Alright. Time to give this my best shot. The following posts will consist of multiple parts, chapters, and entries in my own Halo ‘book’, I guess you could call it. I’ve had this idea in my head for a while, and it’s time to get it out there. Due to some writer’s block on my part, you may find some of the names of my various buds around Waypoint featured in the story. Feel free to add your own critiques, ideas, and feedback after my posts! The first post in this might not be up for a little bit, due to interruptions and everything. I just wanted to get this out there. 
HALO
DISPATCH
Section I
SOLSTICE
Entry 1
15:17:56 Earth Rotational Time
Spartan-RK12 [Claymor] Mission Clock
Location Classified
The SPARTAN-IV shifted the sniper rifle’s weight in his hands. It was fresh. Not a bullet of ammo had been wasted yet. He intended to keep it that way. In the middle of the small plateau that was the battleground, a ridge rose up with a few sandbags stationed as a barricade upon it. It covered about 25 meters in length but was only a few meters wide. It’s rocky terrain rose up in a couple places, making it a perfect sniping spot, considering you weren’t blindsided.
The Spartan crouched low behind a boulder, readying the weapon’s x2 magnification scope. It wavered in his heads-up display, or HUD, and he held his breath to steady it. He focused on the base formation across the plateau. It was where the enemy had been sighted last. He waited. Sure enough, the target dared poke its head up from the fortification where the sniper had his sights on. The second the HUD sensed the hostile being, the SPARTAN-IV squeezed the trigger, sending a 14.5x115mm bullet whizzing across the sky, striking the target in the back. Shards of energy sparked from the enemy’s shielding, but didn’t fail.
Dang it. The hostile had shifted position, causing the shot to miss it’s intended mark. But the shields where broken, and it was all too vulnerable now. Focusing the sniper once again, the Spartan didn’t care where he hit this time, as long as he hit. He did. The bullet passed through the target’s back and out the other side. The enemy was down. Spartan Tray Claymor pulled out of the sniper’s zoom mode. The air still hung with the stench of gunpowder, even though the invention was centuries old. He hoped the pang of firing the weapon had caused hadn’t alerted the enemy to his placement. That was too much to wish for.
A barrage of hardlight bullets slammed into Claymor’s armor at extraordinary speed. His skin stung under the impact and he rolled away from the attack. Lesson learned: Don’t roll away from attacks with an enormously long gun in hand. The sniper resisted the movement and sent Claymor off at an odd angle. He lost the ridge underneath and fell himself fall for a second before he hit the ground below. The onslaught ceased for a moment, then returned with a hail of fire, signaling the hostile wasn’t letting him go that easily.
Claymor sprang to his feet and sprinted towards an alcove beneath the ridge, ignoring the persistent whine of his shield’s failing shield’s warning and pummel of hardlight. He dived for the alcove, and his skin burned like fire. He tried to ignore the pain. It was his training to do so. Not wanting the enemy to follow, he ripped a fragmentation grenade, another ancient invention, from his utility stretch of armor and chucked it out the entrance. There was a bang as the bomb detonated, sending a massive cloud of dust and debris up into the air. Claymor didn’t care if it damaged his assailant or not, it was the kind of distraction he needed. The shield’s wine continued along with the red pulse of his HUD. After a few seconds, which felt like weeks, there was a whirrrr as the shields began regenerating themselves.
But the peace and quiet was short-lived. A flashing red light appeared through the haze, and Claymor knew he had been discovered again. Before the shields were fully recharged, more fiery bullets streaked into his hiding spot, smashing into him mercilessly. The attacker was now in the alcove with him. The closer it was, the more effective it would be. No… The one thing everyone with a sniper rifle should know that landing a hit, more or less a fatal one, is near impossible to do without aiming. To add to that, aiming is near impossible under fire. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Claymor struggled to bring the sniper around, no time to switch to his Battle Rifle. His vision began to fade. Summoning the last of his strength beneath the hail of hardlight, he pulled the trigger. The recoil combined with the attack caused the weapon to give a wild kick upwards sending the bullet anywhere except where it had been aimed. It was over.
But no sensation of death ever came. Maybe this was dying. No pain. Claymor dared to open his eyes. He was still in the alcove. The barrage of hardlight had ceased. He raised his head. In front of him, a blue-armored Spartan crumpled to the ground. A sizzling bullet hole smoked for his broken visor. The trajectory of the sniper’s shot had been critically altered, but for once, it was for the better. What would have been a misplaced bullet into the dark soil changed into the perfect headshot. Claymor realized he was holding his breath and released it in one big swoosh that fogged his visor before it could exit his Enforcer helmet’s filters. The shields began it’s regen cycle again, this time ending in a satisfying electronic plink. A gruff intense male voice resounded through Claymor’s head. “Snapshot,” it growled.
