the thing(s) your muse thinks about before falling asleep.
Of the past, of simpler times- things harassing Gamma Company at-large with Amelot, working hand-in-hand with Isiah, or just... generally happy times.
She thinks of those most often, but other times, Kitt finds herself thinking about operations and personal security in the moment.
The worst thing that Kitt thinks about before falling asleep may in fact be the perceived loss of Isiah- that's something that haunts her day in, and day out. She's seen the losses of Alpha and Beta Company, and... she has been affected by that footage, one way or another. That had a hand in making the loss of Isiah so much more traumatic for her, and is part of why losing Isiah (especially after being separated from Gamma Company and losing Amelot) was so heavy-hitting as to lead to her post-traumatic vocal disarticulation.
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Kitt has several "prized possessions" to speak of!
The majority of them tend to be "vandalized pieces of UNSC hardware"- otherwise autographed weapons and equipment that she tends to make use of in her day-to-day life and operations.
For instance, her Misriah Armoury 14.5x114mm SRS-99AM- a century-old weapon that she's had in her possession since Onyx and her time with Amelot-G024, has had two names- those of Serce-B195 and Korkova-A066 (well, pet-names)- crudely autographed on it by a knife blade in different spots, such as 'Sersy' on the rifle's forestock, or 'Korko' on the buttplate.
One of her magnums, her Misriah Armoury 12.7x40mm M6H was more signed-by-herself than it was autographed in reference of Exton-024 ('Xton'), a Spartan-II integrated with a Spartan-III team.
Her other magnum, her Misriah Armoury 12.7x40mm M6C/SOCOM has another name scratched into it ('Niiv') in reference to another Gamma Company Spartan-III, Niamh-G073.
Kitt tends to do this both in honour of the Spartans she's had the privilege to work with, and also as a way to remember them. These autographed arms aren't the only mementos she has, though.
Most depressingly, she does carry around a data crystal chip with some of Isiah's transmissions recorded and saved on it for playback. Sometimes, when the time does come for her to close her eyes, they help her sleep.
does your muse know when to rest, or do they push themselves?
Kitt and knowing when to rest are so far away from speaking terms that knowing when to rest can’t even call in order to ask to have the kids back.
Even before the Battle of Earth, Kitt was never fond of sleeping: the longer her eyes were closed, the likelier someone could get the drop on her. Without Isiah around to watch her back and the taking of further combat deployments, she’s grown reliant on (admittedly somewhat habitually abusive of) intravenal caffeine stims to the point that she developed insomnia.
Rest doesn’t come often for a Headhunter who doesn’t often have anyone trustworthy watching their back and giving them the chance to worrilessly wink their eyes shut. Someone has to watch Kitt’s back, after all- and it might as well be Kitt.
So Artemis had wound up crash-landing in the Outer Colonies. While it wasn’t too far from her original destination, she was still not exactly where she wanted to be. But… the UNSC had a presence on this planet, and there was fighting on the other side of it. That meant that she had a job to do, at the very least. There was no time to sneak in some shore leave; no time to loaf about.
She’d heard of Naris IX once or twice, some years ago. One of a handful of human colonies that had survived the Human-Covenant War relatively intact, and one that held strong Insurrectionist sympathies. Ironically convenient that Kitt’s new ally was one who had fought more human rebels than Alpha Bravos. Making militia groups disappear was her specialty. If the opportunity arose to tangle with the Innies…. Artemis would be in her element.
Beneath her blue-tinted visor, her lips curled into a wolflike grin.
:I PRESUME THAT YOUR ORDERS ARE HUSH-HUSH, YES? I WOULD ASK YOU IF YOU ARE WILLING TO DIVULGE THAT I-N-F-O-R-M-A-T-I-O-N. IT IS NOT ORDERS FROM ME AS AN OFFICER, THIS I ASSURE YOU. IT IS A REQUEST AS A FELLOW SPARTAN FOR SOMETHING TO DO. AND IT IS A REQUEST FROM ME TO HELP OUT. HELPING OTHERS IS SOMETHING TRUE TO THE VERY CORE OF MY BEING. I CANNOT STAND IDLY BY WHILE THERE IS WORK TO BE DONE.
AND WHILE YOU MAY NOT N-E-C-E-S-S-A-R-I-L-Y NEED HELP… I AM SURE YOU WOULD APPRECIATE IT N-O-N-E-T-H-E-L-E-S-S. WOULD THAT BE A CORRECT A-S-S-U-M-P-T-I-O-N ON MY BEHALF?:
Her right hand twitched towards the hilt of the Energy Sword that was clipped to her thigh. A silent, subtle indicator that she was ready and raring for action — and green across the board.
