Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Bruce regained consciousness six hours ago. He was Spartan Bruce-673. The only remains he could find of the rest of his squad was a few scattered limbs and a lot of plasma craters. A life time of conditioning had removed most of his emotions but it wasn't enough to drown out the burning desire he felt right now. He would go through hell itself if he could only see Lance one more time.
Lance had never left his side for the entire two week battle. They had fought side by side endlessly without sleep often knee deep in grunt blood, and the two Spartans had never been happier. They shared blood, sweat, and pain. The battle had brought them closer together then ever before. But all of that ended when a Brute War Chieftain pounded Bruce from behind with a Gravity Hammer. The savage Jiralhanae had given it to Bruce so hard his visor cracked. Bruce was left; knocked out, health drained, and the shields on his MJOLNIR Powered Assault Armor struggling to recharge. His body had laid lifeless in the sand but the battle had raged on around him.
But what happened to Lance. Bruce searched through the disembodied limbs, none of the call signs on the armor pieces matched Lance's 649. The battlefield was far too war torn to look for a trail. If Bruce was ever going to find Lance he was going to have to go with his gut and hope fate would bring the two lovers back together.
Before he did anything else Bruce took the time to examine his M392 Designated Marksman Rifle. His powerful hands could field strip a DMR in a matter of seconds but he slowly and methodically cleaned and oiled every part. Taking inventory of any scratch or nick on the precision machined weapon. This was his manhood. With both of his hands on it he could easily down a full squad of Elites. His experienced muscly arms bracing the gun he would drive the 7.62mm round deep into an Elite face like a jackhammer one blow after another. Every time he used it though, he hoped it would be the last time. Dreaming of the day he might go home where he would be free to once again paint portraits of Lance in their garden.
Bruce headed east carrying; a DMR with thirteen rounds, a combat knife he pulled out of the face of a dead skirmisher, a half charged energy sword, and six shotgun rounds. His destination was a fuel station about five miles up. It was a good distance from the main battle and it was the most likely spot to find any radio equipment that hadn't been blown to bits. It was also the only direction he could hear any noise. The battlefield had become as silent as death except for the occasional crackling of scorched corpses.
As he walked he saw nothing but destruction. It looked as if neither side had won. Every munitions box he passed by had been depleted. there was no sign of a retreat only streams of blood down the hill side. Out across the water he could see half of a UNSC Frigate towering out of the water billowing smoke into the atmosphere.
For hours he had walked along before a light drizzle started so Bruce took it as a sign to rest his injured body. He removed his helmet and let the water drops hit his bloody face. He took out a pack of cigarettes from the supply case attached to his thigh. There was only one left, his lucky. Even with the blood dried and caked on his face Bruce looked incredibly cool with the lit cigarette gripped softly in his large demanding lips. He thought about Lance and how much he loved to share a smoke with him. Only Lance was gone now and judging from everything else around here he was probably a smoldering pile of ash. Defeat was filling Bruce's heart, but a Spartans body never gives up. He flicked the cigarette at a dead grunt and went on his way.
The fuel station was getting close he could clearly see it. He could also see the source of the noise he'd heard from the battlefield. It was a Brute Captain Major. His golden armor still shinning brilliant with its war damage. The Brute looked as though he had just freed himself from a Falcon rotor blade that had impaled his massive leg. Clearly one last fight was going on between the Brute and an unknown enemy. Who ever the missing person was they were sloppy they should have finished off the Brute instead of being content to leave him pinned by a rotor blade.
There was no way Bruce could take on this Brute either. At least not head to head. Starting a fire fight with the Brute would alert any other enemies that may be in the area. Bruce crept silently and held himself low in the field along the road. There was no cover. The Brute continued towards the gas station tossing debris around as he walked. He was clearly irate and ready to fight someone in the fuel station.
The Brute paused for a minute when he reached the fuel station. He was scanning for more traps, whoever the Brute was after was definitely hiding in that fuel station. Unfortunately for the Brute his caution had given Bruce ample time to bridge the gap between the two.
In one quick movement Bruce placed his DMR on the ground, unsheathed his combat knife, and stepped silently up to the Brute's back. There wasn't even a scream as Bruce drove the knife right through the Brute's spinal cord. The Brute arched backwards it's body tensing and spasming. Bruce grabbed the Brutes helmet pulling him down to the ground simultaneously removing the helmet. He then drove the knife in to the Brutes eye socket effectively finishing the kill.
"Bruce, is that you?"
He looked up from the Brute's corpse and saw Lance standing helmet off with a grenade in hand."Lance!"
Something wasn't right.
"I knew we would find each other in death." Lance laughed.
That's when Bruce noticed the plasma burns on Lance's face. "We're not dead Lance. You have plasma burns on your retinas. Your hallucinating."
"We are dead. Bruce!" Lance shook.
Bruce lunged at Lance socking him in the face with one hand and grabbing the grenade with the other. "We are still here Lance. You may never be able to see my paintings again. But I'll learn to sculpt for you Lance. We are going home Lance. Together."
Lance stopped laughing.
The two men held each other tight and for the first time in history two Spartans shed tears on a battlefield.