Marcus 657

by John 117

Chapter 12- Stories of the Past

Clear blue skies lay over a bloody field on the plains. Marines dug into foxholes doggedly offered resistance to covenant forces cresting over the hills. This was the key moment in the battle of Ikcheriya, the largest outpost of the Octanus system. The UNSC could not lose this fight or one of the last outer colonies would burn. They had to win, or else the civilians trapped on the planet would face extermination.

Marcus ran for the hill, bullets flying and plasma fire streaming past his face. He ducked into a muddy crater inhabited by two marines. Their expressions said all I needed to know. I paused to think for a moment. We were about one hundred and fifty meters away from a hillock controlled by a covenant fire team and a shade. We had throw them back and reclaim the high ground. This sort of thing was second nature to him. He turned to the first marine, who manned a turret. “I need you to suppress the shade on my signal.” He then turned to his fellow, who had a Battle Rifle. “You kill any targets of opportunity. Take headshots- conserve your ammo." Seconds passed while everyone prepared. Marcus grabbed his flare gun. It was to be the signal for the counterattack.

He pointed it up in the air. The two marines nodded at him, one white face drawn in pale, and one dark face scared but determined. The Spartan swallowed. It all came down to him. No worries. After all, this would just determine the fate of an entire planet – no pressure. No pressure at all. He jerked the trigger as the bright red flare soared into the sky.

A hail of gunfire erupted from the entrenched marines. Marcus surged out of the crater, brandishing his assault rifle. He joined in the primal war cry and led the storm. Few plasma bolts came near him, for it was concentrated on the regiment thundering behind him, and any filthy alien to expose itself was cut to ribbons.

In just nine seconds, Marcus had reached the crest. He hurled grenades in to the nests. He rammed the assault rifle's butt straight into the head of a grunt, and then turned and emptied a burst into a stunned elite. Marcus then ripped the the heavy turret from its pedestal with a mighty roar, bringing it to bear on the enemy reinforcements. Streams of plasma hurtled down range, eviscerating the enemy line. Marcus stayed there, pinning down the entire enemy force.

The rest of the force caught up with, and then overtook Marcus. His fireteam rallied around the Spartan. A marine with a blue beret ran to him with a fifty caliber machinegun when the plasma cannon went dry. He then ducked prone and sprayed fire down on the covenant with his PKM.

Marcus surveyed and ordered his men. "Misha, kill those hunters! Private, drop those brutes!” He turned to a marine with a green beret and a SAW. "Wilson, get the Elite!" The three of them were augmented by fire support from other teams. It was a wonderful sight to see the covenant break ranks and flee as they were swept aide like ants under a tsunami. Scorpion tanks, warthogs, and hornets thundered by, eager to sate their bloodlust.

As the humans neared the crest of the next hill, the men gained some hope. Maybe they’d make it out alive. They were winning; this was their fight, and nothing breathes strength into an army like victory. Suddenly, a blue fireball arched over the top and exploded, taking half a dozen men with it.

“Hold the crest!” Marcus ordered. The marines leapt onto their bellies and got ready to fight for their lives. Marcus ordered stragglers to take over their weapons and rushed with Misha and Wilson to the skirmish line. He snatched up a fuel rod cannon from a fallen grunt, wrenching it and the ammo from the still-pliable fingers. The ground lay littered with the dying and dead. Marcus averted his eyes from the humans, but gave only the soles of his boots to the aliens.

The counterattack was well under way when they reached the skirmish line. Marcus’s heart sank the moment that he saw what faced them: a mob of covenant vehicles, ugly in the purple and unsettling in their silent levitation. They were like dispassionate nightmare machines born of the stars.

The gunfire struck them, but had little effect. The nightmare machines just kept on coming on as inexorably as death. Rockets stopped the odd Wraith, but there were far too many! Marcus let loose a string of five blasts from the fuel rod cannon. All five found their marks, blowing apart whatever they hit. The tracers were thick enough to appear like oddly directions blips of static. He stopped to reload. As he did this, the Spartan took inventory of the situation. He could hear a marine frantically screaming into the radio, begging for artillery, airstrikes – anything to save them. How young that man – not man, boy sounded. Was he even twenty years old yet? Had he ever kissed a girl? Did he know the warmth of a woman’s touch? Marcus felt the clip fill the magazine and his helmet readout told him that it was good to go. What of his mother? Did she know about this? How would she react when she got the news about her son, yet another boy who fell a heroic man in a crucial battle to win the lost war?

No time for that! The Covenant army came over the hill and all hell broke loose. The marines shot at whatever moved in front of them, dropping grunts left and right, but it was all a waste of ammunition. We’d be out several times over before we slew all of them. The grunts posed no real threat. Then squads of Jackals and grunts came over. A marine with a rocket launcher let loose a rocket straight at a tight group of Jackals, killing seven. Then came the true masters of destruction with strange songs and unearthly screeching.

“Banshees fast and low!” a marine shouted. The squadron zoomed towards them, plasma bolts firing from their duel cannons. Their load high pitched screeching made marines drop and scream, tearing at their helmets and ripping them off in some cases. Marcus fired at them, but in his haste, his aim was poor. Only one fell to his fuel rod cannon. A pair fell to the rain of bullets. Marcus desperately tried to reload again, but saw that he was out of ammo. He unslung his own Battle Rifle and took precise shots at the enemy. Each burst killed another foe, but it was futile. They were simply too numerous. There was no choice. The banshees were close; they were almost in range. They let loose a few stray plasma bombs, hitting their targets and coming in close. A Scorpion blew up with a thunderous roar, flame and smoke spewing from its main chamber.