This Spartan— Artemis— was one that Kitt already found to be peculiar, and it wasn’t doing wonders for her paranoia and suspicions. First, Artemis was an officer— a Lieutenant, equivalent to a Captain in the rank structures of UNICOM— and completely betrayed the Headhunter’s expectations as to how an officer would act to begin with, even with considerations loaned to the likes of Spartan officers like LCDR. Ambrose. Maybe it was nothing, and she was just making a mountain out of a mole hill?
Or she wasn’t—?
It’s hard to tell.
Her pale gaze drifts from the Spartan her hands are conversing with, over towards the crashed strike fighter.
It would be difficult to conceal without casting it off into the abyss below, and Kitt wasn’t terribly sure that she could help with that. A Spartan-III or not, she could only exert so much force; and unlike Artemis, she was clad in a weaker semi-powered armour.
‘ … THEY ARE HUSH-HUSH, YES, BUT... ‘
‘ … IT MIGHT BE BETTER TO HANDLE THE CRASHED CRAFT AND GET GOING. GO SOMEWHERE SAFER BEFORE DISCUSSING THAT. ‘
She did, at least, allude to a willingness to explain so long as they sorted out the potential smoky tracking beacon.
‘ … I DO KNOW OF SOMEWHERE SAFE, THAT BEING SAID. ‘
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… rules: give us insight into your character by telling us your five favourite quotes from your character ( doesn’t matter if they are non-canon lines from a canon character ). then tag five mutuals !!
1. “ CHARADE IS NIXED! “
2. ‘ I SHOT ONE OF THE ELITES IN THE HEAD WITH AN ANESTHETIC CARTRIDGE. THEY WON’T LET ME HAVE MY RIFLE BACK AFTER THAT. ‘
3. ‘ A SNIPER IS USELESS WITH ONLY ONE ARM, SURPRISINGLY. ‘
4. ‘ I’D SAY... NOT REFLEXIVELY STABBING OR SHOOTING SOMEONE. THAT COMES DOWN TO LUCK. ‘
5. ‘ ELECTRODES SAY ZAP. HER HEART SAYS HOSPITAL. ‘
Naris IX is one of the few surviving outer colonies in FLEETCOM Sector 4, formerly sharing the sector with the likes of the Eridanus system and Eridanus-II, among others. It is the “main seat” in the Lyran Theta system, as one of the few planets in-system deemed to be able to sustain colonization. Prior to the Human-Covenant War, Naris and its people had strong Insurrectionist sympathies and would surely have turned to the Insurrection’s side if things continued to devolve prior to the Covenant’s arrival.
The planet is a little strange in its geographic layout— a mostly pangaeic super-continent named Elraeyon, separated at most by rivers or the occasional large lake merging with the ocean. The far north coast of the continent is separated from what lies to the south by a mountainous wall, and is blanketed in a heavy sheet of snow. Everything beneath that is… very prominently taigas of varying elevation.
The highest mountain of Naris, the “throat of the world” so to speak, is Nysnjolfr, the base of which was formerly home to a UNSC firebase which was abandoned when the UNSC went on the defensive and reined in to protect the Inner Colonies. Small towns, villages and an occasional growing city dotted the landscape— some of the noteworthy ones being Millside, a logging town close to the south side, or Erithstead— not far off from Nysnjolfr itself.
Five years after the fall and glassing of Eridanus-II (2535), several escaping Insurrectionists such as one Lieutenant General Vance fled to Naris while the UNSC left it “in the dust”, so to speak— leaving Vance to acquire and rechristen their left-behind firebase and the arsenal that remained in the wake of the local defense forces’ retreat.
This fledgling Insurrectionist group dubbed themselves ‘Caligula’ in honour of Vance’s baseplate callsign— Caligula Actual. Vance was formerly a junior UNSC Army infantry officer of some renown before his defection to the Insurrection.
Under his leadership, they became something like a defense force for a planet without the UNSC’s protection, basing out of the left-behind firebase (now named Cielotitan, and solidifying itself as a growing stronghold). Their pursuits weren’t without moral quandaries— their protection of Naris became their own protection, a blanket for the morally misguided whilst they sought to solidify control of the forgotten landscapes on Naris; and corruption slowly took hold from the lower ranks upwards.
Cells broke off and took on darker deeds once the Covenant came knocking on Naris’ door in 2546— extortion for protection and the likes— in the face of the arrival of the Fleet of Unbroken Will, who became a constant harasser for the planet and its occupants.
Millside was beginning to form its own militia under the watchful eye of a man solely known by the name of Ringleader with the acquisition of surplus UNSC hardware, ironically from crooked quartermasters in Caligula’s ranks— and the “Insurrectionist” cell known as Calypso was born in 2550 after Caligula attempted to extort the populace of Millside for supplies.
