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“I'm Driving”
When Elias closes his eyes, he can almost- almost- pretend that he’s somewhere peaceful.
The sweat streaming down his face can almost be passed off as the spray of salt on the sea. The rumble and jolt of the Warthog platform beneath his feet can almost be played off as the shifting of a surfboard under his heels. He can even pretend that the sudden hairpin turn the Spartan at the wheel snaps off is just him moving into a tunnel.
But there is no amount of imagination that can disguise the sting of hot air and the roar of the gatling gun in his ears as anything but the hell of combat. He can’t disguise the numbing rattle in his hands of the weapon’s recoil as anything other than the explosive discharge of hundreds of rounds a minute into alien flesh. And when the Warthog suddenly crests a hill too fast and flips, Elias cannot pretend it’s anything other than terrifying.
“You’re turning it back over this time.” The Spartan in the passenger seat grumbles to the driver.
Elias screams and white-knuckles his grip on the turret’s handles.
The Warthog spin, bumper over tailpipe as it sails through the air.
For the first time today, he is under the shade, but it’s a short-lived experience and ruined by the fact it’s under the fucking Warthog and they’re flying through space. The vehicle rotates another quarter turn before the back wheels slam down. Elias nearly loses his grip on the gatling gun as the vehicle spins and rotates before dropping back onto four wheels.
“Fuck Kat, are you trying to break my neck?” The passenger growls, rising back out of the seat and positioning himself just under the churning barrels of the gatling gun.
A thousand rounds spewing out of a near-molten gun barrel above his head, and the man- the Spartan- doesn’t even flinch as he lines up a shot with his DMR. Elias pivots, taking a calming breath as the Warthog gets thrown back into motion.
The Spartan said he’d handle the cannonfodder. And that he should focus on the Ghosts.
The whirrrrr of one such alien vehicle reminds Elias of his goals.
“On your left.” The driver comments, and it startles Elias when a mechanical arm reaches up and forcefully pivots the gatling gun barrels towards the incoming Ghost. “Don’t make me aim for you.”
“Don’t make me drive for you.” Elias snarks back, homing in on the Ghost.
In the span of an instant a dozen 12.7mm rounds smash through the thin metal plating of the Ghost. The exterior purple sheen is destroyed as Elias meets and holds his target. The blue Elite driving it snarls, it’s shield flickering as shrapnel and additional rounds skate off the ruined metal and smash into the protective barrier. It doesn’t take much more than another second before the Ghost suddenly sparks and explodes in a burst of blue and white.
“Did that marine just sass you?” The passenger chuckles, and the driver swats at the man with her mechanical arm.
“Shut the fuck up Six, or I will break your nose again.”
Elias ignores them, and instead sweeps the gatling gun back around, wincing as the Warthog bucks underneath his feet. Six nearly falls out of the passenger’s seat, and the only thing that saves him is his quick reaction and a lucky grab onto the Warthog’s center brace.
“Fuck Kat, I think I should drive.” Six mutters, and the mechanical arm whirls before it curls metal fingers into a fist and slams into the Spartan’s shoulder. “Oi!”
“Keep your smart remarks to yourself Six.” Kat replies, “Else Marine boy back there will get the same idea.”
“Marine boy can hear you; Marine boy prefers staying alive.” Elias quips back.
Six laughs, low and deep and it sounds like the report of the DMR he has in his hands. “I think I might like this one if it survives.” He reloads, tossing the empty magazine behind him as Kat whips the Warthog around the next bend in the road.
For just a moment gunfight stops.
There is the unsettling silence that only makes the ringing in Elias’s ears drone louder. The Warthog rattles down the road cut in the canyon, dirt walls and dusty paths carved out for vehicle transports. And not a Covie in sight for the first time in the last hour.
Elias swivels the turret back to the front of the vehicle, pulling his finger off the trigger for the first time in what feels like an eternity. He stretches his cramping wrists, shaking them out one at a time as he considers the road ahead.
The Spartans are no nonsense for all of two seconds.
Then Six swats Kat, and the Warthog shakes and rattles as the wheel jerks.
