20 October, 2552 — Cairo Station, Earth Orbit, Sol System
Leonidas-151 POV
Dress whites. I hated them.
Too tight in the neck, no give in the shoulders, and worst of all—no armor. A Spartan without armor might as well be wearing a coffin. But protocol was protocol.
If only I could be back in my lab. With more experiments I was close to fully understanding Forerunner power systems and hard light technology. A few more months at minimum and UNSC soldiers would be firing hard light instead of bullets.
It was only thanks to cortana though, getting all the data from the ring that I could make progress. Then maybe I could save team x-ray. I shake my head. Focus.
I stood at attention on the elevated platform inside the Cairo Station's central auditorium. Floor-to-ceiling viewports behind us framed the planet Earth, a blue-and-white jewel set against the black velvet of space. My cap itched, but I didn't move. Not with the eyes of humanity watching. Millions on Earth, across the colonies—hell, maybe the whole damn species—watching this broadcast live.
Fleet Admiral Lord Terrence Hood stood at the podium, flanked by naval officers and a trio of armored guards from the Spartan Branch. His voice echoed through the chamber's pristine audio system, rich and steady.
"Ladies and gentlemen, today we honor heroes. Not just soldiers, but defenders of humanity—symbols of our resilience, of our refusal to break."
Behind me, the bulkhead doors slid open.
Commander John-117.
Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy.
The Spartan II legend strode forward in full MJOLNIR armor, Mark V with its signature green. A small scar marked the surface near his left pauldron—Cortana's home.
Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson.
UNSC Marine Corps.
Broad-shouldered, commanding, and grinning like he was about to sucker-punch God. Still had his trademark cigar between two fingers, only holstered because the brass made him.
Rear Admiral Jacob Keyes.
UNSC Navy.
No longer the quiet, clever ship captain from Reach. Now promoted for valor, for sacrifice, and for a successful escape from Covenant captivity—something damn near mythological until he pulled it off.
Applause thundered through the chamber. Marines saluted. Civilians cheered on screens. Spartans stood rigidly, hands raised in crisp precision.
Hood waited for the noise to die down, then began the awards.
"Commander John-117. For distinguished gallantry and intrepid heroism in the face of overwhelming odds, for preventing the activation of a Covenant superweapon, and for recovering invaluable intelligence from a Forerunner installation…"
The Fleet Admiral stepped forward with a small red box.
"…the United Nations Space Command bestows upon you, the Colonial Cross."
John stepped forward, silent and unmoving as the medal was affixed to a modified clasp on his chest. He gave a single, sharp salute. The crowd erupted again.
"Sergeant Major Avery Johnson. For unmatched bravery and command during combined arms operations against Covenant ground forces, for escape and evasion during the Flood incident on Installation 04, and for service above and beyond the call of duty…"
Another red box.
"…the Colonial Cross."
Johnson accepted with a grin and a wink to the cameras. "Only took twenty years and half a galaxy to notice me."
Laughter. Applause. Even Hood smiled.
"Rear Admiral Jacob Keyes. For distinguished service in combat, for executing Operation Red Flag with critical success, for his selfless leadership in defense of Reach, and for surviving Covenant captivity, an act nearly without precedent…"
Two medals this time.
"…the Colonial Cross, and the Prisoner of War Medal. Congratulations, Admiral."
Keyes nodded, humbly stepping forward. He was older, quieter. The war aged us all, but him most of all. Still, he looked proud.
Then it was my turn.
Fleet Admiral Hood turned to me.
"Commander Leonidas-151."
I stepped forward, boots echoing on the pristine steel platform.
"For your valor during Operation First Strike, and for commanding Spartan assets with unmatched discipline and effectiveness. The Colonial Cross. And for honoring the ultimate sacrifice made by two officers whose bravery helped shift the course of this war…"
He held out a small silver box, the lids adorned with engraved initials: WHITCOMB. HAVERSON.
"…you are hereby authorized to posthumously accept the Colonial Cross on behalf of Rear Admiral Danforth Whitcomb, and Lieutenant Elias Haverson. They had no next of kin, but they are not forgotten. The weight of their legacy now rests with us."