Ultimately, due to their resistance, the town was razed and they became nomadic— fleeing and constantly on the move with few solidified holdings.
Given their treatment under the Insurrection, Calypso was swayed back towards non-hostility with the UNSC, who— after the Human-Covenant War formally ended in ‘53— have been seeking a foothold on Naris due to uncertain concerns.
Three parties presently occupy Naris— the crippled Fleet of Unbroken Will, a Covenant remnant group, the Caligula Insurrectionist Front, and the Calypso refugee group— all ranging in strengths and backing, from advanced alien technologies to a near-formal military presence, or the likes of scrappers and freedom fighters. These parties mostly come to a head in the taigas or northern expanse- there’s little to no conflict down south aside from the occasional rare skirmish.
Hey, Kitt. Whatever happened to Sunny? You -did- pick up your brothers weapon, at least, right? Surely you didn’t abandon it with him?
Sunny.
That was a name she hadn’t heard in a long time, despite how… common it sounded… and this was how it was being brought up? Accusations and guilt abound? A shovel struggling to dig up the past?
The voiceless Spartan’s throat tightened, and there was a stinging sensation in her eyes.
‘ I DIDN’T TAKE HER. ‘
Sunny wasn’t hers to take, even if… she just didn’t like the weapon to begin with. Sunny was heavy, she was too low on charge capacity, and the destruction she doled out was too uncontrollable and imprecise—
But, Sunny was a part of Isiah, in a way, right…?
‘ IT WASN’T MY PLACE TO, AND I DIDN’T ABANDON HIM. ‘
Sunny was to him like her rifle is to her— and… now, more than ever, she longed for something like that: a token, a memento of some kind from Isiah.
… But… Kitt never thought they’d be separated! If she did, then… maybe she’d have a memento like that? One like the names adorning her weapons— but one from Isiah, like those of other Spartans she’s worked with in the past.
It’s healthy to cry, at least. She’s just thankful for the visor and… not being noisy about it.
So. Definitely not one of the Ferrets that she’d heard Blue Team murmuring about from time to time. But a Gamma nonetheless. Someone younger than her, and less experienced. And yet the action she would have been…. well. That was during the final days of the Human-Covenant War, if Gamma Company had been deployed the same amount of years as Beta had been deployed after Alpha. Artemis was not entirely sure; she’d never bothered to ask such details from Blue Team of these “Ferrets”, but she’d managed to glean enough to be able to put most of the puzzle pieces together herself.
:GOOD TO SEE A FELLOW THREE. IT HAS BEEN AWHILE SINCE I’VE I-N-T-E-R-A-C-T-E-D WITH AN ACTIVE DUTY MEMBER OF OUR KIND.:
She was in frequent contact with the Chief of Staff of Spartan Operations, Jun, formerly running with the tag A266 attached to his name. He’d retired at the end of the War; the last active-duty Threes she’d interacted with had been back during her deployment on Reach, alongside the aforementioned Spartan. And that had been some years ago now.
The very thought of Reach had her heart aching, and her eyes closed beneath her helm for just a moment. It was no good thinking of that now. The past was dead and gone, and she needed to move on, no matter how hard it was.
The sight of one of her comrades, however, no matter how much younger and less of a seasoned combatant than her, caused a warm feeling to bloom in her chest. A smile almost graced her lips, but the ghost of one died as quickly as it had flickered into life.
Artemis shook her head to dismiss these rather useless thoughts, and focused on the task at hand. Working out where she was, what kind of state this planet was in, whether it was an Inner or an Outer Colony, and if and when she could get off this rock and back to the Infinity…. these were her priorities.
:WHAT PLANET IS THIS?:
While Kitt knew that she might have seen her fair share of conflict in the Human-Covenant War, she was also well aware that her experience didn’t come close to that of one of her betters from Alpha or Beta Company, especially if they rated an officer’s commission, which itself meant the Headhunter was bound to answer questions appropriately (even with the faintest inkling of suspicions attached to the commission) if any were asked.
Her fists clench a little briefly, serving as the faintest of a pause before she began to sign. The gentle tilt of her head seemed to betray some semblance of curiosity— potentially directed at the comment about Artemis’ meetings with non-active Spartans. She hadn’t seen many other members of Gamma Company in a long while, either, herself, so just meeting a Beta brought about the faintest of warm feelings.
‘ … IT IS NICE TO SEE THAT THERE ARE OTHERS STILL ACTIVE. ‘
‘ THIS IS N-A-R-I-S NINE, L-T. ‘
Kitt pauses for a moment, as if dwelling on the question— Artemis is a fresh crash landing, and doesn’t seem to know the planet they came down on. That means it’s feasible they wouldn’t know it by system or anything, right? She lets out a peculiar airy squeak behind her helmet, as if interrupting herself with an ‘uh’, before continuing.