The words scrolled across his HUD at the same time, followed by the words ‘Close Call’. Another voice came into Claymor’s head, this time over his internal speakers. “You okay? I heard explosions, gunfire, and everything else nice.” It was Wendel, a close friend and teammate on the field. “Good god, Alex, where are you when I need back-up?” Claymor got to his feet and began to exit the stingy alcove when a dark shape streaked across the sky, plunging a boiling green ball of deadly plasma right towards his position. He immediately lunged back into his refuge. “They’ve got the Banshee.” Wendel responded sarcastically, “Oh really? I haven’t noticed.”
Claymor rolled his eyes at the remark, checked to see that the coast was clear, and left the alcove for good, darting across the plateau towards his team’s service tags bobbing on his HUD. He ran under a large rock archway as the Banshee screamed into view. Plasma bolts poured out from it’s front cannons. “Duck and roll!” Another one of his battlefield companions, Macklyn Hawk, began to overcharge a Plasma Pistol in an attempt to temporarily shutdown the enemy aircraft. A smaller orb of plasma fried the air, hunting down the behemoth. The pilot saw the shot, did an fancy barrel roll, and avoided it completely. “Tricky little bugger!” Hawk said as he stashed the Covenant sidearm and produced a Spartan Laser.
“Do you need it weakened?” Claymor asked, plunging the last shot of the sniper clip into the Banshee. “I got it. HEY!!!” The Banshee swiveled around and accelerated right at their position. “Dodge THIS!” A ray of supercharged particles caressed the sky as the Splaser blasted it’s way to it’s mark. There was a fireworks display of blue, black, and purple as the aircraft tore apart into shards of burnt alien metal. The large threat was over. However, it’s operator wasn’t. The enemy Spartan fell to the ground, regained his strength, and opened fire on Hawk and Claymor. They returned the favor. Then, out of no where, a figure materialized from behind the assailant. It tackled him to the ground, raising a combat knife over their head. Claymor aimed, fired and took the helpless Spartan out with a single BR burst. “Killstealer…”
> Sure enough, the target poke dared poke
Did you mean to write it like that? I presume not so I pointed it out.
Other then that its good so far.
> > Sure enough, the target poke dared poke
>
> Did you mean to write it like that? I presume not so I pointed it out.
>
> Other then that its good so far.
Thanks! I guess I had a bit more time. I also made that 'the enemy hadn’t been alerted to his presense mistake.
> The attacker was know in the alcove with him.
Another sentence that I think is off. I am not trying to nit pick just trying to help you make this the best it can be.
> > The attacker was know in the alcove with him.
>
> Another sentence that I think is off. I am not trying to nit pick just trying to help you make this the best it can be.
No, no, it’s fine! I need the help and editing. There’s probably gonna be a lot of mistakes that I simply pass over without knowing.
> > > The attacker was know in the alcove with him.
> >
> > Another sentence that I think is off. I am not trying to nit pick just trying to help you make this the best it can be.
>
> No, no, it’s fine! I need the help and editing. There’s probably gonna be a lot of mistakes that I simply pass over without knowing.
I will help you if you want the best I can ^.^
The writing is pretty good for the most part, but I think you should add some paragraphs.
> The writing is pretty good for the most part, but I think you should add some paragraphs.
THERE’S NO TIME!
Yeah, I thought about that, didn’t really give a second thought. I probably will in the future, but didn’t this time just to conserve room.
continued from Entry 1
The last one of the team, Spartan Marshells, cast Claymor a withering look through his EVA helmet’s orange visor, which Claymor was clueless to know how it looked. He could feel it though. “Stop trying to be a ninja all the time.” he said, popping a new clip into the sniper rifle.
Marshells sheathed his knife in a dramatic swoop of his arm. “Come on, he was right there! No one had to be a ‘ninja’ to do that…” At the bottom of Claymor’s HUD, two pictures of ticked-off sea creatures rested with numbers beside them. One was a red shark, on the top. Good. Beneath it was a ferocious looking sting ray… or however ferocious a sting ray could look. Hawk investigated the fallen solider and swapped his Plasma Pistol for one of those other, newer installments to the War Games simulations: a LightRifle. Some Forerunner DMR, pretty much. Powerful, though.