I took the box and saluted. No applause this time.
Only silence.
And that silence spoke louder than anything else in the room.
Then the lights flickered.
A beat of static.
The screen behind Hood lit up red. A klaxon blared.
INCOMING SLIPSPACE SIGNATURES DETECTED
HIGH ALERT: UNSC EARTH HOME DEFENSE GRID INITIATED
Hood turned slowly, face hardening. "Report."
A voice crackled over the comms.
"This is Admiral Harper from the Home Fleet. We have Covenant ships… multiple. They've exited slipspace near the orbital defense grid. Stand by for contact."
The crowd erupted. Staff rushed to terminals. Spartans turned and began moving.
My hand dropped to my side.
No sidearm.
Just dress whites.
I looked to John.
He gave me a look through the golden visor. I didn't need to see his face.
Showtime.
The klaxons didn't stop.
Red lights strobed across the auditorium as ONI officers ran to uplink terminals, Marines barked out orders, and the clean white floor of the awards platform turned crimson under the emergency lighting.
Cortana's voice rang sharp over the station's comms, no longer soft and sarcastic — now purely tactical, stripped of pretense.
"Fifteen Covenant capital ships have dropped out of slipspace — orbital vectors converging on Earth. Repeat: fifteen vessels, including two CAS-class assault carriers and thirteen Ket-pattern battlecruisers. Their heading puts them on direct intercept with orbital defense platforms Cairo, Malta, and Athens Stations."
Even through the chaos, Lord Hood's voice boomed out with the force of a hammer.
"Sound fleetwide red alert. Scramble all Longsword squadrons. I want the MACs charging — full power."
Cortana continued, no pause, no breath.
"Enemy fleet deploying in staggered formation. Assault carriers are leading. Covenant vessels are using a coordinated comm burst — probability of coordinated assault at 99.3%. Orbital Defense Grid will come under immediate fire within 120 seconds."
That was all the confirmation we needed.
Rear Admiral Keyes gave me a quick nod. "Leonidas, you're with Johnson. Get your armor. Report to the Marine deck once equipped."
He turned to Hood.
"Permission to return to the Gettysburg, sir."
"Granted. You have the fleet."
The rest of the room melted away as my instincts kicked in.
I was already moving, already calculating routes and loadouts. I heard Cortana in the background updating the threat matrix. Another Covenant battlegroup was possible, but this one was already more than enough.
I caught up with Johnson as we power-walked toward the turbolift.
"Hell of a way to end a medal ceremony," he muttered, his cigar back between his lips even though it wasn't lit. "Thought I'd be going home with a pretty medal and a stiff drink. Now I'm going home with a plasma burn if I'm lucky."
"Better a burn than a closed casket," I said, deadpan. "This fight's coming to us."
"No kidding. Gonna make these bastards remember the name Johnson."
We reached the junction and split off — he went toward the Marine armory, I went deeper into the Spartan maintenance deck.
Cairo Station was massive — a fortress in orbit. Designed to house, refit, and resupply not just spacecraft, but Spartans. Its Spartan armory was buried behind five layers of biometric locks and pressure-sealed chambers. That didn't stop me. I was already stripping the dress whites off before the door closed.
My MJOLNIR armor was waiting for me.
The black-and-steel composite plates of Mk.V MJOLNIR shone under the fluorescents, already charged, polished, loaded. BT-7274 flickered to life the moment I stepped toward the cradle, his voice deep and ever-reliable.
"Pilot detected. Armor integrity optimal. All systems green. Stand by for synchronization."
My HUD flickered. Pressure seals engaged. Neural sync online.
Protocol 1: Link to Pilot
Protocol 2: Uphold the Mission
Protocol 3: Protect the Pilot
Same as always.
I moved through the armory and synced up with the other Spartans coming online. Not all were ready. Many still in cryo, others rerouted to reinforce ground facilities. But I wasn't alone. I saw blue tags — a few from Beta Company, some from Alpha. Enough to hit back.
Cortana's voice came through again.
"Athens Station has taken damage. MAC silos one and three are offline. Malta Station..."
A pause.
"Malta Station has been destroyed. Full hull breach. No survivors detected."
