Butcher of Bleeding Faithful 1

Authors Note:

I've been planning this story for a long time. I initially tried to write it years ago, but the words didn't go onto paper as I imagined it, and I ended up changing things. Unfortunately I was unsatisfied with the quality, so I dropped it, hoping to return later. I'm not sure if this will meet my expectations, but I'm not going to wait any longer. Chapters should come out fast for the first few days, before slowing down.

[ I ]

He picked up a magazine, it's Titanium-A housing as black as a dark night.

He tested the springs with a thumb. Only 29 bullets.

He added three, then packed it in his vest.

He checked his HUD.

It had been hours since he'd seen another man.

He was starting to lose hope. He'd known it was a longshot. Survival that is. Everyone was dead, well maybe Jun was still kicking, but either way... they were all that remained of Noble Team.

A red dot pinged on his HUD, and the Category-2 Spartan III sprung into action. His body moved light a fish in water. Like a bird in the air. Fluid, sharp, efficient, deadly.

He drew his MA37, turning round and somersaulting on the ground at 50kmph.

As he leapt back to his feet, his rifle shot up, pointing right at the alien before his eyes.

An Elite Major. It was one of the more deadly members of the Covenant, a Sangheili. They were an honourable species of warriors. From ONI intel, their planet was a deadly place, with surface gravity double that of Earth, and wildlife that made even Reach's look tame. A deathworld, that had a forged a people in death and war.

He was a Spartan, one of the deadliest weapons in the UNSCs disposal. In the last three weeks alone, he had counted himself killing no less than 27,712 Elites, Grunts, Brutes, Jackals, Buggers, Hunters and Engineers on his own.

If he were to include those that he hadn't confirmed dead, or that had been on the ships he had personally helped to destroy, that number might surge to 100,000 or more.

Yet even so, even in spite of the wrath he embodied. The vengeance of the UNSC, that is, a cornered rat, a badger with no way to escape biting back at it's oppressor.

Even still, they chased after him. Believing wholeheartedly that they would join the Great Journey whether they lived or died, as long they served their cursed gods faithfully.

It truly gnawed at his heart.

Because afterall, where was humanities gods?

A fraction of a millisecond later, and his index finger on his left hand pulled the electronic trigger ever so slightly.

A burst of 16 7.62 by 51 millimetre bullets fabricated of pure Titanium-A. Molecularly enhanced metal, that exceeded the strength of the workhorses of the 21st century, tool steels by kilometres and then some. Each built in multiple layers designed for their purpose.

These 16 by some stroke of luck were all armour piercing rounds. Designed to pierce Covenant armour and Energy shields by shattering entirely instead of deforming. Each as brittle and strong as the UNSC could afford.

Every single one hit the aspiring martyr in the face, shattering the frighteningly advanced forcefield, and then his skull in quick succession.

The sound of course drew attention, but unit B312 had already finished restocking.

He moved to his next target with stealth borne of long practice, and longer experience.

Plasma bolts flew over his head as a Banshee screeched through the air, right behind the warriors that had tracked him.

He dodged with contemptuous ease, but unseen to the pilot, his adrenaline surged as he responded to the very serious danger. It's fusion cannon preparing to give him enough radiation to kill him and any of his descendants.

With several grunts firing at him from the other side, he was cornered. In a situation any marine would see as certain death, he didn't flinch or bat an eye.

A plan decided on, he grabbed a grenade and thumbed the ignition, then turned and rushed beneath the nimble craft.

In response, it banked and returned for another run.

Then at the very moment it came with throwing distance, B312 launched his arm in a picture perfect throw. He had always made sure to practise his grenade throws back in Beta Company, but never had he imagined he'd be using them an Anti-air weaponry.

The grenade flung through the air, the pilot failing the register the threat as several plasma bolts struck Noble Six's shields, depleting by a serious amount.

Several grunts and elites drawn by the commotion chose that moment to open fire, their eyes locked onto the Demon with tunnel vision borne of sheer fanaticism.

