Winkaku

Before I begin this story I must tell you that when it comes to Halo, buddy I don't know everything.

Also I barely know ANYthing about the military, thus mistakes are bound to happen in ranking and spelling, and for the sake of my crap comp, SPARTAN will be written as Spartan.

For the record no one explained the connection systems between john and his suit so yeah I got creative.

Also this story diverges from the original plot so you should rely on what I can give you.

I LIKED Keyes, he was a good guy….

Also there is cursing, you don't spend your entire life in the military, or god forbid the ODST, without getting a colorful vocabulary.

This is basically a Master Chief and Admiral Keyes centric story and no NOT in THAT way you friggin perverts.

Hell I have to say though, I'd love to pin some medals on HIS chest! WHOOOOEEE!!! That's a six-pack I'd wanna crack into ANY day! Heh heh!

!!MC FAN MAIL!!

So swallow your damned pride and just have some fun!

Mission log 117, in dedication of Admiral Keyes.

Sunday's Church Day… (revised….again)

117

They'd been traveling the same twisted path for nearly an hour in the damp wooded land after having run into the Spartan, bent up, out of ammo and really pissed, and though you couldn't see it through all that armor, you could just feel it.

Kind of like a booze buzz gone bad, as if something inside of you was prodding you in the back of your skull with a VERY sharp stick every time he'd so much as twitch or breath deeper than normal, the wet air grating against the suits vents.

Human blood leaked from small areas of his suit and he was slow on response, something that given the circumstances, no normal human could have noticed.

It was quite a sight he had to admit that to himself.

The Chief was covered in Flood shit and pieces of alien, drenched head to toe in the blood of the freak creatures, odd bits of them dangling in the slow breeze every now and then, glinting sharply in the sparse sunlight. Red upon black coiled up with yet more red and a hint of yellow, dead slivers of sick taking their precious time, the red reflection of threshold, a perpetual twilight purple.

It trickled down his armor in a disgustingly slow manner; blue, black and puss yellow all dripping lazily to the thirsty forest floor. Black on black like a gangrenous bruise, accentuating the Spartans curves in liquid guise and only serving to put a cap on the already very evident destroyer image that the Spartan exuded.

A sight only rivaled by the stench of the death that enveloped him; the men almost gagged on it.

There were only five men left in the ragged platoon; all taken out by a steady flow of the little puss blobs, lurching up through dark shafts and scrambling about for a cut of the meat, tentacles whipping around methodically as they bobbled about.

Keyes and his men were exhausted, and knowing full well of the missions that the Spartan went on Keyes was beginning to ponder just how tired the Chief must have been.

Keyes knew very well that every mission that man was assigned to was literally a suicide gamble, no ordinary human could withstand anything like what that man went through on a daily basis and Keyes was damn happy to have him.

Yet once again, in the back of the Admirals brain, he could just feel something was wrong, and hated every second of it, poking at him with the obvious piece that was missing to the puzzle but too hazy to see.

He made a motion for his men to stop, a quick solid fist in the air, and began to survey the group, looking them up and down for injuries as his eyes darted about in search of threats, ever watchful.

He stalked and circle his men, almost wolf like, surveying the pack. Most of the injured had already fallen victim to the enemy onslaught, Corporal Adams, who had nearly lost his arm to a plasma rifle, cradled his burnt shoulder as he padded up silently closer to their one blessed medic; the jakal had paid dearly for the wound.

The men slowed to a halt, the medic and wounded in the center, eyes wild to the slightest disturbance.

The Master Chief was still walking; it took him precious seconds to catch up with the group, one foot put out in front of the other.

That in it 'self wasn't right and Keyes knew it, the Chief never fell behind, YOU fell behind HIM.

Keyes stood for a moment and attuned himself to the Spartans movements, using his radio to try and make contact.

He could vaguely hear Cortana over the radio, it seemed as if she was coaching him through it.

Giving reassuring words to him and a little mental push.

Over the COM he was able to make out a thick, disgusting rasping noise; his breathing. A ghost of a wet wheeze and a gurgling rasp, the rails of abuse grating through almost silently.

The Chief was in a regrettable condition from the sound of it, and he once again heard the AI coax him forward to take another step.

