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Most users ever online was 29 on October 1st 2013, 12:09 am

    Fish bowl.

    Bad John
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    Post  Bad John on December 28th 2014, 6:41 pm

    Alright, time to get started. Something short to begin with as I write out my storyboard. Good to be back.

    Rising through energy shielded bay doors, a Pelican boarded the UNSC commissioned ship, the Seawise Giant. Orbiting a large, uncharted, gaseous planet, the Giant and her crew were on a simple campaign. Hunt troublemakers. Steal and experiment on technologies.

    Today had been a good day. Yet another raid had gone down with zero casualties, as only one Spartan was sent for the job. In fact, John was fairly certain he hadn't even taken a hit, other than a lucky kick from the Brute Chieftain he was sent to kill, leaving a fresh scratch on the hip of his armor. Cosmetic damage, easily buffed out.

    With his scratched and dinged Generation 2 armor on, he dropped a large, steel box of pilfered Covenant weaponry onto the hangar floor, as the sta"Alright, people. Careful with these. Most still have juice in 'em."

    "Then why pile them into a loose metal box with no lid?" A technician grasped a red plasma rifle. John immediately snatched it from him, ignoring his complaint.

    "Oh, shit. I haven't seen one of these in years. They still make these?" He almost wanted to fire it off just to feel the rapid kick. "I almost didn't notice it." As he inspected the brute plasma rifle, the rest of the weaponry was gradually taken carefully. "Any luck figuring out an easy way to recharge their plasma weapons?" John, following a the technician, attached the plasma rifle to his hip, intending to add it to his own "private stock."

    "Negative, Spartan John. But if most of them weren't fired off, we can drain them and use the energy for something else." The techie took inventory of the covenant assets, making sure to keep John's stolen plasma rifle off the record. The rules around here were lax. Alone in space, given the blessing or ONI, this was a fast and loose operation, run by a reckless, young, alcoholic scientist and a crew of dangerous, enabling, anti-social supersoldiers.
    It's Kruger
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    Post  It's Kruger on December 29th 2014, 12:57 am

    3rd Paragraph, before the quotes you didn't finish your sentence or something.

    Other than that, cool prologue dude.
    Bad John
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    Post  Bad John on February 16th 2015, 7:24 pm

    Another day at the office for a post Great War Spartan; fighting over one of the Halo Rings, hunting Covenant remnants lurking on its "hallowed" surface.

    John's hud deactivated as he focused on driving. The suit had been designed to his specifications, and one of those specifications was that a bright blue box was fucking annoying. He kept his eyes on the road, his handlebars twitching inches at a time as he desperately tried wondered how to fire the cannons on the front of this new weaponized mongoose.

    In his life, this seemed to be a constant. Hoping against hope that he could learn to use a new weapon in time to defend his life, or some objective. This time, it wasn't his life on the line.

    It was worse. Dozens of wounded soldiers in the bloodpan of a pelican, with a Chieftain chasing it. The massive beast was angling to fire a volley of concussive rounds from the forward facing cannons of his chopper, chewing at the tail feathers of the pelican, targeting its rear engines to take it down.

    Why are you such an asshole? John offhandedly wondered what the Chieftain's objective was. Perhaps he just hated humans. Every other species did, even though the war was over for years. The hell with it. I don't care.

    John aimed his submachine gun and fired, just as his left hand found the trigger for the gungoose's fifty calibre cannons. The bullets shredded the side of the chopper, knocking parts of the alien iron clean off, and forcing the Chieftain to swerve and catch sight of the Spartan.

    "THAT'S RIGHT! LOOK AT ME!!!" John yanked his shotgun off of his back, and as his mongoose T-boned the stopped chopper, he lept off, tackling the Chieftain.

    The last sensation he felt before tumbling was glorious. The Chieftain's front left fang was clotheslined by the stock of John's shotgun as he swung it. The adrenaline slowed time, as the Spartan attempted to bring around the cannon and fire. Unfortunately, the battle wasn't meant to go that easily.

    Crocus, unbeknownst to the Spartan challenger, was a veteran not only of the battlefield, but of the arena. He'd slain countless warriors, and endured countless blows. The tooth John had chipped was an enamel replacement for fangs that had been replaced twenty times over. This brute cared not for pain. Only pure stopping power could slow him.

    Taking control. Crocus rolled with John, a hand grabbing and crumpling the shotgun. The Spartan suddenly felt a terrifying weight, managing to slip out and attempting to gain distance. He sprinted, his hud finally flashing to show him his gun was loaded and ready. Brilliant. I've had about enough of this guy. He yanked free one of his submachine guns, turning the gun to face the stalky, power-armored Jiralhanae, who John presumed was at least two meters away.

    Crocus was in his face. The moment John turned his head, he saw a beefy set of clawed fingers slicing towards him. "WHOA," John ducked the claw handed slash, but was unable to avoid the second attack. The Chieftain seized hold of his upper arm, squeezing hard. John swung his free hand around and fired his submachine gun, peppering the Chieftain, the power armor shimmering and reflecting most of the bullets.