“Fucking quit it Six!” Kat snarls. “Or I’ll kick you out and make you walk!”
“No can do. ONI wants us there yesterday. You’re stuck with me.” Six replies.
The banter is normal, and Elias doesn’t feel like it’s too far fetched from what he’s normally used to with the rest of his own squad. The only difference is the people speaking weigh a literal ton and can probably crack his skull open with a flick of their finger.
Six pauses suddenly, his fingers flexing into a fist before he extends it to Kat, his helmet tilted up to the sky.
“Give me the sniper rifle.” Six demands as the Warthog hits another bump in the road. The dirt rumbles and hisses as Kat slams on the brakes, skidding around the next turn as they head out to the comm’s station.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a better shot with it.” A pause. “And you’re driving.”
“Ever considered that I’m saving it?”
“For what? Jun’s collection? Give it here.” Six sets the DMR down, placing a foot on the stock to hold it in place as he holds his hand out.
The mechanical arm whirls once again, and Kat hands the weapon over without further complain.
“Banshee coming in.” Six says, hoisting the sniper rifle up and aiming it up into the sky. The rattling and shaking of the Warthog doesn’t seem to phase the man as he sits up, wedging his feet against the dash and his back against the metal frame of the vehicle. “Better not swing that turret into my face.” He warns.
“R-roger.” Elias replies once he realizes that comment is directed at him.
He pulls the turret around, pointing it to the side as Kat slows slightly.
It’s strangely peaceful. Standing in the back listening to two monsters of war calmly talking back and forth. It doesn’t belong on the battlefield.
Then again.
Very little other than brass, lead and blood belong on a battlefield.
Six fires, humming softly to himself before setting the sniper rifle back down beside Kat. In the distance Elias can see a fizz white in the skyline before a dark shape spirals off to one side and down below the horizon.
“Banshee taken care of, ETA on the station?”
“Two minutes.” Kat replies.
“Minute eighteen seconds.” Elias offers, and when the Spartan Kat glances at him he only shrugs and says, “Distances are my thing.”
It’s one thing to know the exact time it takes to get somewhere just because you were good at math. It’s a completely different one to admit it simply because you were always late and shoving your foot through the accelerator. Elias didn’t think that particular thing was something he wanted the Spartan’s to know.
“Better shake out those hands again.” Six grumbles.
Elias laughs, unsure of what else to response with.
He isn’t sure if that response is the correct one or not. But it’s probably not the wrong one when thirty seconds later he’s holding down the trigger and praying Kat is a better driver than he thinks she is.
Dodging Wraith bombardments wasn’t exactly on his bucket list. Plasma fire scars the side of the Warthog, and Six growls as his shield flickers and sparks. The report of his DMR echoes the rattling call of the turret, only halted when another magazine clatters to the floorboards.
“Marine, two Ghosts are on our backs.” Kat calls over the noise, yanking the wheel hard and to the left.
They narrowly stay on upright, but the Warthog ambles up onto two wheels as they circle, and Elias yelps. Six swears, and out of the corner of his eye Elias sees the man reach across and yank the wheel back the other way. It crashes down onto four wheels. Elias loses his grip on the turret, hitting the platform floor. He rolls back the other way, head dangling over the edge as he gets an up-close look at the tire treads.
“Where the hell-“a hand claps Elias’s shoulder, fingers curling in painful tight, “do you think you’re going?” And suddenly he’s not laying on the floor.
Six has hefted him back up by his armor strap and shoved him into the turret. Elias wraps his arms around it, startled to find that the Spartan pulled him back to his feet. It takes him only a moment to snap back into the situation and plant his feet firm on the platform.
The two Ghosts in question are closing, blue plasma bolts ripping into the ground around them. Elias squeezes the trigger; the rattle and roar of bullets returns. Numbness returns to his forearms as the turret roars, hot brass spilling out of the chamber and hitting the floor. No sooner does it hit does it slide off, and no sooner does Elias get used to the jerk and shake of Kat’s maneuvers does she slam on the brakes.
“Fu-“ Elias jolts back, his back slamming into a much broader one.