The sound of that nearly stopped my breath.
Johnson came through the comms next, already rallying his Marines.
"Chief's heading toward the breach corridor. Boarders on the Cairo are confirmed. Covenant are trying to shut down our MACs from the inside — again. Someone get me a squad with a spine!"
I joined the Spartan tactical net, pinged our numbers. Most of us would stay to defend the MAC control center. If the Cairo Station's MAC gun went offline, Earth would be next.
Master Chief was already ahead, leading the counter-boarder assault on Deck 7.
Lord Hood's voice came through the station-wide comm, hard as titanium.
"This is Fleet Admiral Hood to all UNSC personnel. This is not a drill. We hold the line at Earth. If we fall here, humanity falls with us. Lock and load."
A second later, Cortana broke through my private channel.
"Leonidas — Deck 9 corridor is compromised. Covenant strike team trying to reach reactor control. Suggest immediate interception."
My armor pinged the coordinates.
"I'm on it."
I sprinted toward the fight.
The war had come home.
The corridor was already scorched when I arrived.
Covenant plasma fire had turned bulkheads to slag. Navy personnel lay in pools of glassed metal and melted polymer, weapons still in their hands. The overhead lights flickered, half-blinded by the smoke and ionized atmosphere left behind from plasma grenades and needle detonations.
Deck 9 was breached.
They came fast — three squads of Sangheili in forward recon harnesses with active camo blinking out, plus a dozen Kig-Yar wielding Type-25 Spikers and plasma pistols. At their rear, grunts lugged deployable shields and fuel rod cannons like walking artillery.
"Contact," I called over comms as I slid into cover behind a split bulkhead.
BT-7274 chimed in calmly.
"Six hostiles ahead, three flanking, two above. Recommend vertical burst clear."
"On it."
My jump jets screamed as I activated a vertical lift and cleared the debris pile in one boost. In midair, I activated my shoulder-mounted grenade launcher and dropped two stun rounds.
The flashbangs went off mid-arc, momentarily shorting every shield and eye in the corridor.
I landed hard and fast, shotgun in hand, and cleared three Jackals in the first sweep.
"BT, redirect power to shield core. We're going full breach."
The next wave hit harder. Elites with energy swords activated, howling battle cries. I fired a full mag of AP rounds into the nearest, watching his shields flicker and finally drop before a single slug took his jaw off.
Then the deck vibrated.
Sgt. Johnson's voice broke in on the comms:
"Leonidas, Chief's drawing the boarders from Deck 7. We're pinning their flanks, but you've got the bulk. Sit tight, I'm sending you reinforcements!"
Moments later, I saw four ODSTs rappel in from a nearby hatch and lay suppressive fire with MA5Ks and BR55s. Johnson himself slid down the same cable with his favorite boomstick in hand.
"You miss me, Spartan?"
"I missed your subtlety."
"Aww. You do care."
With Johnson's squad, we crushed the remainder of the boarders. The last grunt tried to make a run for the lift shaft. I shot out the floor beneath him with a plasma pistol I'd scavenged — he fell screaming all the way down.
"Deck 9 is secure," I reported.
The channel shifted as Cortana's voice echoed over the fleetwide comms.
"Analysis of Covenant fleet configuration suggests this strike force is disproportionate to the strategic value of Earth. Estimated fleet strength is insufficient for planetary subjugation."
There was a pause.
"Admiral Hood, the Covenant... didn't bring enough ships."
I tapped into the upper deck comms as John, still up on Deck 7, responded.
"They're not here for a siege. They didn't expect us to be here at all."
Hood's voice came in, terse.
"What are you saying, Spartan?"
"I'm saying... they didn't know. Not really. They found Earth by accident."
I felt my stomach twist behind the locked clamps of my armor.
Reach had fallen. Billions had died. But they hadn't known. Earth had still been hidden... until now.
Hood cut through the channel again.
"The Covenant armada at Reach was fifty times this size. If they knew, truly knew, we'd already be ash and dust."
John's reply was ice.
"Then let's make sure they never finish the job."
There was a pause — a long one — before Cortana piped in with sudden urgency.