“You can actually use one of those things?” Wendel asked, approaching from behind. “Sure. I’ve gotten used to this one; got it in my loadouts somewhere. What was the other new one…?” Hawk looked around as if expecting the answer to float out of thin air. His Solider helmet’s gaze came to rest on Claymor’s still glowing armor, evidence from his recent encounter with hardlight.
“Looks like you’ve see it not so long ago.” Claymor shrugged at Hawk’s comment. “Think it’s called a Supervisor or something.” His response was answered to by streaks of purple-green radioactive projectiles. Waiting around having a nice chat about new weapons wasn’t War Games-acceptable behavior.
The team scattered, diving behind any cover they could find. “Oh, really? It’s just a carbine,” Wendel said as he readied his own. He leaped out from behind a boulder, exposing his GEN2 CIO armor and returned fire. It didn’t last long, though.
There was a brief lull of movement. Everything, really. Nothing moved. The radioactive bolts hung in the air, inanimate. The very terrain seemed to flicker an odd blue color. “Oh, great…already?”
A feeling of strange tingling entered Claymor’s system followed by a heat flash, then a blinding flash of light. His body felt heavy and uneasy. “Does exiting the simulator ever feel normal?” The green grass and shiny rock of the simulation world had been replaced by the dull gray metallic interior of the massive UNSC flagship, the Spielberg. They had come out of Slipspace, which meant they had reached their destination: the planet on the outer rim classified as Maitus-B17, or ‘Emmeti’. It was where the Covenant had been rumored to discover an ancient Forerunner artifact, Lord knows how. They had that kind of annoying quality to them.
“Well that was fast.” Claymor’s armor was no longer burned by hardlight bullets. Their weapons were gone, dissipating as the transfer took place. Their armor wasn’t just red anymore, it was a clash of blues, grays, reds, and oranges. Not what you’d expect from a Fireteam. Normally corresponding colors was part of a Fireteam’s code. But they were different.
During the ‘Second Requiem Campaign’, as it had become to be known as, multiple forces of SPARTAN-IV’s and marines had been sent to the exotic planet’s surface to fend off the Covenant. That was nothing new. But they were unprepared for the other, larger threat that welcomed them. The ‘Prometheans’. Nobody truly knew what they were even now. Some say they were humans mutated by rouge data, others proclaim they’re demons from hell. Either one worked. The UNSC had never seen this new enemy. There was no way they could have trained. So as they sent their troops down to battle the Covies… they also sent them to their doom. Forerunner weaponry overwhelmed them, advanced battle abominations classified as ‘Knights’ took out numerous units. And in the end, only few survived. Requiem was gone now, force into it’s own sun. The forces of the UNSC Infinity had escaped… but not with very many.
That’s what they were. Claymor, Hawk, Wendel, Marshells. All split up from their original units on that God-forbidden hellhole, save Wendel and Marshells, who had stuck together on a trek across a rocky quarry, ending with the hijacking and escape of a Covenant Phantom. They were brought together, given a new location, assignment, and name. Solstice. Fireteam Solstice. Supposed to be because a solstice back on Mother Earth was the start of something new. Though others called them Fireteam Grab Bag.
Across the War Games terminal, the former blue team exited, shook hands, and in Marshells’ case, were thrown insults with Solstice. “Good game, guys. Pity we couldn’t finish.” A Spartan with black and yellow armor shook hand with Claymor. “Thanks, Raine. I thought you had me that alcove.” Marshells came up from behind.
“What are you doing?” Claymor looked at his comrade, puzzled. “Shaking hands. It was a good game all and all. And they’re Fireteam Nova. We’ve known each other for quite the time, now.” Marshells shook his head in disgust. “They’re the enemy is what they are.”
It was Claymor’s turn to shake his head. “Get your glory-filled head out of the clouds. War Games is for training. On the real field, we are all one force. Brothers. Now shut up unless you want me to killsteal you every ga–”
A crackle from Spielberg’s PA system interrupted Claymor’s threat. “Fireteams Viper, Apex, Nova, Metal, Guardian, Tornado, Fog, Riptide, Solstice, and Eagle, report to the main hanger immedieatly for dispatch. Repeat…”
“Isn’t that all of us?” Wendel asked as they began the jog to the hanger. “Yeah,” Claymor replied. “But that just makes it sound more dramatic.” Que War Games music
To be dramatically continued…
The CC is not a plasma wep.