“I’m going to bolt your boots to the deck if you can’t keep still Marine.” Six growls back. Elias grimaces, unsure if that’s a joke or not.
The two Ghosts zip by them, and the report of Six’s DMR and a gentle rock back puts Elias back on his feet and pivoting the machine gun to join in the fight.
Only it’s not needed this time. Six catches the barrel, and Elias pauses as he realizes the drivers of the Ghosts are on the ground, blue blood oozing into the dirt.
“You showin’ off for the kid?” Kat asks, mechanical fingers drumming on the wheel.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet love.” Six drops himself down into the seat, checking his current magazine before cracking his neck and slapping the dash. “Hurry up now. Places to be, things to kill.”
Kat kicks the Warthog back into gear. And Elias pretends not to notice how in the silence Six’s hand drops onto the rest behind her head. Elias rotates the turret back around to check their six as he tries to put that mannerism out of his head.
It looked strangely human despite Spartan’s being anything but.
Spartans didn’t have feelings.
They were soldiers and weapons.
They were supposed to be anyways.
Elias peeks over his shoulder at the two, wondering about that as he watches Six anxiously thump his fingers side of his seat.
He wonders about that.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Elias mutters as the Pelican pulls away and he sees just who he’s gunning for this time.
He recognizes the scorched grey armor on the male Spartan and the gentle blue on the female. The mechanical arm also kind of gives it away. If not, then the massive armor plate hiding the grey Spartan’s visor does. He’s the only Spartan Elisa has ever seen wear that particular helmet set up, and the image stuck with him.
Elias slouches over the rocket grips, pursing his lips as the two amble up to the vehicle.
Six is the one that recognizes him first, a cock of his helmeted head and a dip as if checking Elias’s nametag before, “You’re still alive?”
“And planning on being at the end of today as well, assuming Kat’s not the one driving today.” Elias quips back.
The female Spartan jolts at the quip, and her head snaps around to glare at him. He waves it off before gesturing back the way they came. “What the fuck did you guys do to the Warthog you left in?”
“Bridge blew. Warthogs can’t fly,” Six pauses, “well.”
“Flew well enough.”
“And the gunner?”
Both of them shift awkwardly, and Elias purses his lips and tries not to think about the connotations of that. They're in a warzone, and the fact they had enough time to quip about shit like this is a miracle.
“Six is driving.” Elias says, slouching over the rocket turret. “Controls on this thing are just a bit too big for my mitts to hold onto, and as I recall, Kat rolled us twice last time.”
“Shut the fuck up before I punch your teeth down your throat.” The woman snarls, but Six claps her on the shoulder and laughs.
It’s a strange sound coming from the Spartan.
Elias wasn’t sure the first time he heard the man laugh, given it was in the middle of combat, but the man does indeed laugh. It’s loud and deep, more of a rumble in his chest than an actual belly laugh. He’s seen one of the others of Noble Team laugh though, the big one. He doesn’t remember the name or designation.
Maybe laughing was a learned skill for Spartans.
Six climbs into the driver’s seat, his hands dancing over the gear shifter as if familiarizing himself with the set up before he nods. More to himself than anything else, but Elias notices it anyways.
“Please tell me you’re a better driver than Kat.”
“You asked for him. You don’t get to complain now.” Kat snaps back, dropping into the passenger seat. Her hand coils around the grab handle, and that doesn’t ease the sudden anxiety that’s rising up in Elias’s gut.
“Did you bring those bolts you promised?” Elias asks as Six hits the gas.
He nearly slips, but the rubber of his boots sticks enough that he only stumbles as they take off down the road. Elias plants his feet a bit more firmly, focusing on the road coming up.
“Can’t say I did. Guess you’ll just have to make do.” Noble Six replies as they ride over the broken asphalt. “Eyes up!” He barks suddenly, and Elias squats down and angles the rocket launcher up.
“Banshee, got it.”
“Shade next.”
The rocket launcher belches out a quartet of rockets, and Elias tracks them just long enough to watch half of them slam into the Banshee before he twists the turret around. The Warthog rattles and jerks as they transition from cracked and melted asphalt to pockmarked and burnt dirt. The system locks on the Shade and he fires again.