The Chief's gait possessed an almost invisible wobble, as if the excess weight of the admirals calculating gaze could topple him.

"We'll be at Alpha base soon, just a little farther…"

The voice of the AI sounded incredibly human; it showed worry and sympathy with a strong, soothing over tone.

The Chief took one step after another, ignoring the pain of the wounds he had been forced to bare, exhausted, he followed Cortana's voice, his vision slurred to a sick mess. HUD screen a blur of incomprehensible data, pushed bio-signs and angry readouts a beeping buzz, the world an amber red smear.

The suits on board LS system had patched up all the holes in him and kept further blood loss to a minimum. His head hurt in loud dull ache and his stiff body began to refuse movement from such a fevered mind.

The thick sound of the quiet drag of his heavy feet reverberated in his head and toppled straight into any thoughts that his weary mind could manage; cold wet steel on wet soil. How had this all happened? He damn well couldn't remember, the last hours had been a blurred hell.

From one Flood infested gore fest to another, battling elites and every other imaginable covenant enemy he could bring out the memory of. Hundreds and thousands all dead and his body wracked with blood loss, pain and fever.

The memory of a mighty Hunter as, enraged, it raised it's giant steel grey shield high above his head and howled a deafening scream at the sight of its murdered blood brother, wide eyed carcass spewing brick orange sick and the others colossal armored foot sank deeper into the decrepit flesh of the trampled dead.

Those walking corpses everywhere, humans and covenant alike screaming in agony, death blows and the taken, a true hell.

Those things he remembered, they came out of nowhere and flowed in swarms like a flood, a tide of unceasing deaths hands greedy for life.

He couldn't hear beyond the staccato of gunfire, he couldn't see beyond the red blood haze nor could he feel beyond the bloodied titanium gauntlets swallowing his hands.

All he knew is that whatever was talking in his head knew what to do and he couldn't stop moving, if he did, those things would catch up with them.

Back in his training he had learned full well what would happen if you held still too long and that it could also end in an unacceptable consequence: mission failure.

That coupled with Cortana's reassuring voice and old instincts was enough to keep his body on autopilot, adrenaline and all sorts of reactive chemicals keeping him going, holding onto the AI's voice to anchor him in reality.

Overall one could easily believe that his dopamine had gone on strike.

Sadly no matter who or what you are, you have limits and the Spartan had just reached the end of his line, and from some mental contact, Keyes could see it now.

Thirty-two hours of constant killing, hauled up in a corner and praying for time to reload will do that to you.

Just after seconds of this realization the Spartan fell face forward, causing the marines to jump up a few feet as Keyes rushed to his aid, followed by a pack of very skittish men.

The Chiefs armor hit the hard dirt like a solid weight, crashing down unceremoniously in a single fluid motion.

The Spartans body had had enough and no amount of AI chatter was going to convince it to move.

That was when they came.

"CONTACT!!" was screamed by one of the marines and as if on cue, hundreds of the little bloated, buggy bastards came crawling out of the woodwork.

A liquid buzz began to roil around the insides of the Chiefs brain, a coiling vibrating black spotted buzz, and like clock work he stood up and shot everything that he could see, completely numb to his surroundings. Could he perhaps have known the difference between friendly targets and the enemy?

Surely no one wanted to find out; at times like this, practically everything had a bull's-eye on it.

Reloading and firing in an almost rhythmic fashion, with a mindless precision that even the AI had never seen before as one by on they fell and were mopped up by the marines.

A huge carrier form burst open and blew a gap into the bombardment.

One after another huge lumbering carriers made their way through and the sickly looking combat forms fell quickly to well placed rounds courtesy of the shot gun and some rather "enthusiastic" marines.

Keyes took up a small place next to the Spartan, by the subtle curve of his shoulder over the gun, and aided in combat, marveling at the efficiency of the man before him. Firing and reloading and firing all over again, almost mechanically and with a frightening precision, taking in the death without emotion, a machine of flesh and blood.

A good three minutes later and the battlefield was empty, only one marine had lost his life, a fair price by far.

The exhausted group made the mistake of inching down their guard and a large carrier form, green blackened disgusting flesh, chest writhing and abdomen pulsating over the crawling infection forms held beneath it's scar riddled coagulation as it threw itself into them. Swiftly, it took advantage of the lull in order to ambush them from the side and, double fisted, slammed down hard on the top of the Chiefs head.