"Admiral Hood, the Covenant have placed a bomb aboard the station. High-yield plasma explosive. We've isolated it near the station's midline."
The Master Chief didn't wait for further analysis.
"Permission to leave the station, sir."
Hood sounded baffled.
"What?"
"To give the Covenant back their bomb."
That's when I ran.
Deck 9's main viewport stretched over 30 meters wide and looked directly onto the curve of Earth and the approaching Covenant vessels. I pushed through a pressure hatch and sprinted down the mag-locked corridor, boots pounding against the deck until I skidded to a halt at the massive transparent alloy window.
And I saw him.
Chief, clad in emerald Mjolnir, stepped into the airlock with the bomb — a two-ton, glowing metal coffin the size of a dropship. He didn't look back.
With a hiss and a thunderclap, the airlock decompressed.
Then he was gone — launched into the void.
A glimmering green comet in the dark, riding a nuclear device capable of hellfire toward the Covenant carrier passing under the station.
I stood there, breath caught, visor fogging slightly from the heat of the battle I'd just walked away from. Every Marine, every crew member on this deck had gone still, watching in awe.
Even BT-7274 didn't say a word.
We were watching a living legend ride a bomb into the enemy.
I only muttered one thing as he vanished behind the silver hull of a Covenant carrier:
"Give 'em hell, Chief."
From my post on Deck 9, I could see everything.
Chief had vanished into the vacuum like a round fired from a railgun. No tethers. No jets. Just raw velocity and resolve — a silhouette trailing inertia and defiance.
Through the viewport's reinforced glass, the battle unfolded in terrifying clarity.
The Covenant fleet pressed the assault with terrifying precision. One of our own — the UNSC Providence — took a direct hit from John's target, a CAS-class assault carrier's energy projector. The blue-white lance of death sliced through her like a hot scalpel through flesh.
Hull vented. Atmosphere exploded out in a cloud of burning oxygen and twisted plating. Hundreds died in an instant, the Providence's superstructure gutted and sagging like a cracked rib cage.
Then, two streaks of fire arced overhead.
Longswords. Pilots with more guts than sense screamed across the orbital path at full burn. They were fast — barely visible except for their contrails and the brilliant flash of release as they dropped their payloads.
A series of bombs streaked downward and slammed into the CAS-class carrier just a kilometer off Providence's burning wreck. The detonation wasn't immediate — Covenant shielding already gone from combined UNSC fleet efforts.
But the coordinated strike was too precise.
The carrier's midsection rippled with molten cracks. Hull plates separated and buckled outward, exposing the glowing blue core of its reactor chamber.
And that's where I saw him again.
Chief.
Like a meteor.
He was no longer a green glint — now he was a force of nature, diving into the open belly of the Covenant vessel, guiding the Covenant's own bomb in with him.
"This is insanity," BT whispered into my neural link, breaking his usual calm.
"No," I said, more to myself than him. "This is war."
Through the viewport's glare filter, I caught a shimmer — a tiny spark as John launched himself from the reactor chamber like a man defying gravity itself. The bomb, still clutched inside the walls of the shattered carrier interior, stayed behind.
And then the world bloomed.
White.
Silent.
Terrifying.
The carrier bloated like a balloon and tore itself apart from the inside. Its shields collapsed in a brilliant wash of light, vaporizing anything within a kilometer. The explosion lit the sky behind Chief like the sun being born in reverse — a flash of death and light in equal measure.
And through that fire, through that searing brilliance, a green silhouette kept flying.
His armor was scorched. His shielding gone. He was tumbling through plasma trails and shrapnel — but he was alive.
He collided with the outer hull of the In Amber Clad, rolling across the dorsal armor until he caught a grip rail and slammed to a stop.
Captain Miranda Keyes' voice came over the general comms.
"We've got him. Standby for hull seal."
Cheers erupted across the decks. Marines clapped hands and ODSTs pounded their armor. I grinned, even though I'd seen it with my own eyes — I still barely believed it.
Master Chief had just ridden a Covenant bomb into the heart of a warship, detonated it, and walked away.
Leonidas-151? I was a Spartan Commander. I'd survived things most couldn't fathom. But what I had just witnessed?