‘ … L-Y-R-A-N T-H-E-T-A SYSTEM. FLEET COMMAND SECTOR FOUR. WE ARE ON THE SOUTH SIDE, AWAY FROM MOST OF THE FIGHTING. I HAVE BEEN DOING RECONNAISSANCE FURTHER UP NORTH. ‘
While the fact that she had been assigned to reconnaissance here might reek of “privileged information” that isn't exactly meant to be spoken of except for with a handling officer, a few things might be readily apparent: this system shared a FLEETCOM Sector with the Eridanus system, which… ultimately put it in the Outer Colonies, and presumably mostly outside the reach of the United Earth Government. It’s also feasible that Artemis might be aware of Naris’ nature as something of an Insurrectionist stronghold minus a small handful of peculiarities, ever since the Human-Covenant War saw humanity reeling to protect the inner colonies. When in Rome, right?
The RECON-clad Spartan watched closely, noting the signals and making a mental note of them. Mic out. Had they been on deployment for a long time, or were they like Lucy-B091, and unable to talk due to years of silence, something that stemmed from horrific trauma? It wasn’t up to her to guess, and she wasn’t going to ask — something like that would have been impolite. Instead, she gave a curt nod, and lifted up her hands in full view of the other Spartan.
:YES. I AM RUSTY SO BEAR WITH ME.:
There was an apologetic tilt to her stance, something that a fellow Spartan of the earlier generations would have understood well. When they did not communicate with words, the IIs and IIIs were proficient in their own sign language, which was a mixture of ASL, hand signals, and body language. While her ASL was rusty, as she had stated, the rest of the Spartan signals were as fresh to her as if she’d learned them just the other day.
One thumb hooked towards her chestplate, before her hand shifted back to where the other hovered in midair. Slowly, a little haltingly, she began to sign out words — her own identification.
:L-I-E-U-T-E-N-A-N-T BRAVO-THREE-ONE-TWO. ARTEMIS.: She then made a gesture towards the smaller Spartan. :I DO NOT R-E-C-O-G-N-I-Z-E YOU BY KIT ALONE. WHO ARE YOU?:
She doubted that they were an Alpha or a Beta. Both of those companies had all been but wiped out, including those who had been deemed “category 2s”. She and Tom and Lucy were perhaps the only cat 2 Beta Threes left in existence. It was a sobering thought, and one she did not dwell on for too long.
:S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G TELLS ME YOU ARE ONE OF THE GAMMAS. WOULD THAT BE CORRECT?:
She was admittedly a little surprised when the Spartan replied in kind with sign language, let alone admitting that they were a little rusty. The apologetic tilt was something she almost didn’t catch on to, initially— it’s been a long time since she’s had to read that deeply into someone else’s mannerisms.
The introduction came shortly afterwards, and it almost caught her off-guard.
Lieutenant B312, Artemis.
It wouldn’t take deep reading to tell that the SPI-clad Spartan stands the slightest bit stiffer, though her hand doesn’t stray too far from her rifle. It doesn’t rise, either, as most might for a salute. This was a deployment, and unfamiliar grounds, but if this meeting was a little more casual— it likely would have resulted in a salute.
Still, she waits for this Spartan to finish speaking, and… an introduction in kind is requested, alongside speculation— awareness of Gamma Company?
She wasn’t used to outside knowledge, but … something in the back of her mind bit out as if that was wrong. It was… narrowly staved off, at least. They were placed in or attached to Spartan Operations for a time, and her own attachment was maintained even after others were removed.
‘ P-O-2 GAMMA TWO-ONE-NINE. K-I-T-T. ‘
Well, maybe now Artemis could recognize her by Kitt alone?
There was slight reluctance in lifting a hand to sign this out all that much faster, and it came up solely after she had to take a shortcut to get her rank out at bearably legible length. Similar reluctance came in revealing her company designation, but it happened all the same.
In short, the assumption that she was one of the Gammas was, in fact, admitted to be correct. Her hand returns to her rifle’s side not long after she finishes.
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The blind would hold— rocks and brush to break up her silhouette, and being on a cliffside meant it was optimal in terms of altitude— holding the high ground was ideal, she’d found.
With an arm curled around the fore-end of the rifle, squeezing around the magwell, she fell flat among the rocks and brush, negotiating the muzzle of her rifle out between a crack in the rocks. From there, her arm inched forwards— clapping out the bipod as her hand inches back towards herself to pull open a webbing pocket and procure a magazine banded with white tape.