> The CC is not a plasma wep.
Educate me.
The CC fires radioactive ballistic rounds
Entry 2
15:22:04 Earth Rotational Time
Spartan-RK12 [Tray Claymor] Mission Clock
War Games Terminal C; UNSC Speilberg
In Orbit of Maitus-B17; Perseus Arm
“Any ideas on what the hingeheads are diggin’ at down there?” The corridor leading from the War Games simulations was swarming with SPARTAN-IV’s of every size, color, and armor type. Bits and pieces of conversations forced their way through Claymor’s helmet and into his ears. “Which Pelican we got?” “I call shotgun!” “Jim! Reserve the rockets for me, 'kay?” “Wait, forgot my tags!”
Armored supersoldiers flowed down from all chambers in the Spielberg, all going to the same place. The hangers. They hadn’t had a good fight in weeks, let alone months, after the destruction of Requiem fiddled with all their assignments. Everyone was on the hunt for remnants of Jul 'Mdama’s ‘Storm’ Covenant, and they happened to everywhere, except when you had the upper hand. Then they found the means to hightail it right out the disadvantage, and disappear without so much as a scratch.
It had been at least a month since Requiem’s fall and the abduction of Dr. Catherine Halsey. Rumors of the mysterious war criminal creating ‘Spartan Sangheli’ were swirling around various ranks in the UNSC. The crew of the fabled Infinity were trying to track 'Mdama down, but to no avail.
When the information about the dig site on Emmeti surfaced, the entire legion aboard the Spielberg were reassigned to the planet in order to gather further intelligence on the enemy’s goals.
“Are we gonna finally see some action? I feel like I’ve been cooped in the simulations forever.” Wendel flexed the sore limbs of his gray and orange armor around. “We’re about to find out,” Claymor didn’t hold much hope for whatever assignment they were about to receive. They weren’t exactly the boots-on-the-ground firefight kind of fireteam. More like ‘hit-and-run’. Swoop in with some power weps, blow up a few tanks, then let the rest of the stinkin’ army do all the fun stuff.
They had unconsciously reached the main hanger; swept in by the strong current of Spartans, who were as eager as little kids on Christmas morning. Back when Christmas was an official holiday. Marines were trying to direct which fireteams went where, and others were narrowly avoiding becoming roadkill the armored stampede.
Hawk approached one with a firmly set jaw and alert eyes. “Lieutenant Fischer? Fireteam Solstice reporting for duty.” The words had barely left Hawk’s mouth before a powerful force rocked the entire hanger bay. “What the hell was that?” No one who had said it, but their question was answered soon enough. A group of four Covenant Seraph-class fighters whizzed by the enormous bay doors, spewing plasma fire across the hanger.
Everyone one dropped to ground in an evasive manuver to avoid being charred to a crisp. Fusion coils and wires were hit and exploded in a shower of sparks. A cluster of soldiers were knocked across the chamber by an detonating Pelican-class dropship.
“How nice of the Covies to send us a welcoming party,” Marshells grumbled. “Let’s go say ‘hi’!” He got up a made a dash for the nearest Broadsword. Before anyone could protest, Wendel leaped to his feet followed. Maybe it wouldn’t be a boring outing after all.
TO BE CONTINUED AS ALWAYS!
Gotta admit I am liking it all so far.
> Gotta admit I am liking it all so far.
(\ ^-^ /)
Thanks!
Now to add paragraphs…you won’t beat me now, Waypoint character text limit.
> > Gotta admit I am liking it all so far.
>
> (\ ^-^ /)
>
> Thanks!
>
> Now to add paragraphs…you won’t beat me now, Waypoint character text limit.
I find it nice thus far…however the first two story posts need some more spaces in between paragraphs…or they just need more paragraphs(You decide).
Also, this isn’t exactly ‘mandatory’ but when someone talks even for a sentence, it is best to give them their own separate paragraphs as opposed to merging it together with details as it can sometimes be confusing for some, it also is commonly used in books as well.
Otherwise this is overall refreshing as the old community writings hav pretty much died out.
Entry 3
This is why we can’t have nice things. Claymor thought as the Seraphs came back for round two quicker than he’d anticipated. They weren’t doing their loop-de-loop tactic that the UNSC had grown accustomed to, eventually relying on it for a small window of time to regroup. Which meant they had learned. Surprising. I thought they didn’t have brains.