    John saw the brute cringe and recoil. One of the shots found its way into Crocus' armor. A single caseless round pierced its armpit. Before the Spartan could exploit the wound, he was swung into the air.

    With a grunt of effort, the Chieftain brought John down in the same instant, his head and shoulder smashed into the dirt. The impact cracked the dry ground and turned grey grass into powder. 

    "GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!" To date, it was the hardest melee hit John had ever taken. One of the Spartan III's eardrums burst on impact. A hairline crack appeared in his visor. The moment the Chieftain released him, he clutched the side of his head and sprang away. A miscalculation. The Jiralhanae believed, on good authority that a hit like that could kill anything. 

    "YOU SHITHEAD," the Spartan, furious, sprang forward and attacked. His first punch was blocked, but had enough force to dent the Chieftain's armor. The second, a powerful uppercut, snapped off another of the Chieftain's fangs. John advanced, his returned fire echoing as he calmed himself and attacked more intelligently. He stood with his right foot forward, and sprang onto the Chieftain's blind side, grasping its arm.

    If he was going to win, he'd either have to hit hard enough to break something important (a job for a Spartan II), or grapple like the Devil himself. He barred the Chieftain's wrist, and swung his boot, kicking the beast's shin and bringing it down to his level. The Spartan brought his elbow down on the back of its neck, and swung his knee up into its throat. That ought to do it. 

    The Chieftain sprang up, and stabbed his bare claw at the Spartan's chest. Avoiding the blow, he kept his fists up, ready to continue his attack if necessary.

    The attack, however, had taken its toll. Crocus had summoned the last of his strength to swing his claw one last time. The Chieftain collapsed, his throat closed by the knee to the Adam's Apple. wheezing and producing gutteral Jiralhanae curses, the beast stared up at John until he ebbed into the dark, finally dead.

    "...Sorry shit worked out like that for you. From one veteran to another." John took off his cracked EVA helmet, granting the old warrior Jiralhanae the respect he deserved. "From one war vet to another."

    Then John noticed the primed grenade beside him. The spike grenade bloomed, ready to fire its lethal payload. The jab was a fake-out. Crocus had thrown it with his other hand.

    "UH-" John choked out a panicked exclamation as the grenade detonated. Thinking quickly, he used his helmet to shield his face, a twelve inch spike embedding in it and stopping. The remainder of the spikes, by pure miracle, managed to miss the Spartan, as if tracing his profile. "OH. Oh. Oooooh! HAH! Holy shit, I'm okay." breathing a sigh of relief John grinned, tossing his devastated helmet over his shoulder. "Thank god for shitty Jiralhanae engineering."

    The Spartan wistfully turned towards his mongoose. Along with the chopper, it was a twisted wreck, along with the comm-link in his helmet. There was no calling for a ride.

    Looked like he had to jog back to base.
    Bad John
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    Post  Bad John on June 15th 2015, 3:53 pm

    Sitting in the hangar bay, Spartan John patiently waited as an older woman sat in front of him. His armor was in for repairs, the "reliable" GEN 2 suit beaten into scrap by his recent scuffle. He'd been reassigned yet again to another ONI controlled ship, the Firing Line. It was a higher paying job; the ship was one of the Infinity's fire support vessels.

    Adjusting his short sleeved shirt, John leaned forward as the more traditional ONI agent settled in the seat across from his, as he prepared for a short interview. "Spartan John. You're a member of Whiskey company...that should put you at twenty-one years old, right?"

    "Twenty-four. You're thinking of Gamma company." John casually sipped from the glass of water to his left. "Can you, maybe, speed this up?"

    "How are you taking to your new alterations? It's been a year since your surgery." The woman continued, narrowing her eyes slightly, somewhat annoyed at John's lack of enthusiasm for the interview. "Please stay on topic."

    John straightened. This woman didn't seem to have a fast-forward function, so he'd have to endure the droll questions and continue at a slow pace. "The lung lining and pancreas implant are fine. I haven't gotten a chance to use them. The thing they did to my heart, though, is pretty awesome. I can run much farther without my heart beating out of my chest. Y'all did a good job." John paused for a moment, folding his arms. "...I mean the royal y'all. If the word 'y'all' can ever be considered royal."

    "So, satisfactory?" The woman asked, pointing her pen at the Spartan III. The dark skinned young man adjusted his cap, raising an eyebrow, a bit beguiled.

    "...Was I not specific enough? They're fine. The implants are fine. The heart one is really good, assuming it doesn't give me cancer or something." As John spoke, the agent scribbled. "So, what's this interview about? Making sure us Model IIIs are adjusting to-"

    "I will be asking the questions, Spartan." The woman cut John off like a hot knife. The Spartan grunted with exasperation as she continued. "You've worked with Spartan IV colleagues. How were your experiences with them, socially speaking?"

    "Fucking hell, agent." John shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Fine, fine. No questions from my end. Happy?"