She rides that straight into the magwell of the rifle and gives the charging handle a yank before releasing it— gaze drifting over to the optics.
Now, it was time to wait… but she had to occupy herself.
It was hard for even training to slip her mind. Nowadays, it felt like her memory was somewhat uncanny— faces, names, the good and… the bad.
The good was what mattered.
XF-063— ‘Onyx’— Zeta Doradus System
███11 ████—
There’s always a loser in competition, and competition was the very nature of warfare. You would compete— sometimes you would win: maybe new ground, maybe supplies— or you’d lose— maybe ground, maybe your lives. This sort of philosophy is what fostered Kitt’s innate interest and preference for sharpshooting: it’s much harder to lose (one’s life) if they were deadly from a distance— even though she was a headhunter, though, she recognized something maybe only a few other Spartans from her company did: there’s always somebody better.
Headhunter candidates were placed into binary pairs, and it was in these pairs that they would train for the rest of their time on Onyx, peculiar circumstances withstanding. While Kitt was in training, her partner was another Gamma— one of the earlier recruits for the company, Amelot-G024.
She was taller and broader than Kitt by far— Amelot didn’t suffer her partner’s shortcomings in upbringing prior to their enlistment in the program: where Kitt barely broke 5’0”, Amelot was a little bit ahead at 5’6”.
Where Kitt was pale, Amelot was tanned— green was hazel, peach was russet, ponytail was a crewcut— they were opposites, for the most part, but Amelot was her better when it came to sharpshooting. That was why she was relegated to being Kitt’s spotter— but…
… regardless, the pair sat atop a cliff— Amelot in matte-gray semi-powered infiltration armour, and Kitt herself in the same armour, albeit fitting for her smaller stature. An SRS-99 Anti-Matériel rifle sat between the two loaded with a magazine banded with red— tactical training rounds— and neither of the pair were operating it presently even though Kitt was closest to the rifle.
Amelot was calling the shots here— she was Kitt’s spotter— and the taller Spartan held onto a spotting scope, peering through the optic.
“ … Get low, man the rifle. I’ve got eyes on one fireteam, count of five. Semi-powered infiltration armour, olive. Photo-reactives misaligned, display’s showing them forty-five degrees from current position and headed north-west along the treeline. Distance reads roughly four-five-three-point-two-nine repeating, meters. Drop elevation, bipod has you raised by two degrees. ”
Kitt slinks down from where she was seated, caking her breastplate in dust as she inches along the ground to grasp the rifle.
“ They have a designated marksman flanking their team leader. They’re moving in an echelon. Leader’s front, marksman is to their left. Three riflemen to their right. ”
Kitt nods once, clinking her visor against the lens of her Oracle-N optic, finger curling around the trigger as she slips her sights over the group.
The dirt and gravel grinds up against her plates as she shifts about ever-so-slightly to pivot the rifle on its bipod, for her optics to sway over the group. Their leader is blatantly identifiable— MA5K lowered at a cant, hand flitting about with silent orders. This was going to be her first target— it’d break group maneuvering and draw their movements to a halt.
So, she lines up her sights— aiming for the torso and slightly off some before, with a soft hum, the marksman narrows her sights down.
“ Count one, ” Amelot starts in a low voice, “ Count two, ” she continues. “ Ring the bell. ”
Kitt pulls the trigger, and the rifle jerks back against her armour. The vapor trail bites outwards, hurtling a cartridge out towards the semi-powered infiltration armour half a kilometer out. It drops ever so slightly in flight, and there’s a hot second before the target previously in her sights crumples under the force of a stun round, red paint splattering over their armour (mostly the undersuit, which was her mark)— disrupting their plates, and the fireteam scatters for cover.
The marksman makes with a fool’s gambit, trying to grab onto their leader to haul them into cover. Priorities, priorities, priorities: a rifleman should have been doing that.
“ Rifles have scattered for the trees. Sharp’s still front. Realign. ”
Kitt’s optics sway as she lifts the rifle slightly in order to align with her target. “Eyes on,” she murmurs.
“ Count one… count two… fire. ”
Once again, the rifle jerks back with a loud crack— vapor trail searing through the sky as if it would heat up the air on its approach.
The crosshair dips slightly as she adjusts her stance, curling an arm back towards her torso— elbow resting beneath the stock of the rifle to keep it steady and mitigate recoil. It’s just in time to catch the marksman crumble like their leader did.
“ Scratch two. Remaining three have not caught on. They’re panicking. ”
Kitt lifts a hand towards the rifle’s optic, though Amelot lifts a hand to swat it away.