“Claymor! Go find Coltson!” Hawk yelled as the Covenant fighters poured more of plasma hell into the hanger bay. “Heck no! He could be anywhere! And why aren’t the ship’s defenses working?!” Claymor leaped from his stomach to the right as a smoldering catwalk crashed down from above. Hawk called out from the other side of the crippled metal. “There was a glitch in the system during our entry to Slipspace!” Claymor cursed under his breath. “Well didn’t the damn eggheads fix it?!” There was total chaos in the hanger. Exits where either covered in hazardous debris or severely mangled in the enemy’s onslaught. There was no escape.
A new sound filled the bay, other than the shouts and cries of panicked UNSC personal. Claymor tilted his head to one side to discover the source. Marshells had reached the Broadsword.
It careened to the right as only a single side of it’s thursters activated. Claymor caught a glimpse of Wendel vaulting over fallen supply crates in an attempt to reach the haywire space vehicle. Marshells wasn’t necessarily the best at flying.
An exasperated tone came from behind Claymor. “He should have waited on me, dang it.” Claymor no longer needed to go hunt down Coltson. Coltson had found him. The other Spartan was the team’s pilot, and a darn good one at that. He could navigate a planet that he had only just heard about with expertise, and successfully extract any number of humans from any predicament.
Claymor laughed. “What, Marshells, wait? How long you’ve been on this team, Sam?” Coltson cocked his Aviator-helmeted head, then ducked it below the railings as the Seraphs returned to bust up the Spielberg’s interior even more. “About a month now,” he responded. “Maybe that wasn’t the right question to ask. But that’s still enough.”
A roar blasted through the plasma-battered chamber. Claymor turned to see that Marshells had actually gotten the spacejet off the ground, with a little help from Wendel, who had found his way into the co-pilot’s seat without being crushed. He activated his in-helmet com system.
“Don’t get yourselves killed out there, and don’t wreck the hanger more than it already is.” He would never know if Marshells simply didn’t hear him, or if he was just trying to tick him off. The Broadsword gunned it’s thrusters, and blasted out the bay doors, smacking a Warthog and numerous supply crates clear out into space. Idiot…
“Coltson, we need to get out there.” Coltson nodded. “I gotcha. Marshells will harm this ship more than the Covies if we don’t supervise him.” Claymor began to protest, then just agreed with the truth. “So true…” BLAM!
A generator that had been damaged in the Covenant’s surprise attack finally gave up the ghost and detonated, spraying shards of flaming metal and burning sparks in every direction. “We need to get everyone out of this place!” Claymor and Coltson leaped over the railing and made a dash for a Longsword that miraculously hadn’t been touched by the assault, save a couple plasma burns on it’s hull.
“There’s no time!” Coltson yelled back. “Or way, really! Limited ships are in shape to carry out exfil!” The Seraphs were back, this time nailing a Hornet that had been under heavy maintenance. A humongous boiling green fireball slammed into the chopper, reducing it into a useless heap of smoking debris.
But now Marshells was on their tail. The Broadsword spewed missiles relentlessly at a select fighter, striking it only a few times, but it was enough. That was Marshells for you. Spray and pray, even at a Grunt.
The remaining members of Solstice arrived at the Longsword. “Hang on, where’s Hawk?” A call came from behind. “Right with you! Fire her up!” Coltson plopped down at the controls and began the system prep. Claymor looked at him in disgust.
“What are you doing? We don’t have time for that!” Coltson continued, pressing multiple buttons at once. “What, you want us to explode in a single hit? I need the shields, and…” “JUST DO IT!”
Hawk clambered abroad and pounded the seal switch for the rear ramp. “Hey, hey, the gang’s all here…” “Shut up.” Coltson gunned the engines. “There, Speedy Gonzales, we’re ready.” The Longsword lifted off the scarred floor of the Spielberg’s hanger, and leaped out into the vacuum of space.
Hawk gunned the weaponry, taking out one, then two Seraph crafts. The Broadsword sailed by, busting apart others, then stealing one of Hawk’s kills. “Guess he holds grudges…” This wasn’t much of a defensive force, but with the flagship at the mercy of the enemy, it would have to make do.
They didn’t notice it at first, even though of it’s size. They had been too focused on the Seraphs. But it was there nonetheless. Wendel was first to see it. “Uhhh…guys?” he radioed over the com to the Longsword’s crew. Then everyone was aware of it. A massive, Covenant space armada loomed over Emmeti’s atmosphere. Destroyers, flagships, carriers… there were dozens of the things. And the Spielberg was helpless against it. Wendel continued, voice shaking.