    "No." The woman answered. "You've worked with Spartan IV colleagues. How were your social experiences working with them?" Her question was in the exact same tone of voice, only more insistent. The Spartan leered at her, before seemingly buckling under the woman's cold, formal stare.

    "They're fine. Some had trouble in close quarters. They didn't know their own strength, and fell back when they could have pressed the assault. Others flinched too much, or were too scared to take risks. Others preformed pretty damn well. Palmer was a good handler, and a great fighter. There was a guy in yellow who wasn't half bad either. Davis, I think his name was. Not bad soldiers at all." John finished his summation with a tilt of his hand. "Some good, some lame. That's people, for you. Overall...satisfactory, I guess."

    There was a long pause, as the woman wrote in her notes. The Spartan III uncomfortably shifted, tapping his finger against the desk. After a minute, the woman looked up at him, her blue eyes fixed on his, and her nose wrinkled with a slight amount of disgust. "I asked about your social experiences. How did you interact with your Spartan IV squadmates?"

    "Oh. Eh...I guess I get on with most of them. Some of them are dicks about my age. Some of them are overconfident. But, I found a few I click with. We swapped numbers and chat from time to time." John paused, thinking. "I don't know what they think about me, though."

    "How have your social interactions been with Spartan IIs?" The woman asked. She had a slight smile, happy to have gotten the answer she was looking for.

    "They're motherfucking inscrutable. I can almost never find one when I want to. But, I've chatted up a couple. Linda showed me some pointers with a sniper. Blaine and I swapped stories. I sparred with Kelly. Did pretty good, until she landed that kick and shut me down. Overall, I like 'em."

    The woman seemed to freckle at that response. She sighed, as she wrote down his answer. "Your armor. You've had it for a while now, Spartan. How have you liked it?"

    "It's perfect. Completely satisfactory. SPI always broke down on me, but Mjolnir? It's like a second skin. I love it. And I really love the look. I'm glad Bailey had a hand in putting mine together." John leaned back in his chair. "Are we almost done...?"

    "Tell me about your handler, Doctor Bailey. She was the head surgeon for both of your augmentations, and several of your combat injury related surgeries."

    John shrugged. "Eh. Don't really know what I'd do without her. She's like a mom to my company. Been rolling with us since day one. Built our SPI armor, built our Mjolnir armor when she finally got the go-ahead, she's fucking great."

    The agent tapped her stylus against her shoulder, her face reddening slightly as she read the next question she was assigned to answer. It was the most overt display of emotion that John had seen her deploy, but she quickly reigned it in, and looked up, asking the somewhat embarrassing question. "How has your libido been in the last eight months?"

    "What the hell is a libido?" John folded his arms, confused.

    The agent cleared her throat, and spoke. "Have you experienced sexual attraction, or arousal?"

    "Oh. OOOOOH." John winced slightly, suddenly understanding why the woman was so embarrassed to ask. "Well, yeah. Yes, I've been experiencing arousal. I try to keep my...motivations out of my work."

    "When you experience these feelings, are they exclusive to a certain gender, or species?" The woman continued the line of questioning, much to the Spartan's shock. He answered honestly and quickly.

    "Women. Humans." To John's horror, a third answer surfaced before he could stop talking. "Sometimes military equipment."

    "...Please elaborate on the last thing you just said. Why do you feel arousal towards military equipment?" The woman seemed personally curious.

    "...When I use a railgun, or pilot a tank...the kickback kinda...well...It's way more common than you'd think." John blew air through his teeth seething at the embarassment. It felt like the weight of a dying star was pressing down on him. "...I should really learn to lie to people."

    "...So you would not have sex with assigned, standard issue equipment?"

    "No." John scooted his chair back, as the two stared each-other in the eye. The agent continued scribbling, even as she looked him over, evaluating him like a lie-detector. Satisfied, she moved to the next question.

    "How would you feel going up against the contacts we encountered on Requiem? The so called 'Prometheans?'" The woman tapped her stylus against the tacpad, as she looked up at the Spartan, awaiting an answer. "And yes, you're almost done."

    Breathing a sigh of relief, the Spartan gave an honest answer. "I say bring it on. They're easy targets. Big, and glowing, and safety orange. We might as well be fighting big traffic cones. Plus, I'd like to get ahold of one of their shotguns again. Those were rad." John had some not-so-fond memories of his time on Requiem. The Promethean Knights were serious foes indeed.

    "One more question. Have you given your identity to anyone outside of the Spartan Program? Reporters? Civilians?"

    "Nope. As far as they know, I'm Blake Johnson, super youthful, twenty-nine year old Spartan IV." John furrowed his brow for  a moment, thinking about the moniker. "I'm not crazy about the cover name, though. I don't have a middle name, so my initials are just 'BJ.'"

    The agent looked up at John, confused by the complaint. "Why is that an issue?"