“ Don’t adjust your optic in the field. It’ll get ya’ killed, haven’t you been listening to the instructors, Kitt? ”
She huffs. “ Zoom doesn’t feel zeroed. ”
“ You were hittin’ them regardless. Work with it— they’re moving for their lead. ”
Her sights drift a little once she inches back down to the rifle, watching the clearing where two red-painted bodies lay.
One of them breaks to try to grab at the bodies— and she aligns her sights, before letting it off with a crack. While it’s hard to miss— they don’t crumble, even as red splatters over their plates.
“ You missed the undersuit, ” Amelot grunts. “ Reload. ”
With a nod despite her frown beneath the helmet, she reaches up to draw the charging handle back before ejecting the magazine from the rifle.
There was still another round remaining— she only fired three— but it wouldn’t be ideal with a prolonged fight to not reload while she has this vantage point and cover and such a low round-count to begin with.
Her curled arm twitches as she grabs at her webbing, peeling a magazine out. It’s banded with red, and she slaps it into the rifle and releases the charging handle— moving to settle back in.
The painted rifleman has fled back behind the treeline… but then there are cracks and patters of fire, a bit farther out than their target echelon. Kitt even glimpses a flashbang going off almost right atop the duo mound.
“ That’s our cue to leave, ” Amelot leans down to pat her shoulder. Kitt lifts her gaze from the rifle to look up towards her spotter—
“ But we could take down more targets this way, couldn’t we? ”
“ Not safe. No idea what they’re equipped with and they’re running shock-and-awe. They’ll be out the second you crack their marker, if they’re reporting to C ‘n’ C. ”
Kitt grumbles, releasing the rifle and inching away— grabbing the unspent cartridge and stowing that whilst Amelot lifts the rifle, slinking down to a crawl until she’s away from the ledge.
Kitt does the same, procuring an MA5K from where it rested on her back. It felt stranger to her than the rifle, but it may just be preferences.
“ Good work, though. If that was a VAP, then missing the undersuit wouldn’t have mattered. ”
Amelot musters a two-fingered grin, before her hand returns to her own rifle— spotting scope holstered at a hip in its pouch— before the pair starts to move on.
Isiah’s voice is quick to pipe up as soon as the Sangheili drops. :: “May?” :: He’s quick to tap a round from his holdout magnum into their helmet– just in case –and double back at a brisk jog, staying close to cover the whole while.
:: “..Let’s see here…” :: He mutters, most definitely catching the ignition. The pistol’s leveled out, and provided there’s distance between the grunt and Kitt… He’d squeeze off two shots, an attempt to shoot the payload that’s headed Kitt’s way– or at least the grubby hand attached to it.
:: “Nix one.” ::
Isiah gives a cursory glance around afterwards. God damnit. Where’d the other bastard go? :: “Kitt?” :: There’s a break. :: “Lost sight of the other one, and I’ve got a bad feeling he’s homing in on my ass like that cat that hung around the Onyx barracks.” ::
Methane promptly ignites, and a back-mounted tank bursts with a pop and a sudden bang once Isiah squeezes off two shots towards the grunt waddling at what might just be the grunt landspeed record, a feat previously presumed unimaginable— which faceplants just short of her cover, before both plasma grenades flare off and detonate. Dust kicks up around the site of the blast, and the dilapidated wall they previously used for cover crumbled.
When the dust settles, Kitt is nowhere to be found— the saving grace that might avoid drumming up any worry is that she’s still kicking, if their HUD and TEAMBIO is trustworthy in any sense, let alone the occasional faint yellow blip on Isiah’s motion tracker.
Just when things may turn out worrisome— the pitter-patter of grunt feet and lit plasma grenades coming closer to Isiah— there’s a pair of loud cracks that echo from further behind the grunt. The tell-tale sound of photoreactive plates losing their concealing luster echoes shortly before the grunt falls face first and both grenades crack off. It’s close enough for both Spartans to feel the wash— but ideally, neither of them are harmed, although Kitt’s shield generator flares up.
:: ” You called? ” ::
Her green status light blinks as she lowers the M6H.
Furthermore… The signal was finally clear at the gates to this facility. :: “…This is Cerebra, personal AI reporting for Sierra Gamma-Two-One-Two at 2245hrs local time, date of 20-02-2553. We are under heavy duress, and in need of immediate assistance. If you are hearing this, please acknowledge. This message will repeat for seven days.” ::
. . .
Spartan.
Spartan, please. get up.
You’re needed.
The site was a mess, one that she would have to carefully turn over— checking over bodies, up until some sort of fragment catches her eye. It lures her down to a knee— from which it’s lifted with two fingers and inspected scrutinously.