“We’re gonna need a bigger ship.”*
*Totally not taken from a certain shark movie.
Honestly I don’t see anything wrong here ^.^
Keep up the good work.
Sorry it took me so long to get at least the start of this new entry out there. But here it is. Also, it was brought to my attention that there is a Halo website or archive out there also titled ‘Dispatch’. I had no idea, the name just popped into my head. But without further ado, here is the first part of
Entry 4
15:33:36 Earth Rotational Time
Spartan-R4R3 [Kit FULL NAME CLASSIFIED] Mission Clock
Main Hanger of the UNSC Spielberg
The situation was dire. Somehow, the Covenant had managed to decided to attack at the exact point in time the ship’s defenses were in repair. Apparently the Fickle Finger of Fate had flipped them off.
Another Seraph passing. More plasma fire. More explosions. More heavy casualties. If these Spartans wanted to have any chance in carrying out their mission on the planet in front of them, they’d have to shut down those Covie fighters. But even if they succeeded in accomplishing that, vehicular units were a key part of their assignment. And only a few remained functional enough to fire and pilot. But there was one thing that Kit couldn’t figure out…
How had there even been a glitch in the system? ONI themselves had made sure that all security and all non-AI powered functions were foolproof. There was no way, well maybe a little, that there could have been a strong enough virus in the computer system to completely shut down Spielberg’s defenses. And even if there did happen to be the one that got away, the ship’s AI’s would have eliminated it from the networking.
“Take cover!” Another Spartan bellowed as the deadly energy flames burned through the hanger once again. It was relentless, merciless, and it obviously wasn’t just the main hanger. A monitor screen towards the back right corner held the status of the ship’s outer workings. And numerous areas were flashing a bright shade of red. Not good. They were going down.
Spartan-R4R3, titled ‘Kit’ for reasons lesser known, was the leader of a three-member SpecOps infiltration squad classified as ‘Fireteam Fog’. Her exceptionally quick and effective ways on missions, combined with the fact she was part of an infil team, earned her the nickname ‘The Fox’. Take that and add it in with a not-so-secret love for chocolate candies, and you’ve got KitKat the Fox, leader, infiltrator, Spartan. It had a ring to it. But then and there, her ears were the ones ringing.
“If we can’t get our defenses up, we need to defend at least the hanger manually!” The tactician of the team, Porter, called back, “How do you plan to do that?” Kit surveyed the demolished bay. A Longsword and a Broadsword had recently escaped the interior and were currently trying to fend off the Seraphs. But it appeared that there was just too many. A fully intact Mantis caught her eye that has hanging from a holding clamp just forty-some meters away. She pointed at the behemoth mech. “With that.”
Porter shook his head. “You can’t defend an entire Spartan population from specially built alien space fighters with a single ground robot. You know how quickly those things’ shields give out?” Kit tossed a backpack full of battlefield aid to him. “I do, but I also know that ‘those things’ are more than capable of taking out Seraphs.” Porter caught the bag with both hands. “Wait, you do? How?” Behind the visor of the sharply manufactured Perfect helmet, Kit smiled.
“Lots of rockets, that’s how.” Porter could only watch as his fireteam’s leader hit the ground running and nearly got herself killed by yet another plasma barrage. “You can’t even make a few meters without barely missing incineration!” He protested through the TEAMCOM. “Nah, my shields didn’t even give out.” Porter closed his eyes and sighed. I can hear the alarm. “My HUD isn’t blinking red!” Kit retaliated.
The third squad mate, Spartan Scott, appeared next to Porter. “So what’s the plan?” “Kit runs a suicide mission in a Mantis. Don’t watch and try and get the defenses back online.” Scott let out an exasperated sigh. “You think I haven’t tried that already? But I did make a bit of headway.” “Oh?” The Mantis now dropped from it’s hold and thudded to the ravaged floor. It’s chain guns and missile launchers rotated and booted up. Scott continued. “It appears it not a glitch at all. Not a natural one, anyway. It’s more of a virus. And by the the looks of it, it was manually implanted here.” Porter shifted uneasily. Kit piloted the Mantis towards the bay doors. “What gave you that impression?” Scott took a deep breath before answering.
“The Covenant symbols protecting access to Spielberg’s defensive override. A hingehead was here. And calculating the time the glitch was detected, they’re still on this ship.”