    "Thank you for your cooperation. You may continue your recreational hours." The woman stood, after closing her notepad program. She walked away, her heels clicking. as she exited quickly. Unbeknownst to Spartan John, his answers would influence his next deployment.
    Bad John
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    Post  Bad John on June 16th 2015, 6:59 pm

    The UNSC Firing Line drifted in the atmosphere of the Outer Colony planet Roost. Not far from the Infinity's robust fleet, the ship's mission called for close deployment. Nobody onboard objected to deployment on the small planet; it was known for tropical beaches, and warm weather.

    However, the planet had gone dark several weeks ago. A bad sign, and a disconcertingly common one these days.

    "MAURA!!!" John's eyes brightened when he encountered one of his oldest friends and compatriots. The auburn haired, fellow Spartan III chewed gum casually, her eyes half lidded. She did look a bit different than John had last seen her; the side of her hair was shaved, rather than simply cut short. She raised an eyebrow at her squadmate, as she spat her chewing gum into a nearby trashcan.

    Without a word, Maura marched over and extended her fist for a quick bump. Their armored fists made a metallic clank as they bumped hands. The two Spartans were kitted out for their mission already. Seperately briefed, they were well equipped for their mission.

    "Not a bad mission. Even if we encounter hostiles, we just observe and report." John shrugged his shoulders, as he pointed his thumb towards their vehicle. The rather oldschool VTOL "Hornet" attack chopper sported a no weaponry, unfortunately. Its weapons systems had been replaced by stealth and cloaking technology.

    Maura remained fairly quiet for a moment, observing the Hornet with narrow, lazy eyes, her helmet tucked under her arm. John gave her a quick tap on the shoulder pauldron, and she turned towards him, finally speaking. "Have the doctors run any tests on you, lately? Like, really lately?"

    The dark skinned Spartan raised an eyebrow at Maura, glad she finally said something. "She speaks!"

    "Yeah, yeah." Maura grumbled. "The doctors. Not ONI, these were interns working for Bailey. Have they hit you up for an appointment?"

    John shrugged. "Nope. Some standard UNSC guys fixed my busted eardrum, and I talked to an ONI spook a week ago, but no doctors."

    "...They're gonna make you jack off in a cup, you know that, right?" The auburn haired Spartan spoke matter of factly, her eyes still narrow and bored. "They recently pulled out one of my eggs. They're trying to assess our virility." Fairly repulsed, John rolled his eyes.

    "Ah hell. The ONI woman who interviewed me asked about my sex drive. You think they're breeding us or something? Like race horses?" John put his hand to his chin, rubbing it, confused. "That doesn't make any sense. They didn't pick us from a narrow gene pool. If they want to breed Spartans, they should be bugging the Spartan IIs, shouldn't they?"

    "Nah. This isn't an ONI thing. Like I said, the people asking about our material is the Doc. Bailey." Maura folded her arms, sighing. "That's mom, for you. Fucking weirdo."

    "...When she tests our hair and fingernails and shit, it's endearing. This is creepy, and frankly it's starting to piss me off. I'm not letting a bunch of med school interns jack my sperm." John motioned to the Stealth Hornet. "Want me to drive?"

    "Nah. I've been practicing with these things. I know how to work the stealth systems. Besides, last time, you crashed us." Maura stepped up to the cockpit, pulling the handle and opening it up. "Besides, you got the DMR. You're our primary Marksman, so you get to ride in the bitch seat."

    Bitch seat. The dark skinned Spartan was initially fine with riding on the side, but hearing it called that made him somewhat reconsider. However, with the decision made, and his partner already at the controls, there was little to say on the matter. John stepped onto the side of the Hornet, leaning back as he grasped the bar beside him. He was indeed kitted out with a marksman rifle, an SMG on one hip and a pistol on the other. He slid his helmet on, as a technician not far away opened the bay doors.

    Cool air washed over his armor, as the suit's HUD and communications whirred to life. He tapped the side of his EVA helmet, giving it a light flick. "We connected?"

    "Yup. We're good to go." Maura slid on her own Enforcer helmet. Her HUD registered John, only a meter from her, holding onto the side. "Firing Line tower, this is Fireteam Bailey. We're heading out to search Glade county. Repeat, we're heading for Glade county."

    The comms clicked, as one of the tower operators looked up into the camera above his monitor. "Roger. You're clear to depart. Good luck, Spartans."

    "Thanks." Maura applied the thrusters lightly, pulling the Hornet off the floor. She pushed the small ship forward.

    John held on tightly as the ship moved through the doors, and free of the Firing Line. In the open air, he placed his DMR onto his back, raising an eyebrow as he looked below. They were currently above the coast, waves breaking against the golden shore. He had no real issue with heights. In fact, he enjoyed the thrill.

    "Johnny! I'm taking off! You hanging on?" Maura spoke into her comms, waiting for confirmation. "I'm not fuckin' Spiderman, so don't go falling off on me."