So all of them were surprised when suddenly the Banshee exploded.

A broken wing struck Six in the arm, his attempt to dodge failing and the impact breaking his shield fully. He turned, and took his last three grenades, activating and throwing them all at once.

The squad of Covenant soldiers all dover for cover, making them but easy pickings for the hardened soldier.

The Elites shield saved it, but by the time it was returning fire, his shield was already back up.

Enemies dead, he looted their equipment, and continued on.

He reached another UNSC outpost. A larger one, littered with the bodies of Spartans. From the looks of it they were IIs. He gave a silent prayer to the dead, hoping they would find peace. Reach was their home, their second home, and now it too was being taken from them.

The Covenant would leave them nothing, not even a meter of land, a handful of sea, a cup of air.

So he would make them pay in enough blood to fill it.

Heartened by equal parts rage and sorrow, he dashed around the encampment. Grabbing weapons and supplies. He took off his helmet and guzzled several water cans and energy bars, before shoving it back on.

His motion sensor detected an aircraft inbound. The Sniper Rifle in his palms swivelled, and he lowered himself down to his belly on the rooftop.

A Phantom dropship. It approached to a safe distance of 3km, then dropped off several Elites, Jackals and Grunts. They were armed to the teeth with plasma rifles, needle rifles and a few Plasma Cannons. They were prepared to fight a small army.

They weren't prepared for a Spartan.

The massive rifle rang out, singing in his hands. Each 14.5x114mm dart moving at hypersonic speeds, only staying on target thanks it's absurd weight of 600 grams.

A Sangheili Ultra fell, the penetrator breaking his protecting energy shield to reach his soft brain matter without a moment of warning. Then he died.

At the explosive of purple fluid, his companions, his warriors, his loyal comrades froze. Terror gripped hold of their souls.

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Another bullet sent a CRACK through the desert, and another Elite joined the Ultra on the Great Journey. One of the soldiers, a Major with dark gold armour roared and the entire Warrior Crèche leapt for cover, yet another spraying them with his lifeblood before they could do so.

Trapped behind cover, they could do nothing but wait for the Phantom to return.

Six would have loved to continue picking off the fools, but behind him another two Phantoms approached, with commanders less foolish and inexperienced.

However, he wasn't out of tricks.

As he dropped the SRS99 Sniper Rifle and switched to his DMR, several explosions rang out. He had left mines on the best landing sites, and they had not been detected.

As he leapt from the roof however, he realised that he was the one to have been tricked. No Covenant Commander would think so little of a Demon.

Had his eye sight been even a fraction less keen, he would have missed the blur through the air following him as he fell, the silhouette of a Spec-Ops Elite.

He spun mid-air and blocked the energy sword with his rifle. It launched it's fist, an energy danger extended to cut his throat.

He twisted, his head moving out of the way just as his hips launched his legs at the assassins torso, smashing it back into the wall they had just cleared.

But he failed to completely avoid the blade, it's edge draining his shields.

His arm flashed up, and several pistol shots rang out.

However, to the horror of the Elite that had planned this event down to the wind speed and temperature, it was not an M6G Magnum.

Instead, he fired a suppressed M6C/SOCOM, it's beautiful black finish highlighted by glowing green iron sights.

He had scavenged it from a dead Spartan. Perhaps a personal weapon? Kurt had always told them that the dead would prefer to stayed alive, and not to worry about pilfering their weapons. He wasn't sure he agreed, but it wasn't like he had a choice.

The Extra Terrestrial reached with it's left hand for it's own sidearm, and froze in shock when it grasped air.

Six raised his own left arm, and fired the Plasma Rifle in sync with his pistol.

It died quickly.

From there, the battle grew more frantic. After yet another stratagem of their Ship Master failed, the Covenant Armada resorted to throwing more and more numbers at him.

Wraith tanks were dropped off by Spirit dropships, grunts and jackals were fielded in the hundreds, all the while highly trained Elites took their turn at killing the Demon.

He dispatched each with deadly efficiency, punishing them with death for their hubris.