Marcus ordered, “Fall back!” If only they could get to the safety of their heavier ordinance, then they could stand a chance. The Spartan lay down a withering wall of lead, protecting his marines with animistic ferocity. In that moment, he felt alive and murderous, but frighteningly clear and rational. Here he was, a perfect killing machine doing its job perfectly. All around him, guys were hit and fell over to move no more. But he stood and fired, gradually walking back to the previous hill with perfect poise and form. When one thing ran dry, he reloaded it. When it ran totally dry, he grabbed another, not caring for its origin, or whether its owner was alive or dead.

The banshees were on top of them now. Marcus slid on the bloody mud. He was going to die! Then, he spied a rocket launched just feet away from it. He dashed over and picked it up, aiming it at the nearest banshee. Click. NO! It could not be empty. It just couldn't be! Marcus fumbled desperately in the mud, looking for anything that could save him. Suddenly, the radio in his ear went off. “Artillery authorized. Firing for maximum effect on your position now.

Wait? HIS position? Marcus looked upwards into the sky. Bright flashes shone as the hypersonic projectiles hurtled towards the ground. He locked his armor and shivered, waiting for the end to come. BOOM! Chaos. Pain. Noise. Fire. Black.

Marcus awoke with a start, panting like mad with sweat streaming down his face. He scanned around frantically, straining in the darkness for things that weren’t there. He calmed down and surveyed the inside of the bedroom. It was a spare one of Fluttershy’s. He had gone to sleep soon after they had arrived at Fluttershy's cottage outside of Ponyville. He really owned the pony his thanks. Just as quickly as relief came over him, crushing grief flooded over him next.

Officially, the operation was labeled a success. A full two thirds of the ichkeriyon population was successfully evacuated, and covenant losses in the theater were quadruple the human ones. That did nothing to soften horror. They would never see the real war. They would never see the shots going through car windows, flying through open doors. They would never see how guys burned alive in wrecked vehicles, how in pools of blood and machine fluids next to shot-out tires and walls, guys falling down, would stay quiet forever. They would never see the place where one of every third would stay forever young when a plasma bolt melted through the helmet. Again, a weapon resounds. Again, they would never hear the scream of somebody’s final pain. They would never see the red on the ground by the old battlegrounds, where even gone forever, the slain helped them but a little. They would never see the man who would soon see his son for the first time, but for whom the final day was Ichkeria. They would never see the burnt-out pelicans standing as obelisks for those who gave their lives for others. They would never see the holes in the armored vests. Ichkeria… how many boys were laying there? How many wasted years? Marcus wept. “Mothers, forgive me. I couldn’t save your sons! Why did I survive and they did not? Ichkeria, what have you done?”

The door came open and in stepped the pegasus herself. “Mister Marcus,” she asked, “Are you alright.” So much concern was in her eyes.

The Spartan wished that he could tell her the truth, but it was too much. He had his pride and he couldn’t bear to tell of such terrible things, least of all not here. He lied, “I’m fine, thanks, Fluttershy.” He gave his best attempt at a smile, which was pretty awful, even for Spartan attempts at mimicking expressions.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to talk about it?”

A spike of anger shot through him. “No.” Marcus spat, more coldly than intended. Fluttershy drew back a bit , and turned to leave. She spook to him through her mane.

“I’m sorry.”

She turned to leave, dejected. He extended an arm. “Wait, Fluttershy, I’m sorry I snapped at you....” She turned and looked him in the eye. “I just....."He shivered a bit.. "I just can’t talk about it. I really don’t want to. Maybe someday I’ll tell you, but....not now.” He was echoing his speech from two nights ago at the library.

The pegasus nodded at him. “I...I understand. I won’t ask you or make you tell me anything you’re not comfortable discussing. But if you ever need somepony to talk to, then I’ll always be willing to listen to whatever it is you have to say. I promise.” Marcus smiled as Fluttershy bid him good night and went to her own room. That night, Marcus slept well for the first time in a great long while.

Comments

[Hat and clogs guy]

aaw c:

[John 117]

1846673 How is it so fare?

[boboholic20]

this is the order i was like.....

[Corporal Lyra]

but I new it was only to waste our ammo

i think it was supposed to be knew

[kyle_gaurdian_of_harmony]

ahh who cares about a few spelling mistakes its a great story

[Lunar 457]

I served by chief and he was a great man read my latest blog entree about my life of becoming a spartan

[kalash93]

Review for Chapter 11

I was reminded of this song.
]

During the flashback, pick a narrator and a person. I can't tell who is talking becuase you switch between first person and third person so much. Writing action is definitely not your strong point. You go through far too quickly and the result is that it seems as if I am reading a series of scrambled entries from a journal. The flashback should have not only been much longer, but also most likely its own chapter. Marcus is supposedly telling the ponies about something he did, but it doesn't seem to be told like an actual story. It's just a gigantic block of italics. Italics normally imply thought. I found myself unable to get drawn into the action. Again, it feels much more like I'm reading a formal report than a personal war story. Your diction is much too perfective and choppy; it simply doesn't create a feeling of being in motion. Participles and imperfectives are what create the feeling of being in the midst of chaos. I'll send you a couple of action scenes I've written so you can see how it's done properly.

The characterization and other such things were okay. They're functional; there's not much wrong with them.

You get 3/5 flutteryays.

[damnaion]

13# Ooooo and aaw

[LostFaith]

“Banshees fast and low!” a marine shouted

Anyone else get the reference?

[Lonely-Unimportus]

I got that reference

[Dreadknight garen]

5986359 no. Enlighten me please

[VoicefulAuto76]

5986359
A reference to Halo 3

[FirewaspRambo]

5986359
reference recognized.