Fanfic

This is something i did for school. Is based off of halo universe. An epic read, if I do say so myself.

[center]Someday . . .


There, in the distance, through the swirling vortexes of snow, glittering in the dawn sun, were three…. no, five black blurs. They moved with a strange “loop” in their step, a side affect from spending too much time in micro gravity. The blurs quickly shaped into what the trained eye could see were five Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, covered with matte black, blast plating.

Some people called these soldiers helljumpers. They were a expert group of trained, special ops marines, who exited orbiting UNSC warships via car sized pods that rocketed toward the ground (and in this case, the freezing mountains of the planet Tribute) and deploy parachutes and muffled thrusters to slow it down just enough for only half of the pod to imbed itself into the hardened, rocky “soil.” It took a special kind of crazy to become an ODST.
And there, hiding on the edge of a deserted parking lot to a run down vehicle workshop, Captain Lucas Cromwell awaited his fellow marines to join him.

“Report Solider!” Said Captain Cromwell as he stood up next to a junked eighteen-wheeler. “Where’s Dom?”

Dominic Shalone was first platoons demolitions unit and had been Cromwell’s friend since boot, and while explosives were not an option on this op (seeing as the vehicle repair shop 100 yards away was actually a suspected insurrectionist bomb shop), it was still unnerving to only see five of the usual six squad mates standing there in front of him. Sergeant Waters spoke up above the whipping, frosted wind.

“Sir! Private Dominic was last heard reporting that his pod was aiming toward Briar cliff, about ten clicks away from here!”

Captain Cromwell sighed and uttered and inaudible curse that was carried away by the screaming wind. “We can’t let Dom’s death affect our mission. We have a job to do.” Captain Cromwell brought his chin down onto a pressure plate inside of his visored helmet. “Second platoon, this is Captain Cromwell, are you in position?”

Staff Sergeant Byrne of second platoon replied, “I read you Captain, we are in position at the front of the bomb shop and are ready to breach!”

“Good, wait for my signal.”

Captain issued a flurry of hand-signals to his squad and in seconds first platoon was sprinting through a snow-covered parking lot, past rusted cars and flat beds in a rough semi-circle. By the time they reached the back entrance, they were winded. Normally, marines didn’t wear heavy, bomb class armor for fast, aerial insertions. But command had insisted on it. The terrorists had started booby-trapping their hideouts, and the brass weren’t taking any chances.

Captain Cromwell tapped the pressure plate in his helmet once to send a burst of static to second squad. (Their “go” signal). Captain Cromwell Brought his boot up to chest level, and smashed it against the thin metal door, just above the lock.

The Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) had suggested there would be stiff resistance. But it turned out most of the Insurrectionist inside the workshop were unarmed. Those that were carried snub-nosed automatic pistols; inconsequential weapons whose rounds simply clattered off Cromwell’s armor as he and his squad sidled through the shattered door like hulking crabs, weapons up and scanning.

What the ODSTs knew that ONI didn’t was the real threat would come from the Insurrectionists who weren’t firing−the ones with free hands who might trigger hidden explosives and blow the whole workshop to smithereens. The one Insurrectionist who dared took a three-round burst from Cromwell’s silenced submachine gun and flopped back onto a steel worktable, arms outstretched and twitching. Cromwell watched a small, cylindrical detonator slip slowly from the man’s lolling fist . . . and hit the floor with a harmless ping.

Major threat neutralized, the marines refocused and let the pistol-wielding “Innies” have it.

That’s what Cromwell had learned to call the Insurrectionists−a slur that was only funny when you consider just how much the Innies wanted out−to be free of the United Nations Space Command (UNSC), the agency responsible for security on Tribute and all of humanity’s colony-worlds. Of course the marines had other, shorter and cruder names for the rebels this current campaign−codenamed HATCHET− was designed to crush. But they all served the same purpose: it was easier to kill another human being when you didn’t think of them as human. An Innie was an enemy, Cromwell thought. A thing you killed before it killed you.

The young Captain had said these words so many times he’d almost started to believe them.

Cromwell’s M7 submachine gun was a light firearm. But its five-millimeter, full-metal-jacket rounds ripped ugly holes in his targets’ powder blue clean-suits.