    "I'm good. Shit, this is just like surfing. Or...more like parasailing, really." John bent lightly at the knees, his hand wrapped around the rail in a tight gridlock. The magnetic stands beneath his feet anchored his boots to the Hornet. "Hit it!"

    Maura accelerated the ship's movement, and the Hornet tore across the sky, flying over the skyscrapers of the coastline's resorts. John watched the streets below.

    This planet, for now, appeared to be a ghost town.

    Author Note! wrote:I told myself I wouldn't kick off an actual plot, but I couldn't resist.

    What will the plucky former Headhunters find on the abandoned planet Roost? Will there be clues to the disappearance of the Planet's inhabitants?

    Will Bailey jack John's sperm?

    Find out next time I update this story!!!

    Last edited by Bad John on June 25th 2015, 1:26 am; edited 1 time in total
    Bad John
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    Post  Bad John on June 17th 2015, 7:03 pm

    Goddammit. Typed up a whole thing, but lost it to the cruelty of Chrome fucking up.

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    Post  Shad0wChas3r on June 17th 2015, 11:01 pm

    You have my deepest condolences, that has happened to me too many times.



    Thanks for Reading!

    Bad John
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    Post  Bad John on June 18th 2015, 1:49 am

    John's DMR scope made long, smooth sweeps up the roads of Glade county, as the Hornet slowly moved through the air. Maura passed a large, glass building. Roost was particularly well developed for an Outer Colony, mostly thanks to the sunny beaches. The Rich were ferried here to spend their remaining days in peace on beachside property, while locals catered to their whims, and lapped up every penny of their hard earned retirement funds.

    Not anymore. John huffed, lowering his rifle. Maura was singing an old folk rock song as he searched for any signs of life.

    "What the fuck is going on? This is just like Planet Belize. Not a single fucker on the surface left." The dark skinned Spartan lowered his rifle. "Whatcha think? Prometheans? The Didact did something like this, before Chief sent his ass packing." John got shivers just thinking about the time he spent on the Infinity. "Those fucking orange freaks. They creep me out." He quickly realized he was talking to himself. Maura was totally inattentive to his ramblings.

    She stopped singing, letting the Hornet idle. She took off her helmet, and turned back to John. "...Suppose we can have kids. You think you and Lucy would pop one together?"

    John went quiet at the suggestion. It cut right to his core even worse than the thought of Prometheans. "...Too much to think about before that, Maura. Besides, I don't know if she's into that. Having kids, I mean."

    "Just fucking man up and ask!" Maura shouted, opening the Hornet's canopy. She was speaking directly to him now, without her comm link. "A kid, a life, that sounds like shit that could make you happy."

    Falling quiet, John lifted his rifle, and kept combing streets. Maura loudly sighed, and continued. "All this shit is a job, John. And all it will give you is cash. Horseshit cash that can never buy back what the job takes. Lucy's smart. She's in working camps, and training Spartan IVs. We're idiots to be out here! You're even dumber than me, dicking around and getting your head kicked in by Brutes, when there are people counting on you coming back alive!"

    "Jesus, where's this coming from? What are you mad at me for?" John lowered his marksman rifle, turning to Maura, clearly bent out of shape.

    "YOU were supposed to have a life after the war. You always talked about it."

    John paused. "WE. Like, all of us. I always said we should all have a life after the war was over. But, it's not, Maura. There's still a lot to do."

    Maura leaned back in her seat, releasing a long, steady sigh. John took off his helmet, despite the altitude, speaking over the wind and the sound of the Hornet's engines. "You know we're not going to ditch you, right?"

    The auburn haired Spartan didn't respond, and John edged closer to the cockpit carefully. "Like, when we talk about our life after the war, we talk about buying a HUUUUUUGE apartment. There's room for more than two, sis."

    "...You mean it, man?" Maura asked, looking over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes met John's brown ones, as he gave her an affirming nod. "Sorry. Didn't mean to get all fired up."

    "It's cool, Maura. Just don't be-WHOA. Hold the phone." John's eyes, as they rolled in his head, suddenly fixed on a familiar figure on the ground. He popped on his helmet, and turned the scope of his rifle towards the object, stepping into position. "...Ghost. There's a goddamn Covie Ghost down there."

    Maura shut the canopy, immediately going into work mode. She activated the Hornet's active camouflage, as she followed her partner's direction. "Slide us a few blocks east. I see 'em."

    Through his scope, John could see an Unggoy in shabby armor, his rebreather piping methane into the air as he rode down a sidestreet. The grunt grinded the ghost's left fin against a wall while it cut through an alley, taking strange paths. It clearly wasn't familiar with human road development, going off main roads and wasting time. Maura eased the Hornet along, as the old, ex Headhunters began their investigation of the strange trespasser.
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    Post  Bad John on June 18th 2015, 4:21 pm

    "This is Fireteam Bailey to Firing Line Tower. We have Covenant contacts on the surface. I repeat, Covenant contacts on the surface." Maura coldly relayed her information, as the Hornet slowly followed the Ghost driving unggoy. "We've spotted an Unggoy soldier in a light ground vehicle. We are unsure if the contact is a hostile, or a scavenger."