MJOLNIR wasn’t very hard to identify, and this at least confirmed that another Spartan had been in the area, if the scattered bodies and viscera didn’t do that all on its own. The fragment is dropped and her hand returns to the rifle, while she starts to follow the more peculiar pathways— the grunt’s trail, and the Hunter’s impact further from there.
That lead her towards ‘Mdama’s remnants’ site— in burning ruins. The dead Sangheili and Kig-Yar duo clad in stealth harnesses caught her eye quickly, and the differences between them and the other deceased were peculiar, but the meanings (beyond speculation, that is) remain obfuscated to her.
Regardless—
The signal was finally clear, and she mulled it over briefly despite her surprise, what with a faint smile tugging at her lips beneath the helmet— there were numbers and names she hadn’t heard in a long time. Gamma Two-One-Two was no exception, but whatever minuscule twinge of glee washed over her left just as quickly as it came. She had to keep her head on a swivel and feelings on lock-down.
A response, though—? ‘Mdama’s Covenant or the unknown third party would be able to track her down, more than likely, if she verified that she had heard Cerebra’s repeat.
With a faint sigh and short deliberation, the Spartan steps forwards— and her COM clicks twice on an open channel. Might as well make it easy.
rules: tag 9 people you’d like to get to know better
tagged by: bxttle-cry
tagging: you already did it & i don’t even have 9 mutuals i’ll just join in on the communal pinging and hope i don’t get stabbed for it got-your-six theindexed
favourite colour: lavender / “grayish orchid” (bullshit, that’s lavender)
top 3 ships: nothing- rings a bell right this minute though veta/fred has filled my dashboard
lipstick or chapstick: neither but chapstick if required
last song: have a few
last movie: if the Fall of Reach animated film doesn’t count i’m pretty sure the Star Wars prequels do
currently reading: going to be starting Kilo-Five soon but currently rereading Ghosts of Onyx again
E-Band communications crackled, Cerebra’s voice coming through rife with static and interference. The transmission was barely intelligible.
:: …ra Gamma-Two-… .. …. . ress, and in need of … . tance.… ng this, please res… . ….. ll repeat for sev…. ays…::
A deployment like this would never have happened a year ago. Headhunters were not totally expendable back in ‘52, but rescue and retrieval missions were few and far between. The saving grace here was that they were looking for an excuse to have her adjust in live fire— and the objective of her ‘predecessor’ was too much to leave undone; so, much like a janitor, she was being sent in to mop up.
Another headhunter was sent out on a standard operation in the form of an assassination followed by search and destroy before exfiltration. They didn’t return.
Something had to have gone wrong, she mused.
Semi-Powered Infiltration armour was foregone for this operation in favour of having her adjust: the surprisingly diminutive Spartan stood six-foot-three clad in matte-gray RECRUIT-class MJOLNIR GEN2, solidarity disrupted with the introduction of the UNSC Infinity’s yellow-orange livery— the only visible non-standard changes being the introduction of external webbing and a change of visor colour in favour of a gold-mirrored polarization.
The rifle she had been issued was not her own, either— not her preferred configuration, at least. The barrel of her SRS-99AM had been removed in order to replace it with one home to an integrated sound suppressor, but the notches and scratches elsewhere on the rifle remained— memories of other assets she’s worked with, however few and far between they may have been adorn all of her weapons in the form of these scratched signatures.
Her M6C/SOCOM— lacking a trigger-guard as was popularized with variants intended for quickdraw— was no stranger to this, magnetized to her thigh, scrapes along the backslide spelling some long-gone Spartan’s name.
A tertiary weapon was magnetized to her back in the form of a WST DTM/LE, recovered from her BINARY partner’s last known location in New Mombasa. She was surrounded by sentiments that she scarcely understood, but those that were ever present bought her some semblance of security and ease— things that were hard to come by when your nerves may as well be frayed every aching second of the day.
Familiar— they were familiar, where the armour wasn’t— at least she could recognize the wooping beat of a UH-144 Falcon’s rotors from the troop bay of the aforementioned, which came close to touching down as the barely intelligible transmission echoed through her helmet, even as it’s lifted ever so slightly to facilitate a trio of hypo-pens meeting bare skin before they’re stowed in a drop pouch.
— Gamma.
Was she hearing that right?
Undergrowth crunches under foot the second her feet leave the troop bay’s deck, rifle swung about in order to shoulder it and tote it at low carry— and she began carefully curating and trimming her heads-up display’s data all the while, even if her movements were slightly jagged and over-compensated for in the unfamiliar armour she’d only had the past few days to get used to. This was where a keen eye would come in handy, she’d decided— and having too much strewn around would make things difficult.
The Falcon dusts off as quickly as it settled down to allow her to deploy.
