the slide. “I’m so excited I peed a little.”