That was legend in the making.
And it was only the beginning.
The doors hissed open and I stepped onto the command deck of Cairo Station. Fleet Admiral Lord Terrence Hood stood at the far end of the room, posture sharp, his dress whites immaculate despite the battlefield chaos outside the viewport.
He turned as I approached, the orbital firelight casting long shadows beneath his eyes. "Leonidas," he greeted me without fanfare. "We've got a developing situation."
"Sir," I said, offering a salute. He returned it briskly, then motioned for me to join him near the primary holographic display. Earth rotated slowly in the projection's core, dotted with Covenant signatures glowing angry red.
Hood folded his arms behind his back. "The Covenant assault is a feint. Their real play is New Mombasa. One of the ships in their assault fleet — a carrier — we have reason to believe it's housing one of their prophet leaders."
That caught my attention. "They brought a Prophet to Earth?"
Hood nodded grimly. "Looks like it. We're sending Chief down. Priority is to board that ship, confirm the presence of the Prophet, and if possible — capture or kill."
Of course they were sending John. If anyone could punch through an entire fleet, storm a city, and kick in the door of an alien pontiff, it was him.
"I assume you have orders for the rest of us, sir?"
"Damn right I do," Hood said, turning back to the map. "The Spartan Corps is being mobilized planetwide. I want Alpha Company deployed to Ross Island in Antarctica. Bravo Company will reinforce the line at the Yucatán Peninsula. Intel suggests the Covenant are probing ancient tech sites — something buried, maybe Forerunner in origin."
"Understood. And the Spartan-IIs?"
"HighCom. Sydney. We can't afford to lose central command." He paused, and the next sentence came with a lead weight behind it. "If Sydney falls, the war's over. I want your best holding that city."
"They'll be there," I promised.
He gave a tight nod and shifted the display again — now showing the Caribbean. "But you're not going to any of those places. We've got a problem in Cuba."
I frowned. "What kind of problem?"
"We don't know yet. Something dirty." He tapped the map. "Command bunkers outside of Havana. Deep storage — sealed since the Cold War. Cuban Missile Crisis-era nuclear payloads. Decommissioned but not destroyed. Apparently left as a 'monument to restraint.'"
"Who's moving on them?"
"Brutes. Not Elites," Hood said. "They're not acting like typical Covenant. Less zealot, more warlord. Still Covenant... but they're moving different. We don't know what the hell they're looking for, but we can't let them walk off with enough fissionable material to make Australia glow in the dark."
He gave me that look — the kind only high command can pull off. Like he'd just tossed me the pin of a grenade and wanted me to hand-deliver the rest.
"I need you to put a team together. Hit fast. Hit hard. Lock it down."
"Already building the roster in my head," I said.
He stepped forward and lowered his voice. "Leonidas… whatever they're doing, it's off-script. Brutes leading ops without Elites in a command role? That's not a small change. This could be the start of something."
A change in Covenant hierarchy. And if the brutes were taking charge, things were about to get even bloodier. The Elites were disciplined. The Brutes? Savagery wrapped in power armor.
"I'll handle it," I said.
I turned and walked straight to the TACNET terminal. One swipe of my gauntlet and the fireteam loadout began uploading.
Blue Team Reforged
Leonidas-151 — Team Leader. Urban, subterranean, and nuclear containment expertise.
Fred-104 — Field tactics, squad command backup.
Kelly-087 — Recon, mobility, rapid response.
Linda-058 — Sniper overwatch and counter-sniper.
Sam-034 — Heavy weapons, shield-breaching, brute suppression.
William-043 — Close-quarters, heavy support, boarding operations.
Shane-A112 — CQB, fireteam breacher.
Dante-A159 — Marksman, field engineer.
Jane-A203 — Rear guard and exfiltration security.
Cuba wasn't going to know what hit it. Neither would the Brutes.
I keyed the final orders into the Spartan command channel and transmitted:
"Alpha Company — Ross Island, Antarctica.
Bravo Company, Gamma Company — Yucatán Peninsula.
Spartan-IIs — Hold HighCom, Sydney.