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Grey-accented, aqua blue RECON-class MJOLNIR GEN2 was what the first thing anyone approaching would have seen. The figure was as still as a statue, stolid and seemingly indomitable even just by the way they stood alone. The polarized visor of a deep teal colour was fixated upon the horizon, and it seemed as though they had not paid attention to the silent approach of the other party.
But oh, they had. One eye was cast towards the motion tracker, and the Spartan was waiting, cautious, poised on the balls of her feet, ready to move should whoever approached was deemed a threat. After all, the tracker painted them as a white dot, but that could easily change to the red of a hostile, or yellow of a friendly. A few moments after the figure had begun silently debating, the white changed to the yellow of a friendly, and finally did she move, turning to see an armoured soldier de-cloaking in front of her.
She cocked her head to one side, studying the plating, noting that it seemed…. archaic, and yet familiar. A heartbeat passed, and she recognized the Semi-Powered Infiltration armour that had been prevalent during her days as a cadet. Her stance relaxed, though the hand that strayed near her Energy Sword did not move away… no telling if there were any hidden unfriendlies also nearby.
She clicked her COM thrice, followed by an amber status light; a silent query of identification?
Even with the fact that they identified themselves as a Spartan over communications earlier— through phonetics, at least— MJOLNIR was always a surreal sight (even from inside of it, admittedly) once you were aware of the reputation of it. At least, she felt that way. It was good news in and of itself to find someone wearing it, appealing to her trust.
When the GEN2-clad operator turned, she didn’t even flinch. She hadn’t much focus on her motion tracker even though a passing glance was frequent; and her attention remained on the Spartan in question. Grey accents and aqua blue played into her typical expectation of the newest generation, where drab solid colours were anticipated for earlier operators. The sight of it, at least, was enough to earn the Spartan-III’s trust.
Identification.
She renders a red status light in response. That would… need a proper route of communication.
So, she lifts her left hand from the rifle— touching her fingertips to the mouth area of her PILOT-class faceplate. There’s a slight downwards swipe just prior to signaling a thumbs down: MIC OUT.
There’s a short reprieve for the sake of facilitating immediate understanding, before that same RIFT-class gauntlet-clad hand moves to sign in plain sight— a dexterous, careful spelling of the following phrase:
‘ S-I-G-N-? ‘
It’s topped off with the slightest cock of her head, focus briefly glazing over towards her motion sensors, off-hand lowered slightly to return to the rifle if need-be. If this didn’t work, she would have to improvise.
So it was someone from the UNSC, and the Spartan’s hunch had been right about the other party not being able to speak. Otherwise, they would have made the effort to say something by now. That was good; she did not have to repeat herself any further. She knew now that help was on the way. No use alerting any unwanted parties that might have been listening in.
She’d not had any weapons with her save for her usual kit, which was a pair of M6G Magnums, Nightfall, and the various combat knives she always had on her. That meant she had nothing to go back for in the cockpit of the Broadsword. Which was fine by her. After all, she would not have wanted to get caught with her pants down, as the Marines so casually termed it. If there were hostiles out there, waiting, watching, they would have struck the moment her back was turned.
Which was why she was remaining vigilant. One hand fingered at the hilt of her deactivated Energy Sword; the other remained free, ready to flick her wrist and produce a dagger at a moment’s notice. All that was left for the Spartan to do was wait. Wait, and hope.
She turned to survey her surroundings. Definitely at the lip of a long cliff, and there was nothing but miles of forest in the direction from whence she’d come. The path her Broadsword had taken was clearly marked, given the detritus the fighter had left in its wake. That was as much of a beacon saying “here I am” as the smoke still billowing from the damaged wing. It would have to be sorted as quickly as possible.
Surveying was also the initial choice of the approaching Spartan— whose gaze (concealed by a gold-mirrored polarized visor) drifts along the path carved into the ground by the strike fighter, up to the craft itself. The debris and waste is worth at least a passing glance, though she remains… concerned, for obvious reasons. It’s entirely feasible that the ‘unknown vector’ would’ve caught a glimpse of them if they were one with a keen eye.
Photoreactive plates shimmer once shortly before the semi-powered infiltration armour “solidifies” appropriately in favour of matte gray— finally outright announcing her presence visibly after much internal debate. She emerges in the same moment in order to move towards the grounded Broadsword with her rifle held low, to seem less of a threat.
Something could go wrong at any given moment, and that was as good a reason as any for her to appreciate that her armour was fitted with rudimentary energy shields… not that she trusted in them frequently. They were on, though- a little worn for energy what with the previous lapse of camouflage, but... they were on.
Rather than just blindly approach, though— she opted on a split second’s decision to pause among the carved path and simply… whistle, figuring that would announce her presence better than nothing or a full approach.