As a grenade he had flung ripped through a squad of Jackals with deadly shrapnel, Six heard a familiar sound.

He twisted and jumped, barely dodging the green streak of plasma, and landing in the sand. He raised his Assault Rifle and let loose a carefully placed burst of bullets, letting out a signature staccato.

As the Mgalekgolo Hunters raised their shields to protect their bodies, he launched himself upwards, and rushed behind the nearby building. However, his attempt to gain a measure of respite was doomed to failure as a dozen Elites rushed forth in footstep from the other side.

Without hesitation he rushed at them. Lifting a pilfered Concussion rifle to scatter them across the encampment. Several that were hit dead on being sent flying. He dropped the spent exotic weapon then leapt and landed on the nearest aliens head, crushing it's skull before using it as springboard to slam the next with his MA37, braining it in one.

He was out of grenades, so had no choice but to eliminated the rest in a mix of bullet fire and close quarters combat, but the Hunters were approaching now, his eyes tracking the blips on his HUD, their weapons firing.

So instead, he threw a dark coloured rock.

Several Elites took cover, not noticing that it was a trick. In that time, he reached for the dead body by his feat and picked up two plasma grenades, then ducked as Fuel Rod Guns reached for his life.

Moments later it was just him and the Hunters. He fired his rifle in short bursts, waiting patiently.

Then as the Hunter on his left stepped a little too close, too recklessly, he fired a single bullet at the grenade beneath it's feet.

It's Battle Brother roared in anger and mourning at it's death. He rushed forth, not afraid of the massive furious beast charging at him in frenzy to attain vengeance. With a simply manoeuvre, he leaped over it's head and grabbed it's shoulder before slamming his armoured greaves into its lower back.

Then he raised his right arm and quite literally dismantled the colony. It was barely in time as his shields starting eating fire before he was finished.

He rushed off, dashing further into the western part of the encampment and picking up a shotgun.

He used the urban environment to his advantage, picking off each enemy one by one.

Then Wraiths starting blasting the place apart.

Plans changed, he rushed into the Armada.

Wraiths, Ghosts, Revenants, Troops all fired at him as one.

Utilising the MJOLNIR Dropshield, he made himself some mobile cover, then stepped back and unleashed a hail of grenades.

Smoke covering their vision, he circled around and flanked the entire Warrior Crèche. Wraiths fired plasma artillery at him, only to miss and hit their comrades instead. He ripped metal and flesh apart, destroying the two Wraiths at the rear and the Jackal squad in seconds.

Elites rushed for him, but touched only bullet and plasma. Their shields and bodies dismantled with ruthless efficiency. A Grunt screamed for mercy, but it's neck was broken all the same. A Jackal maddened by the chaos leap for his face, biting at his raised arm with manic fury and fear.

He ignored it's ineffective assault, shoving his fist into an Elites face, before using it's corpse as cover from it's very comrades.

Finally his shields broke, and with it his actions grew more rapid, more careful as he pushed himself to the limit.

A sequence of shots from a needle rifle glanced off his helmet, cracking his faceplate and marring the heads up display.

He returned fire quickly, still able to read his motion sensor but the damage was done.

The Demon visibly wounded, the zealots of this wretched Covenant grew emboldened.

Several Ultra's approached, he wasn't sure when they'd shown up, but it mattered little at this junction.

His dispatched them one after the other, finally firing both his rifle and pistol at once.

But there was one behind him.

He waited, then at the last moment leaned back and slammed his shoulder into it's neck, breaking the shield and stunning it.

His weapons hit the floor as his knife hit it's skull.

Then another leapt for him, energy daggers raised.

A kick to the stomach left its energy shield broken and it's body reeling.

Then another, an energy sword raised.

He kicked again, but this was Zealot, it's shields stronger and body more armoured, it dropped it's weapon, but recovered slowly.

He spun trying to escape, but a second from his left shoved a 3000 degree blade through his shoulder.

The pain hit hard. He was a Spartan, but burns like this weren't something you could simply ignore.

