[i]Chapter Two[/i] [b] To Walk the Path[/b] It was only after I took that last, fateful step that I knew how stupid a decision I'd made. I was a traitor, fending for myself in an unknown world. Brigades of humans; an immense Covenant Fleet-- all were my enemies now. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness outside, the light of which had only seeped through the small openings in the temple's rooftops. The scenery was nothing short of fascinating-- a vast lake overshadowed by a crescent-shaped green mountain range, engulfing me in a semicircle though it was not time to marvel now. Now, it was time to escape. Find a place where I'd be safe. Find my way home, somehow. *** Private Jacob Burns hit the ground hard, practically faceplanting in the dirt. Bolts of multicolored plasma sizzled over his head, the superheated ammunition missing him by near inches. In the nine months he'd been enlisted, he'd felt the inimitable sting of a Covenant weapon once. He'd make damn sure he never felt it again. Hesitantly, Burns peaked out from behind the fallen pillar he'd taken cover behind. The material was ancient, and evidently not made by humanity or the Covenant. He didn't know how much more abuse it would take before giving out. The moment his head came out of cover, a Kig-Yar, which ONI had long since deemed 'Jackals', hissed furiously, letting loose another volley of green light while cowering behind the safety of his shield. Burns again evaded the attack, returning to his cover, frustrated. How long had he been pinned down here? He quickly glanced to his right, at the mutilated corpses of his two squadmates. He quickly averted his eyes. Stay focused. Don't be consumed by the grief. Fight it. Burns dropped to his stomach and crawled his way over toward his fallen teammates, who had taken cover behind a large, spire-like ruin. Good. The Jackal patrol wouldn't be ready for his flank. He closed his eyes and counted to three, all the while curling his fingers around his last M9 High Explosive grenade. [i]Three.[/i] He pulled the pin and whipped around the corner, lobbing the armed grenade towards the Jackal patrol. It bounced once, kicking sand into the air and alerting the patrol, but by that time it was too late. A moment later, an immense [i]crack[/i] resonated through the area. A fist of black smoke punched toward the sky, dismembered Jackals thrown left and right. A perfect toss. Burns fell to the ground, panting, wiping sweat off his forehead and loading another magazine into his BR55 Battle Rifle, hoping he wouldn't need it. Extraction should have been en route by now. There had been no chatter on the COM channel. Was he alone? Thunderous footsteps clamped into the dirt from behind him. The all-too familiar static of an activated Energy Sword found his ears. He was certainly [i]not[/i] alone. "Come out, vermin, and die with what honor you have left," a deep voice queried. Burns snuck a glance around the corner of the tower. Amidst the mutilated Jackal corpses, a tall, hulking, armor-clad alien stood, a brutal and yet vaguely elegant energy weapon at his side-- a Sangheili Energy Sword. The twin-pronged energy blade would slice through him with ease. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He was a sitting duck out here, waiting his turn to be gutted like a fish. He had no choice. Private Burns leapt out of cover, poising his BR55 in front of him. He let loose two three round bursts, the bullets slamming into the Sangheili, nicknamed 'Elites'', chest. His shields flickered, then gave out. It rolled to the side, narrowly evading the finishing shots. Odd. It usually took five bursts to the chest to drop an Elite's shields. Why was this one so weak? The answer came to him as the Sangheili began to fade into the environment, his body disappearing from immediate view. Of course. The bastard had swapped upgraded shield technology for an Active Camo generator. Why hadn't he seen it coming? Burns cursed, his hand flying to his belt to load another magazine. In an instant, the gun was twisted out of his hand, and an enormous, invisible hoof slammed into his chest, the effect of which could be compared to being hit by a school bus. The Elite shimmered back into view, his features becoming solid again before Burns' horrified eyes. He brought back his Energy Sword, taking his time. "I'll admit, human, you're more bold and formidable than most of your kind," the creature mused. "But your race never stood a chance." With that, he raised the blade, and then plunged down toward the helpless soldier... ...and a slug of accelerated metal sliced clean through his back. A spray of purple leapt from the alien's chest, then it toppled to the ground, it's head landing at Burns' feet and its sword skewering into the dirt. It twitched for a split second, then fell limp. A Warthog mounted with a Gauss cannon skidded to a halt a few feet away. Another followed close behind. Burns struggled to his feet. Two Marines clambered out of the Warthog and helped him over, leaning him against the combat reconnaissance vehicle. He snapped an uneasy salute at the uniformed Corporal in front of him. His tag read 'Parker'. "At ease, Private. You're not under my orders, anyway," Corporal Parker informed him. "Sir?" The Corporal gestured toward the second Warthog, the one that had fired the shot. Smoke emitted from the barrel of the mounted Gauss cannon. A figure hopped off it and walked toward him. Even through a near-blinding mixture of dirt, sweat and blood caking his face, Burns recognized him with ease. "Oh, hell," he remarked. "They sent [i]you?[/i]" Sergeant William Anderson chuckled lightly, approaching his lower-ranked friend and comrade. "If they hadn't, squid face would have cut you up and served your ass on a silver platter." Burns couldn't help but smile. Sometimes, it seemed to him that no level of misery and death and hopelessness could dampen Anderson's spirits. It had been several months since they'd seen each other, when Burns had been transferred to a different squad. The war didn't seem to have taken any toll on the Sergeant-- he was still on the shorter side, broad, a clean shaven head and a recently unshaved beard. There was a tattoo of an eagle on the side of his neck. Anderson's expression faded suddenly, however. He looked around, squinting. "Private Burns, Corporal Hughes and Private Stockley are--" "KIA, sir." Anderson sighed. "We'll have to send a team down here to recover them later. Right now, we've got a new objective, and it's damn important." "Sir?" "It's a fairly basic recovery mission, Private. I'll explain on the way." Anderson grinned, then climbed into the driver's seat of the Warthog. The ignition roared to life. "Get on that turret, Burns," he ordered. "We're going to find us a Spartan." [i]End Transmission[/i]