Some of the Innies seemed to dance as the bullets tore through them, spinning bloody pirouette along the floor. Others simply dropped like stones under the marines’ combined fire and the bullets’ dull percussion.

The whole firefight lasted little more ten seconds. A dozen insurrectionists lay dead; with zero marine casualties.

“Hell,” Sergeant Water’s voice broke through the COM. “We didn’t even change magazines.”

“Don’t put your guard down just because everyone is dead,” cautioned Captain Cromwell. “ARGUS is online.”

The Captain pulled his chin off of the pressure plate and began sweeping the air with a palm-sized piece of black plastic shaped like a wedge of cheese, which was perforated with holes. The ARGUS was meant for detecting explosive residue and matches possible reactive chemicals in the air with those in its databanks. But the insurrectionists were always changing their recipes, and every time an ARGUS detected a chemical compound that was thought to be no more dangerous than, say, a bar of soap, it would mark it down in its databanks and search for more evidence of the same chemical. A tactic that heavily favored the insurrectionists.

Cromwell frowned at the ARGUS as it made a loud, yet unsystematic clicking noise; trying to get a lock on what it might believe to be a new mix. But the firefight had filled the air with an invisible “soup” of chemical possibilities.

“Command, ARGUS is blind,” Cromwell took a deep breath and continued. “Please advise, over.” The captain had been fighting the insurrection long enough to know what would happen next.

“ONI believes that ordnance is in play,” replied Cromwell’s CO. “Take the gloves off Lucas. My authorization.”
Cromwell turned to Byrne and nodded, giving the go-ahead. The four survivors of the firefight were tied up in a circle, on their knees in the center of the workshop. The six foot five marine slowly walked up to the prisoners. Byrne lifted his armored, black boot, and brought it down on the nearest Innie’s outstretched calf. The terrorist paused a second before crying out, perhaps surprised as Cromwell was, that the sound of Byrne’s boot hitting the floor was louder that the near simultaneous snap of the Innie’s leg. The man’s yell was long and loud. The blood, a deep scarlet, quickly soaked the man’s coveralls and began pooling around him on the oil-stained floor.

Byrne patiently waited for the man to finish screaming and then palmed the man’s head, wrenching his face toward him and through his helmets external speaker he asked, “The bombs, where are they?” The man said nothing, not even the terrorist, patriotic crap Cromwell was accustomed to. He simply glared into Byrne’s Visor.

Byrne lifted his boot a second time, and brought it down with a womp! This time the man didn’t even scream. Without his legs to support him, he toppled over and his face hit the polycrete. Hard. Cromwell heard teeth snapping, like chalk on a chalkboard.

The man lifted his face and his words bubbled from his face much like his blood, “Tires! In the tires!”

The marines quickly began probing the hollows of the tires stacked against the far wall. But Cromwell knew the insurrectionists were smarter that that. He would bet that the tires were the bombs. The ARGUS quickly confirmed his suspicions and uploaded the new explosives onto the database.

“HQ to ground team, is the one who talked still alive?”

“Yes sir,” replied Captain Cromwell.

“Good. Package him up, kill the rest.”

“Understood.” Cromwell’s submachine gun was unusually quiet as he shot the remaining three prisoners, twice in the chest, then once in the head. He used to like his job. But now . . .

As Sergeant Waters moved to pick up the “interrogated” innie, the man started to talk.

“Someday we will win,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “No matter what it takes.”

Captain Cromwell was to slow. Sergeant Byrne was to slow. Sergeant Waters was to slow. Everyone . . . was to slow. The tires set of in a chain reaction that set off the whole workshop, parking lot, and some distance beyond. The sound carried for miles in all directions. And after? There was silence . . .


. . . Twenty-five years later, the Insurrection is long over. Ever since the genocidal, religion-driven collection of alien races, collectively known as the Covenant began focusing their attention on the complete annialation of the human race, people have banded together. Doing absolutely everything they can to survive.

Captain Cromwell was the only one in his unit to survive the insurrectionist explosion. He has been promoted to Rear Admiral of the UNSC marines, yet he chooses to fight on foot, on the frontlines. Just like all of his fellow marines.

And when fighting the Covenant, for humanities very survival, he would always utter these words.




“Someday we will win, no matter what it takes.”

very interesting and well written

your school accepted something written based off of a video game??? lol

thank you very much!

and yeah lol. mrs staffords a beast