The launcher empties its payload into the air, rockets igniting as they soar after their chosen target. The tubes chug chug as new ordinance is loaded in.
Elias squeezes the trigger again, releasing another salvo at the Shade.
“Jackal platforms coming up. Take the ones on the left.” Kat advises, and before Elias has any time to relax, he’s moving to the next target.
The brrr of Kat’s Battle Rifle is rhythmic and steady beside him, almost as steady as the chug, hsss as the launcher reloads and he immediately fires it.
Six’s driving is better than Kat’s.
Except for when it isn’t.
He’s distracted, sighting in on another platform when Kat suddenly yells. The telltale screech of steel being bent is all the warning he gets before the Warthog slams into something. Momentum halts for just a split second, but it’s long enough for Elias to slip out of the shoulder braces of the launcher. The Warthog’s engine growls a deeper tune and keeps going, but Elias’s feet have already left the ground and he’s going over the windshield.
Elias tumbles forward, nearly flying over the windshield before two hands- one mechanical, one human- grab him by his belt and pull him back. He drops onto the frame, eyes wide as he watches a red Elite claw at the hood of the Warthog. Its hands grasp at the hood, seeking purchase to keep itself from slipping under the wheels.
The Warthog rumbles and jumps slightly as Six calmly manipulates the wheel, one hand on Elias’s belt. The Elite slips, and Elias feels the bump as it goes under the wheels.
“Tenacious one.” Six mutters, heaving Elias back to his feet. Elias grabs the man’s shoulder pauldron, fingers curling into the hold as he heaves out one breath after the other.
Six doesn’t comment on it as he drives, and Kat doesn’t seem to notice it as she twists in the seat beside him, picking off targets with deadly precision. The Warthog whips one way and then the other as plasma fire pelts the back wheels. The acrid smell of burning rubber reaches Elias’s nose.
A pair of fingers gently taps Elias’s thigh, snapping him back to the present.
“You going to man that turret or what?” Six asks.
“Could you give me a warning next time you decide to paint the undercarriage blue?” Elias manages the quip, but his voice comes out shaky and without any fire.
Noble Six snorts, and Elias suspects that from a Marine or even a fellow Helljumper that might have equated to a laugh. Good enough.
He climbs out of the front of Warthog, sliding back into the rocket launcher position. He swivels briefly, looking for a suitable target before finding one. He engages it without response, and if that gives either Spartan pause or reassurance, neither comments.
Elias doesn’t remember much about the next couple minutes. Or maybe it was hours. He fires so many rockets he thinks he’s going to be sick from the scent of burning fuel and propellent. The stench of charred flesh is worse though, and hot alien blood has a sickly-sweet note to it. It makes his stomach churn.
Six maneuvers the Warthog with a strange sense of ease as he whips it through the tight entrenchments of Covenant barriers and around the rocky terrain. The banter that was present when Elias met the two is put on hold, but he can still see the same personality in the way the two work together.
Their weapons change hands almost as frequently as rockets enter and exit the launcher tubes. Six reloads for Kat’s with one hand, clenching the magazine between his thigh and the center console as he jams bullets into it. Kat doesn’t question it if the clip is full of not, but he hasn’t heard the click click click of a dry mag despite knowing Six keeps changing the number of bullets in each mag.
He’s not sure if that’s intentional or not given how sometimes he’ll hand it to her, and sometimes she snatches it away from him.
“Brace yourself Marine.” Six warns.
It’s an improvement, and it’s unexpected, but it saves Elias’s life. He wraps an ankle around the rocket launcher mount and tightens his grip on it.
The Warthog thumps as it runs over something. The engine roars, and Six whips the vehicle around, rocking it up on the two right wheels as he pulls it back around. Elias gets a look at what they just ran over.
It’s big.
It’s blue.
It’s fucking angry.
The monstrous spikes lining the alien’s back bristle and stand on end as Six pulls back around.
“Kat, wheel.” Six instructs as he suddenly stands in the driver’s seat. “Drive by.”
“Don’t play with your food Six.” Kat replies, but she halts her firing and leans over to secure the wheel.