    John kept his DMR trained on the grunt, his teeth grinding very slightly as he narrowed his eyes. The Tower operator responded quickly, a nervous tinge to his words.

    "Roger that, Bailey One. Maintain visual if possible, and await further orders. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage. Turn on your VTOL's stealth mode, and follow the little bastard wherever he's heading."

    Maura nodded. John, outside the Hornet, heard a faint hum in his ear, turning. He could see a faintly warbling figure in front of him; like a bird made of sheer glass. It was at that moment he spotted a jackal on a nearby rooftop. It sprang down the moment his eye caught it.

    Everything in his mind screamed at once, as his body entered a state of fight or flight. "MAURA! Banshee!!!" The faint figure was a Banshee with active camouflage. It fired its main cannon a green, glowing fuel rod. The grunt was a distraction.

    The Spartan teams were being hunted.

    Alerted to the danger, Maura banked left. The fuel rod cannon's shot splashed against a concrete building beside them. The passenger felt a block the size of an apple strike the side of his head. He lifted his rifle and fired. The bullets penetrated the banshee's hull slightly, purple and blue sparks flying. The banshee swung downwards, passing under them, attempting to outmaneuver the Hornet.

    Maura heard a warning coming in over the sound of crumbling rock and her quickening heartbeat. "Tower to Bailey! We're receiving reports of synchronized attacks on Spartan teams! Fireteam Silver and Fireteam Proof just went dark!"

    Maura turned the vehicle, staring at the banshee as its active camo dropped. It fired another fuel rod, and despite the pilot's Spartan reaction time, the vehicle couldn't move as quickly as she willed it. The fuel rod's payload struck the left engine, crushing it. The VTOL tilted, and John's side swung upwards as the Hornet spun upside down.

    John clung to the side. He couldn't bear to jump off before Maura managed to open the canopy. Thankfully, the tan armored Spartan punched through the glass and sprang out. John timed his jump, and leapt off of the doomed hornet, landing on a building.

    "Maura! Status!!!" John looked around, unable to see his squadmate.

    "I'm good! Smashed through a building window." She reported quickly. "We'll head East. Rendezvous at the back of the County Courthouse."

    "Roger." John looked around, spotting Maura inside the building across the street. "Stay safe." With that, he turned to search for an exit to the roof.

    He walked a few steps, before his ears caught a noise. His head jerked to the left, as he spotted a camouflaged kig-yar. The shimmer of his active camo revealed a carbine in his hand. The both of them froze for a moment, the kig-yar paralyzed with fear.

    John's pupils dilated, then narrowed, like a cat spying its prey. His foot shifted an inch, then he tore towards the jackal, moving faster than the birdlike hostile could react. With a flick of his hand he drew his combat knife, and brought it around in a savage backhanded swing. There was a metallic clash, the sound of flesh being paired, and an arc of violet blood appeared on the ground as the blade stopped. The jackal's carbine, damaged to the point of uselessness, rolled across the ground, having been knocked out of his hands.

    The Jackal flopped onto its side, a long, deep gash forming from his neck, down its arm, to its wrist. It was instantaneous, but John had dispatched the jackal with ease. The camouflage module was broken by John's swing, and flickered off, revealing the jackal. John investigated it, puzzled.

    Purple bodysuit. The jackal was wearing a stealth operations rig. No surprise there. The true confusion came with the Jackal's face. Its mouth was brutally stitched shut with a metallic wire. The jackal never screamed, despite the pain of the Spartan's killing blow. Some brutal vow of silence?

    "...Maura. Tower. I'm transmitting you an image. You might want to have a look at this."

    Last edited by Bad John on June 25th 2015, 1:28 am; edited 1 time in total
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    Post  Bad John on June 20th 2015, 2:15 am

    John, having finished a particular disturbed debate with Maura and a xenological studies major, moved quickly through an alleyway. His hands were wrapped around his DMR. Maura's waypoint was nearby, just below him a few streets over.

    The Spartan could both hear vehicles humming as he traversed quickly and quietly, his footsteps producing as little noise as possible. They were being hunted, after all.

    "This is Tower to Fireteam Bailey. Fireteam Crankcase just went dark, along with Fireteam Hatchet." John tapped the small button on the side of his helmet quickly and rhythmically, spelling out a word in Morse Code. 

    'Running quiet. Hostiles nearby.' The short, simple message was received.

    "Understood. We're dropping a Warthog a few kilometers from your location. We'll mark it on your HUD. My radar says you're heading that way now." The Tower worker audibly tapped a few buttons, and John could see the location pop up not far away.

    As John walked, he heard footsteps that were not his own. Moving behind cover, he held his DMR ready, peeking around a thick dumpster to observe whoever was on the other side of the alleyway.

    A Sangheili. He wore a special operations rig that was marked, scraped, and dinged by years of service. The elite lifted his hand, halting his detachment of Jackal soldiers. The special operations Elite turned his head towards John.