Gritting his teeth so hard he felt them crack, he grabbed it's head with his left arm and pulled it over his head, smashing it into the energy sword the first Zealot had picked back up.

Then he swung his arm, strength fuelled by desperation smashing into it's skull.

He breathed heavily. He was seriously wounded, biofoam was ejected from his armour, and a cocktail of drugs followed, but he couldn't exactly take a moment to recover. He sluggishly reached out, and picked up the energy sword, drawing it from the corpse of the enemy that had wounded him so.

Holding it in his off hand while his right arm swung uselessly by his side, he raised his eyes.

His weapons had run out of bullets, his shields were down, his armour was damaged, he was wounded and his body was spent.

This was it. He had fleetingly hoped to reach another surviving regiment of the UNSC, perhaps even find a way off this planet, but no such luck. He would die here, breathing his last breath as he gave his all.

Before him however, his enemies weren't firing. Instead, before them stood a lone Zealot. It's armour white... a Ship Master?

"Impressive... Demon." It's mouth spoke tentatively, as if tasting the English language.

He responded emotionlessly, "I'm ready, are you?" The spirit of a dead friend comforting his tired mind.

The towering alien guffawed, the gazed at him with knowing eyes.

Instead of spitting on his bravado however, it's gaze was one of respect. Curious that.

They'll kill him, kill every last man, women and child on every planet they can get their filthy claws on, destroy everything of human origin within their grasp. Grant mercy to no-one, without exception.

But before they kill him, they'll give him respect.

He could make do with that.

He charged.

Weapons made of a quantum phenomena mankind could barely understand clashed as one, with electricity leaking through the air and damaging their bodies.

Electricity leapt from the clashing blades, damaging the Elites shields and leaving electric burns on Six's broken body.

Yet even so, he fought on, with just one arm, and no hope of survival.

Fighting for that last victory.

Finally he saw it. Victory held within the grasp of opportunity.

His blade lowered down, and flicked up, sending shards of molten rock into the Zealots face, then his blade pirouetted for it's neck.

It was blocked like nothing. Within that moment, Noble Six, no... Tom-B312 realised, this Ship Master was just playing with him. The Sangheili before him was a genius, as skilled in swordsmanship as any Spartan. Unlike him however, it was unwounded, well rested, and prepared.

There was no chance of winning this fight if he played by the rules.

So he didn't.

See, the interesting thing about MJOLNIR armour, is that it ran on piezoelectrics. Now, a piezoelectric material converts electricity into kinetic energy or vice versa. However, it was stated in all the handbooks that MJOLNIR doesn't act as simple synthetic musculature, but instead runs electricity constantly and somehow enhances every force applied on it.

But, that wasn't to say it couldn't act as synthetic musculature.

Then, with a few quick thoughts, his energy shield function was altered, all of it's recharge strength focused on his left palm, the focusing parameters set to max, leaving it floating several centimetres above his lowered hand.

He circled once more, several Grunts and Jackals reacting to the odd light. At this the seasoned Veterans eyes lit up, but it was too late to react, he had no plan for the unknown. No contingency that could conquer the unexpected.

The blade feinted to his left, then drew back instead of clashing with his own blade and instead, Six's left arm caught the blade on his left hand. Agony shot through his veins, as his very bones were melted, his blood boiling.

The Elite tried to twist it's blade out of the grasp, but even without his iron grip, the blade was stuck tight to the energy shield emitters slowly melting on his palm.

He decapitated the murderer, the monster that had seen him hunted down, not like an animal, but like a criminal, like a Demon.

It's eyes seemed to smile even as it's head flew from its shoulders.

Then, without warning, his vision sank.

He looked down, and saw black.

He was falling?

Acting quickly, he holstered the energy sword and grabbed the one melting his hand, before deactivating it.

Then light appeared once more.

He was falling.

In the last seconds before impact, he reset his shields and turned up his armour gel to max.

It was a good thing he did, or he might not have woken up.

[ I ]