Elias doesn’t really know what he’s expecting Six to do when the Warthog zooms past the Hunter. Anything but what he does. One moment the Spartan is standing in the seat, the Warthog engine idling slightly as the accelerator comes back. Then Kat slams the butt of her rifle onto it and the vehicle speeds up again. Six vaults the windshield, a knife flicking out of its holster and into his hand.
He jumps off the hood at the Hunter.
The Hunter lifts its shield, a massive slab of metal that Elias is sure will swat Six out of the air like a mosquito. Six twists in the air, feet slamming into it before he rolls over it. The Hunter staggers slightly, and that’s all the opening Six seems to need.
Elias sees the knife sink into the Hunter’s elbow joint and Six swing around it. Tempered steel cuts through soft flesh easily, and when Six rips the blade free the limb comes off with a snap and a roar of pain. Six hooks one hand on the monster’s shoulder swinging back across it’s chest to the other arm.
The Hunter flails, bringing it’s plasma cannon close to attempt to blast the Spartan off itself. Six’s heel slams into the weapon’s barrel, keeping it at bay as the knife once again plunges into orange flesh. It sinks in up to the hilt in the Hunter’s neck.
Sticky orange blood pumps out along the weapon’s length. The Hunter stumbles back. It drops to its knees as Six walks forward. There’s something terrifying about the way the man defeated the monster. There’s something even more terrifying about how he walks up and gently slides the knife- apparently the only weapon he needed- free from the Hunter’s neck.
Orange blood coats the ground.
Kat doesn’t slow the Warthog down as she drives past him. Six doesn’t need her to. He catches the frame and hoists himself into the speeding vehicle. There’s a moment of deceleration as the rifle butt is replaced with Six’s foot, and then they’re blazing down the trail to their objective once again.
Six’s knife is sheathed again, but the bright orange blood oozes out of the sheath and soaks into seat.
“You’re fucking scary.” Elias informs Noble Six.
There’s a faint snort from Kat, but Noble Six just shrugs. “Gotta be good at something. Might as well be war.”
He says it ruefully, and it surprises Elias to hear a note of bitterness in the man’s tone. It surprises him almost as much as being able to detect that specific note.
“Well, you being good at it can’t be a bad thing right now.” Elias reasons back.
Noble Six laughs back at him, but it’s bitter and loud and Elias feels like it’s something the man isn’t one hundred percent proud of. Elias’s gaze faulters for just a moment, letting his eyes fall from the exchange of plasma and gunfire coming up down the road to Six’s sheathed knife.
The orange blood drips from the seat onto the floorboards.
“Thanks for saving my life back there.” Elias offers quietly.
“Any time.”
Elias doesn’t expect to ever see the Spartan again. Reach has gone to hell in a handbasket faster than his Aunt’s cooking does at Christmas dinner. Which isn’t even a fully accurate metaphor considering his aunt could ruin the holiday just by presenting her "famous" cranberry stuffing jello shots and it took the Covenant at least a few days to completely wreck Reach.
His hands drum against the armor of the Scorpion Tank, feeling the heat radiating off the metal as he watches the Spartan tromp down the road. The grey armor is still recognizable, but it’s coated in a sheen of dried blue and orange blood. Elias doesn’t need to ask where it came from.
He doesn’t want to know if all that blue and orange hides streaks of red.
Noble Six stops just short of the tank. His helmet cocks slightly as he examines Elias. There’s a weariness to the Spartan’s movements, even as his hands ghost down to feel the hilt of his combat knife and then back up to idly thumb at the collar of his armor.
“Still alive I see.” Noble Six’s voice is quiet, solemn even. The usual tone of amusement missing from the man’s voice.
Not that Elias can blame him. It’s a shitshow out there.
The only reason he’s still alive is pure dumb luck. His crew got annihilated, and after getting reassigned to this one, he didn’t expect to come back. He didn’t expect to come back in pieces either. Reach was lost. But he’d be damned if it was given up for anything less than the amount of blood spilt losing it.
“As long as you’re driving, I think I will be.” Elias offers the man a smile, but instead the Spartan thumbs his collar again.