    He gestured. His silence was unsettling. The jackals immediately understood his meaning, moving in turn. They formed a Lance formation and opened fire on the dumpster with their storm rifles. The jig was up.

    John braced himself. The moment there was a lull in shots, he turned on his heels and moved out of cover. He fired his DMR from the hip, striking one of the jackals on the throat. He lifted the weapon, his helmet syncronizing with its scope. Four up, one down. He fired twice, dropping two more jackals, one with a headshot, another with a bullet to the heart. His heartbeat quickened, as he sidestepped a pair of plasma rifle bolts, his shoulder hitting the nearby wall. The world moved quite slowly for him.

    One of the jackals dropped his storm rifle, and attempted to draw the plasma pistol on his hip. John fired twice. One bullet struck the plasma pistol, knocking it from his hip. The other shot his wrist, the high caliber bullet piercing and shattering the bones of the jackal's ultimately fragile arm. He needed one alive. He turned his gun towards the final, unarmed kig yar's head. He shot the jackal's thin visage, piercing it between the eyes.

    By now, the Elite's probably gotten to me.

    "WATCH OUT, SPARTAN!" Tower, watching John's visual closely, shouted loudly. John could already see the cloaked hostile to his right. Right on schedule. John stepped back, knowing that the elite would go for the honorable, flourished downward chop. Sure enough, the cloaked elite sprang off of the dumpster, silently descending, his blade chopping down at John.

    The Spartan III moved in time, but his DMR was clipped and destroyed by the swing. As the elite landed, John's hand dipped for his pistol. A modified, new age design, the M6R had a three round burst function. John intended to make good use of it. He lifted the weapon, as the elite lurched forward.

    The sangheili moved faster than John expected. The blade sliced the top off of his pistol. "Jesus." Startled, the Spartan backed off. He knew if he went for his M7, it would be the same result. He ducked a swiped of the elite's blade. The spec ops elite was trained incredibly well, an adroit, practical combatant. The blade came down as the Spartan leapt to the side. John placed his boot on the wall, and charged forward. The elite turned to swing, but didn't move fast enough; the Spartan drove his knee into the alien's chest, knocking him back against the wall behind him. The spec ops elite went for its sword, but John trapped his arm. The dark skinned Spartan brought his elbow up, smashing the elite's bicep. The sword fell to the ground, as the Spartan and the elite grappled for dominance in the small space.

    Blows echoed as John dipped low, throwing hooks and uppercuts into the elite's chest. The sangheili felt armor dent, and ribs shift and break as the Spartan's fists swung. The blows hit like a jackhammer, driving the sangheili back. Purple blood tripped against John's armor.

    The elite made the mistake of letting go and backing off. With the additional distance, John gained more momentum, coming up with a gazelle punch, using his forward and upwards motion to deliver a devastating uppercut. The blow shattered metal and glass, breaking the elite's visor. John stepped forward, and thrust his right leg, the kick knocking the elite backwards and onto the ground, hacking and writhing in agony, ribs broken and teeth shattered.

    The jackal that John winged earlier quickly joined the fray. He carried a small, pink dagger; a weapon made up of the same crystal used for needler ammunition. The jackal raised his knife and leapt towards John, who was startled by the kig-yar's fighting spirit.

    Startled, but not intimidated. John ducked his shoulder and checked the jackal with his elbow. The birdlike foe sprawled onto the ground, jaw broken, held in place only by the wire that stitched his mouth shut. The moment the jackal began to get up, John swung his boot, breaking the enemy soldier's skull with a simple kick.

    Taking stock of his weaponry, John realized he'd been reduced to his M7 and his knife alone. "...Man. That fight cost a lot. These guys are well trained." Sighing, John tossed aside his pistol and DMR ammunition, having no use for it without the corresponding weapons. John walked over to the elite, drawing his combat knife.

    To his horror, the elite was holding up a plasma grenade. With silent determination, the elite raised the grenade, standing and lurching towards John, who couldn't quite back up in time.

    Like an angel straight from hell, Maura arrived just in time. Her tan armored arm looped around the elite's waist, yanking the mute zealot backwards and sweeping his legs. She stepped in front of John as the elite stumbled, activating her armor ability; a Shield Dome. It grew just in time, as a silvery blue blaze enveloped the elite. The heat and plasma washed harmlessly over the shield. When the haze dissipated, Maura and John stood, unharmed in their bubble.

    "Hot damn...thanks, Maura." John sighed. "That scared my shit out."

    "After the whole incident on the Infinity, this about makes us even." Maura wiped her arm. "Dude, you're COVERED in purple blood."

    John checked himself. His shoulders, arms, and back thrusters were slick with purple. John grimaced, wiping himself. "Ah Christ, it's all over me."

    "We'll wash you off when we pass the river. Let's get to our Warthog and head to the rendezvous point." Maura and John began their brief journey towards their warthog, sprinting, keeping their heads low in case other hunting parties were en route.