Blue Team — assemble at Hangar C by 1400 hours. Mission brief onboard.
Objective: secure nuclear stockpile in Havana.
Authorization: Leonidas-151. Spartan Command."
One final thought lingered in my mind as I headed for the armory.
The Brutes were changing the game.
But they weren't ready for what humanity was going to become.
The Pelican's cabin vibrated with tension. Beneath us, Havana looked like a cracked marble, scorched in places but still stubbornly holding on to life. A warm haze danced above shattered buildings and blasted-out streets. Cuban airspace was a war zone of static and ash, but this bird flew low and fast — ODST-style — hugging rooftops while the Covenant cruiser loomed like a city-killer overhead.
Fred leaned forward, voice tight in my helmet's channel. "Visual confirmation. Covenant CAS-class cruiser. Parked over the old missile site. They're using a grav-lift to load cargo."
Kelly clicked her tongue. "And by cargo, you mean Cold War nukes?"
"Exactly that," I growled.
We'd all seen the scans — Brutes moving those rusted relics one by one. Not a single Elite in sight. And that said everything.
The Brutes were not acting under standard Covenant doctrine. This was something else.
The kind of 'something else' that meant a city could vanish under its own history.
I pulled up the sat-feed — what was left of it. Multiple dropships, heavy armor, and Brute squads in full power armor. No prophets. No preachers. Just beasts in command.
That alone made it strange.
But we were Spartans.
Strange was breakfast.
"Plan is simple," I said. "Strike fast, hit hard. Take out the grav-lift platform, breach the ship, and secure the payload. If it lifts off, Cuba becomes the crater it barely avoided sixty years ago."
Everyone gave their quiet nods. Even Shane, the youngest of us, clutched his MA5C with silent resolve. I remembered how that boy came out of Curahee. That rage in his gut had found purpose.
Before we even hit dirt, something else happened.
"Priority Alert: Secure Channel Alpha-Three."
Lord Hood's voice crackled over Spartan Command bandwidth — encrypted and bone-deep urgent.
"Leonidas, this is Hood. We've received an emergency transmission from Onyx. Spartan Kurt-051 is calling for immediate reinforcement. You're the closest senior Spartan. I'm forwarding the SOS now."
I pulled the file. My blood went cold.
+++ EMERGENCY PRIO-ONE TRANSMISSION +++
FROM: KURT-051 | ONYX-XF-063
TO: SPARTAN COMMAND
ZONE 67 IS ACTIVE. UNKNOWN HOSTILES. GAMMA COMPANY CLASS II STATUS: CRITICAL. SEND REINFORCEMENTS IMMEDIATELY.
Gamma Company.
Three hundred newly augmented Spartan-IIIs. Kids I'd handpicked with Kurt.
And Zone 67.
I haven't had issues with it since we pulled X-Ray Team out two years ago. And now?
It was acting up again.
"Kurt wouldn't break protocol like this unless it was already hell down there," I muttered.
Fred picked up immediately. "If they're calling for us… it's beyond bad."
Shane looked between us, armor humming faintly. "Sir, what do we do?"
I looked back down at the battlefield in Havana. Nukes being pulled up like beads on a string. Covenant cruiser fat with radiation and war crimes.
And then I realized something.
That ship?
That was our ticket.
We didn't need to stop the Brutes.
We just needed to take their ride.
I turned to the team.
"New plan. We're stealing that cruiser."
Kelly blinked. "You want to what?"
"You heard me. We're hitting the platform, boarding the ship, and clearing the bridge. Once we've got control, we jump to Onyx."
Fred looked at me like I'd grown another head.
"We'll make it work. If not, we'll signal the fleet. Doesn't matter. We're not letting Kurt die in the dark with three hundred fresh Spartans."
I hit my comms. "Hood, this is Leonidas. We're changing the mission parameters. Cruiser's our ride. We're headed for Onyx."
There was a pause.
Then Hood's voice came through, sharp and unwavering.
"Understood. Godspeed, Spartan."
I looked at Blue Team. "Lock and load. We've got a ship to steal."
Fred chambered a round. Kelly pulled back the slide on her SMG. Linda quietly slung her sniper and drew her suppressed DMR. Shane gave a wicked grin.