It surprises him when the Spartan sits down on the tracks, heavy and with a sigh. His hand runs the circumference of his collar before producing his dog tags. Elias sees the importance of it. Two other sets of tags jingle against Six’s own, his fingers tabbing through them.
“MIA?” Elias asks, familiar with the saying.
Spartans don’t die. They’re simply MIA. Everyone with a brain knows that it’s not true, but there was something haunting about admitting something like a Spartan was mortal.
Elias could even begin to fathom what sort of situation or circumstance would be capable of bringing the downfall of Noble Six. The man killed a Hunter with a knife. He’d watched him pick off dozens of Covenant ripping across the dirt in a shaky Warthog. He’d watched the man murder them as easily as Elias shot practice targets on the range.
“Jorge threw me out the airlock.” Six says it quietly, almost to himself as his hands coil around the handholds on the tracks.
They were meant for troops to hold on to if a ride got bumpy. Elias watches Six’s grip tighten and the steel handholds creak and bent slightly under the pressure.
Airlock meant they were to space though. Elias frowned, considering the last mission he’d seen the Spartan on. They were moving towards a launch facility at the end of it… Did… did they actually…
“Blew a fucking slipspace drive like a bomb.” Six continues, his hand going to his chin, or at least where his chin probably was. His helmet remained on.
Elias heard a rumor that Spartans didn’t ever take it off.
Some Spartans at least. He’s seen some of the other Noble crew without it on, but Noble Six apparently had taken that rumor to heart.
“Sounds like he went like a badass.”
Six snorts, shaking his head slowly. “Yeah… I suppose he did…” His fingers tick over to the next tag, caressing the imprinted letter soft and slow.
Elias doesn’t need to ask whose it is. The feisty Spartan that he usually sees with him is nowhere to be seen. And Elias doesn’t believe in coincidences.
Noble Six reclines slightly, laying back against the Scorpion. Silence reigns supreme for a few moments. Elias considers the darkened sky, the acrid taste of the air.
His fingers drum against the grip of the machine gun, musing softly to himself.
Once upon a time Reach was beautiful. Elias actually liked running on the nature trails that dotted the area around his station. It was always advised to do so with a sidearm just in case something got vicious, but he enjoyed the smell of nature and the rustle of wind through the leaves.
Now Reach would likely never have that sound ever again. As far as the eye could see it was sand and dust. Husks of buildings and half-maimed mountain ranges the only distinguishing features on the horizon where once a swathe of clear-cut grasslands or a forest might have belonged.
Elias huffed.
What a waste.
“You ready?” Elias prompts the Spartan when Noble Six finally rises, climbing the rest of the way up the tank and popping the hatch.
“Don’t think I really get a choice.” Six replies.
“We could always just lay here, hold hands, watch the apocalypse roll in together.” Elias offers with a shrug.
It’s a terrible joke considering they both lost friends, and it would be a damn shame if Elias never saw Six take apart another alien with nothing but a knife, but it rolled off his tongue before he could stop himself.
Six snorts, a shake of his helmeted head all Elias got for his effort.
“Thought you assholes were briefed about us Spartans and our non-existent feelings.” Six drops down into the tank, but leaves the hatch open.
The tank roars to life a moment later, and a slot behind Elias opens as Six reaches up and closes the hatch. It’s a slot built into the tank so the gunner and driver can talk, but it surprises Elias that Six bothered to open it.
It surprises him more when he sees a flash of a green eye through the slit and the ghost of a smile.
“Damn you’re one pale motherfucker.” Elias offers.
Six’s laughter echoes around in the inner cabin of the Scorpion, but the tank rattles forward as he edges the vehicle forward.
They don’t get many more instances to banter. As soon as they round the bend plasma fire pelts the armor hull of the tank and Elias is thumbing the trigger down and sending thousands of rounds screaming across the void separating him and his target.
Six operates the interior of the tank by himself. Manning the main gun, cycling and loading the shells for the cannon, driving and maneuvering the tank around and behind cover. Usually there is a team of three inside, managing all of that and the tight quarters of the vehicle with careful communication and long hours in practice drills.