    Last edited by Bad John on June 25th 2015, 1:29 am; edited 1 time in total
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    Post  Bad John on June 21st 2015, 3:47 am

    Gonna present a new character for this upcoming chapter.

    Here's her name.:
    Spartan Molly Alberona.

    This is more so I don't forget like an asshole, so if you don't like spoilers, don't press that button.

    Would have updated today, but I went to Beerfest and got drunk because I'm very cool like that.

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    Post  Bad John on June 22nd 2015, 4:36 am

    John and Maura mutually stared at their Warthog. It was a troop transport jeep, unfortunately. They both leered at it the moment they arrived. However, their heads immediately turned towards the movement on the warthog's left side. A Spartan in pale green armor was inspecting the tires, typing on the TACPAD snapped to her wrist.

    Model IV. John immediately diagnosed her by her body language. Huh. She's not very big, for a Model IV. I guess they forewent the limb extensions...? He observed her with interest and careful forethought, turning to Maura.

    Aw. She's tiny. Like a little doll. Maura snorted, her shoulders bobbing in a jocular manner as she laughed at the tag-along's small size. "So, they dropped you in with the jeep? What're you, the steering wheel?"

    John turned to Maura, grinning beneath his helmet. "She looks more like the spare tire." The two of them had a habit of making fun of the soldiers that accompanied vehicle drops. "What's your name, third wheel?"

    The Spartan collected herself, removing her helmet. She stood just a few inches shorter than John and Maura, who were identical in height. Maura sucked in a breath. A swath of golden-brown hair was tied back in a pony tail. Blue eyes stared up at the Spartan IIIs. John was unimpressed, but Maura's heartbeat skipped. "Hello. I'm Spartan Molly. You must be my Squadmates...?"

    Maura took off her helmet, looking down at the Spartan IV, who smiled and offered her hand. "They said you guys like to joke. I was relieved to be on a more...informal team. I look forward to working with you."

    John watched the exchange. Maura shook the Model IV's hand carefully. "Yeah. Sorry about...a few seconds ago. I didn't know you were hot." Maura spoke the words earnestly and clearly.

    "...Maura, want to maybe take another pass at that sentence?" John didn't remove his helmet, and he didn't step in to shake hands, functionally disregarding the Spartan IV for the time being.

    "...Nah. I think I made myself clear. If I'd known she was hot, I wouldn't have made fun of her." Maura raised an eyebrow, a bit beguiled.

    Molly was practically glowing. "...I didn't know this team would be that informal." She laughed awkwardly. John stepped in, offering his hand to shake.

    "John," he said. "Stay alive, alright? Two teams disappeared, and we've already run into a Sangheili swordsman. Here's what we know so far," John stepped towards the warthog, giving it a quick once over. He knocked on the bumper, making sure the rivets wouldn't pop out at the first plasma pistol round. The jeep was suitably stern, and the air in the tires didn't seem to be leaking. "We're dealing with a coordinated, fluid force of hostile elites and jackals. I don't recall spotting any grunts. They've had their mouths wired shut. Either as a religious vow of silence, or some sorta insurance to prevent information leaks. Even the jackals have a measure of skill, zealotry, and resolve, so don't expect them to give up, even if you put a bullet in 'em."

    Molly was typing down EVERY DETAIL that John said. The Spartan III liked that very much. "They've got a few vehicles at their disposal, and some units have cloaking tech. Here's my shot in the dark guess; they ain't responsible for the disappearances. They were just squatting here after something else preformed whatever mass extinction or abduction went down. They were counting on us to arrive, and they're hunting us now, while we're too spread out to regroup."

    Molly's mouth dropped open. "Wow. How'd you come up with all that?"

    "He watched a lot of Columbo as a kid, and likes to guess at situations," Maura reported. Molly cupped her mouth, laughing at the diagnosis. "But, his guesses aren't usually wrong. If I had my wallet on me, I'd put money down on every single thing he's said, and I'd be richer for it."

    John took a short bow, before his helmet buzzed.

    "This is Tower to Fireteam Bailey! If you're mounted up, we need you to head east. Fireteam Billiard is under heavy fire! We've lost contact with all but one of them!"

    John nodded to his two fireteam members. "Helmets on. Mount up." He pointed to the jeep, as he hopped into the back. He spotted a spare SMG, and a new model grenade launcher. "Huh. Haven't gotten to use one of these yet. Hydra, right?" The grenade launcher had a revolving loading system, a HUGE improvement over the previous standard issue grenade launcher.

    "Yeah. Smart links to your HUD, and tracks your targets. The targeting system isn't done yet, so it can't tell friendlies, so be careful!" Molly, as she spoke, hopped into the passenger seat. Maura took the wheel, as John got acquainted with the weapon in his hand, loading it with ammunition. "Sorry I couldn't get us a hog with a turret, sir!"

    "No problem," Maura said. "We'll just run 'em down and blow 'em up. If anything, it's more fun this way."

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