A muffled cry of pain could be heard as the Chiefs shield flickered and died out under the brief yet powerful assault.

The creature was only inches from the Chief as Keyes rolled around on his back, the jagged alien rocks digging into his exposed flesh, and fired a half clip of an assault riffle into its exposed chest cavity, killing most of the held infection forms and it exploded into a single damned determined infection form.

Were they getting smarter?

The now free creature quickly latched itself onto the staggering Spartans faceplate as Keyes ran at it trying to pull it off and the standing marines shifted around not knowing quite what to do.

A shot to the faceplate could easily kill him with his shields down, and if that thing did get a hold of him; it would be best to kill him now, out of tact or mercy; it didn't matter.

In only a matter of seconds the infection form had located the leather like area around his neck and rammed its penetrator straight through the seal into the soft flesh of his neck and the lower area of the trachea.

The Spartan let out a cry of pain as the creature pushed its writhing tentacles farther into his body in search of his spine, flexing around his innards and beginning to burrow inward with neither guilt nor remorse for the Spartan whose strength was slowly giving way, his head and body jerked upward at an odd angle from the attack, neck at a sick upward slump like a hanged man.

Tenuous strands of the puppet masters claws writhed and curled into the many fibrous nerves and sinuous muscle tissue, into the farthest reaches of the spine; a sweet dull and alien release, gentle as a child's grasping hands, worming their way through the depths of his fevered and exhausted mind, calming and lovingly, the Spartan too worn down to thrust forward the necessary mental shields as the walls crumbled down decrepit, already losing the feeling of his own body and soon the very command of it.

It was an odd feeling, a numb awareness as the little siren softly sung him off to sleep.

Close your eyes little one it's time to sleep…

As if by command, tired eyes fell half lidded, once shocking blue irises dulled a tired grey and powerful flailing arms settled to hang shakily limp at his sides; waves of exhaustion coiling lazily through him like lulling ocean tides, from his brain to his toes and the tips of his fingers.

A perverse loss of mind that numbed and cooled, an incredible temptation to let go; his heart beat slowed, blood settling as little tired breaths passed his chaffed lips with less and less vigor; no pain despite the invasion, just… sleepy.

There is nothing wrong, there is no one around, everything is over; it is all finally done… you must be so tired.

Sleep… would be nice…just… just for a… little… while…

Cortana had never dealt with this before but knew full well what could happen and she'd be damned to hell if she would let it.

She carefully focused a small amount of the suits internal energy systems into an electric jolt and zapped the little bastard, but the creature was unwilling to let go of its hard earned prize.

The Chief would be quite the trophy to show off to the guys back home, but the AI had other ideas and they did NOT include the little fuck attached to his neck like some kind of sadistic plunger that was giving him one hellofa hicky.

Images provided to you by Forerunners Inc, your Flood is our fun.

Cortana increased the voltage just as the creature began to envelope the Spartan's spinal nerves, effectively delivering a painful neural shock to her near comatose partner as blood began to poor out of the wound with yet more vigor for its freedom and the marines leveled to fire.

The Spartan let out another howl of pain, gargled in blood flow as his body gave a hard jolting jerk from the shock and threw the scrambling Keyes to the side of him like a rag doll, nearly braking the mans shoulder.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!!"

Cortana could more than see that her partners vital levels were dangerously pushed but due to the creatures position she could not shock it out of him, the resulting jolt could kill him.

117 knew all too well what would happen if he failed to remove the creature and as it continued to dig its way into him, with his clarity restored, he thrust his hand down deep into his neck and chest wound issuing forth a plethora of gore as he tore the demon from his body in a spray of thick blood and a massive roar of agony that would make a Hunter think twice.

Cortana delivered a final vengeful shock to the writhing mass and the bloodied, flesh covered creature still clasped in his hand popped disgustingly in a puss yellow explosion spraying sick everywhere.

The Chief fell horridly the ground in a disgusting heap with a loud thud, shaking and cracking the ground beneath him, limbs spread painfully limp, sprawled out like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut without mercy.

No one quite knew what to expect but that definitely was NOT something they were prepared for, staring wide-eyed and frightened out of their wits without a clue of what to do.