I turned my gaze downward to the cruiser. It glowed with Covenant energy, the grav-lift humming like a wasp nest.
My heart pounded against the inside of my chest plate.
This wasn't just about stopping a bombing.
This was about saving the future of the Spartan program.
This was personal.
The Pelican door hissed open with a punch of hydraulics, letting in the scorched scent of Havana. Blue Team spilled out like lightning—seven Spartans fanning out across shattered asphalt and wreckage-stitched rooftops. The sky above was an ugly bruise of smoke and plasma trails, the Covenant cruiser hovering like a divine guillotine above the city's bones.
The grav-lift shimmered in the center of the plaza—pulsing violet energy crackling with occasional arcs of blue static as Brutes herded stolen warheads into its maw.
There were dozens of them. Heavy infantry in gold and crimson armor. But they weren't watching the rooftops. Not for us.
They weren't prepared.
Fred's voice cut through the squad channel. "Engage on my mark—three, two—mark."
Suppressors roared, sharp and hot. My DMR cracked three times—headshots, clean, before they even turned. Then the street exploded with fire.
Kelly blurred forward, sprinting and juking, a ballistic blur too fast for the Brutes to track. She planted a grenade behind a fuel canister near the lift platform. It ignited a warthog-sized fireball that turned two Brutes into molten armor.
Linda's rifle barked from a bell tower, putting down anything with a commanding view of the approach. One of the Brutes tried to rally—until her round turned the side of his helmet into purple mist.
I vaulted a storefront and crashed down on a squad of Grunts trying to retreat into the lift perimeter. Two punches. One stomp. One plasma pistol acquired.
The tide was ours before the Brutes even fully realized they were being boarded.
We regrouped near the grav-lift, still sparking, the final warhead frozen in its beam. Jane shoved a dead Brute off the lift pad and nodded.
"Secure," she confirmed.
"Go," I ordered. "Up."
One by one, Blue Team entered the beam.
The weightlessness kicked in immediately—our armor humming as the anti-grav tech lifted us. The buildings fell away. The plaza became a smear of gray. My HUD flickered briefly from the radiation before compensating.
And then—
Impact.
We landed with practiced grace, rifles raised in the hangar bay of the Covenant ship. The air was purple-tinted, thick with fuel vapor and ozone. Alien architecture curved above us in smooth, impossible angles. Banshees lined the walls. Fuel rod cannons perched in mechanoid racks.
But no defenders.
"Clear," called Sam, raising a closed fist.
"They didn't expect this," Fred said, his tone grim. "They thought Earth was soft."
"They were wrong," I muttered.
Shane took point, Jane on his six. Kelly and I moved toward the central tower of the ship, where the bridge would be located. Linda stayed in the hangar on overwatch, her rifle covering the lower entrance with surgical precision.
"Contact—bridge level," Fred called.
A Brute Chieftain roared in defiance as the bridge doors hissed open ahead of us. He stood armored in black and silver, a massive gravity hammer clutched in one hand, a fuel rod cannon in the other.
Kelly didn't wait.
She jetted left and drew fire. The Chieftain's cannon howled—green energy slamming into the bulkhead behind her.
I dashed forward under fire, dropped to a slide, and emptied my DMR into his knee. Armor cracked. Blood sprayed. The Chieftain howled again.
Fred tackled him from the side.
Impact. Crunch. Both went down.
Kelly jumped in and finished it, plasma grenade to the torso. She vaulted backward a second before it detonated, flinging blue flames and shrapnel across the bridge.
Silence.
We had the ship.
I opened comms. "Leonidas to Hood. Covenant cruiser secured. We're headed to Onyx."
"God help whatever gets in your way," Hood replied.
I turned to Shane, barely twenty, now standing among alien consoles with his rifle steady.
"Plot us a course," I said.
He hesitated. Then: "Yes, sir."
The gravity shifted as the ship came to life, engines humming underfoot, the alien vessel responding to our presence like it recognized us.
Kelly chuckled under her breath.
"Guess we're not just reclaiming tech anymore," she said. "We're flying it."
"Damn right we are."