The Spartan manages it without complaint, and Elias can’t say he notices a difference between the Spartan’s operating abilities and a fully manned team.
If anything, the main gun is more accurate, and he doesn’t turn the tank as much. He adjusts his aim on the fly, often moving in one direction and shooting in a different one.
It’s comforting to have a familiar face-well- a familiar body riding beside Elias. They work well together.
As well as a Spartan and a non-Spartan can anyway. Elias knows his limits. His is nothing but flesh and blood and bone, where as Spartans are something… more.
Someone told him that they had bones of titanium and muscle of corded steel.
Elias wasn’t completely sure he believed that.
But so far no one had proven that theory wrong.
Plasma bolts sizzle into the armor around Elias and he ducks down into the safety of the tank. A green eye peeks through the slot, a pale sandy eyebrow raises slightly at him as he tries to keep his head underneath the edge of the gunner’s position.
“Direction?” Six requests.
“My 11 o’clock. Tanks-“ Elias pauses, calculating in his head, “1530?”
“Distance?”
“Hundred meters, give or take five.”
Elias can feel the tank rotate and the shift as the main gun rotates. The thunder of the main gun startles him slightly, and then the green eye appears in the slot again.
“Let me know if you have any more issues with fodder. I hear tank treads need oiling sometimes.”
It takes Elias a moment to realize what Six means, but then he smiles and nods. He stands, taking hold of the machine gun once again and unleashing a hail of hot lead and spilling brass casings down the shell of the tank.
It feels like it takes an eternity for them to reach Sword Base. It’s a strange twist of events. He’d first met Six and Kat here after all, climbing into the gunner’s seat of their Warthog without a clue what they were about to head into.
And now here he is.
He hadn’t even seen the plasma bolt until it had punched through his armor and burned through his gut. He’d fallen out of the turret, tumbling down onto the tread covers. He only just managed to grasp the handhold and keep from fall into the grinding gears belts of the tank.
The main gun thundered over him.
“Marine!” Six shouts from somewhere outside his field of vision.
The tank stops shaking, the engine coughing once before it cuts off. Elias can feel his own breathing now. He can feel the whoosh wheeze as his lungs shake and stutter. His fingers drift down, counting his ribs as he seeks the wound that will no doubt kill him.
Gut shots were nasty.
Plasma gut shots were ironically clean. No fear of bacterial infections or messy bleeds. The superheated projectile just burned straight through armor, clothing, flesh and bone. All it left behind was a cauterized wound and the inability for the body to do anything but flounder as it tried to figure out how to function missing important internal organs.
The clouds above Elias’s head roll, dust clouds rolling across the tainted sky. He remembers when they were blue. Only a scant few days ago. Back when shit was normal and Reach was still a stronghold and not a planet-wide grave.
Back when his next thoughts were about trying to get Lieutenant Sinith to go to the range with him or convince her that she should pull her hair out of that regulation perfect bun and let it drape down across her petite shoulders.
He snorts at that thought.
Back when Lieutenant Sinith was still fucking alive.
“Marine.” A hand shakes him, and he tilts his head just enough to finally see the face that owned those green eyes and pale sandy eyebrows.
Elias grunts and coughs. It feels like he’s coughing up a lung, which he hopes he isn’t. He’d like to at least have a dignified last breath. Something heroic.
Like driving a tank through a Covenant horde or even watching Six’s back to his last breath.
“Stay with me.” Six whispers, and it amuses Elias to see the intensity in the man’s green eyes.
They’re bright.
Surprisingly bright and it vaguely makes Elias wonder if the man really is human. The color is too… vibrant. It’s not a dull emerald or a muted mossy color like most people’s, but it’s more like a… fuck.
Whatever. He didn’t know colors.
Elias grits his teeth and smiles at the man. “Name’s Elias.” He peels his hand off his chest, holding it out to the Spartan. “Pleasure serving with you Noble Six.”
There’s a moment of hesitation.
And then Six takes his hand, armored fingers with the strength to crush steel and rip alien’s limb from limb meets and clasps Elias’s hand with a gentleness that doesn’t fit the size of the owner.
“The pleasure was all mine.”