Two marines, a medic and a soldier, withdrew their weapons and ran up with Keyes to the Spartans aid and the others kept their weapons as wide eyes trained onto their fallen comrade and prayed that they wouldn't need to fire.

Over the COM, Keyes could hear Cortana yelling about his vitals and injuries, giving out instructions over the radio in a voice laced with fury.

"YOU HAVE TO STOP THE BLEEDING!!"

It took all five of the remaining soldiers to turn him over, three wounded left to fall back as, with a hiss of a blood gargled sigh between cut parted lips, the Chief rolled listlessly onto his back.

In only seconds the Chiefs suit issued out a fog of overheated gas from the emergency vents and pieces of the armor fused together as the suit opened laterally at the torso and revealed the true extent of damage.

The sight of it triggered the end of a posted soldiers constitution and the fourth soldier, training his gun low retched in the background, but went unnoticed in the flurry.

The suit had a viscous inner gel like substance with a minor bluish tinge that dripped slowly down his bruised, bloodied sides and numerous wires were hooked into him, integrating him with the suit.

There were hundreds of wires, all varying in size; they connected everywhere, small ones connected with his face along the zygomatic arch and larger ones stretched from his torso and chest area like some freak glowing computer network.

The wires pulsed with some sort of energy and his chest was heaving from labored breath as his lungs threatened to collapse. He dripped sweat and shuddered from fever as his body entered shock.

His eyes were held closed tightly as he listened to the AI and clung to her voice as a means of survival, if he passed out now he would surely become comatose and Cortana was as aware of this as he was.

The main artery within his neck had been savagely torn up along with the thick tattered but strong ligaments and red muscle. His lopsided chest showed his broken ribs and many deep lacerations snaked over the entry wound. Deep red blood sprayed forth with unbound freedom and shards of a fractured collar bone showed through the sides of torn flesh and wires, pulsing with the strange light blue energy of the suit.

"Sweet mother of God…"

They had never so much as seen the Spartans face until now but there was no time to revel in it.

His skin was pale from too many hours in the suit and scars riddled over areas of his body; he had an incredible muscular build and a sleek yet not too thin, and rather handsome form. But what caught them the most, past the gore and form; the shone glimmers of the most beautiful ice blue eyes and the jagged scar along his face that hid his left iris from them.

Thick with experience, pain and power, eyes and scars that spoke of heavens and hells all together, eyes that showed the incredible power of a warrior and soul not to be trifled with.

Perhaps the last eyes the dieing will ever see.

A precious moment stolen to silence and the soldiers quickly snapped back into reality due to a snap from a very pissed Cortana.

She did her best to guide the medic through his task and constantly spoke with Chief in hopes to keep him conscious.

Giving out quiet whispers in response to her voice and muffled moans strangled in labored breath with a barely audible hiss of a back-throated wheeze.

With Cortana's advice it didn't take long for the medic to patch him up around the neck and as soon as she could Cortana closed the suit around the area of the wound and let the suit do its job of keeping him alive.

A compression sound could be heard as the suit folded itself closed around his neck, a small amount of overheated vent release peppering them with heated mist, and it did the job of stabilizing the wounded man by means the soldiers could only begin to imagine.

The other three soldiers had moved to create a small perimeter incase the buggy bastards decided to come back. They stood stock still and strong, attention never wavering from the task at hand but perhaps they harbored a small inkling of jealousy for those who saw the legendary Spartan's face.

The Chiefs vitals began to even out and a few injections later he began to stabilize. Soon the suit began to close up completely and it worked its way around his body like a bandage, with the exception of his helmet, and began the work of recovery, closely supervised by a very worried, very pissed AI.

Cortana may have been AI but she was very human and one could even go so far as to say that she even harbored feelings for her carrier and she damn well wasn't going to let him die here, not on Halo; ironic though, such a holy name for hell.

She repeatedly cursed herself for allowing this to happen, her entire system was linked deeply into him, she knew his body just as much if not more than he did and knew full well the trauma he had been forced to endure.

Time passed slowly from then on and everyone was thankful that there had been no incursions from the covenant and doubly so that there were no Flood.

There was no way to tell time, but whatever kind of night there was on the strange ring world had fallen about an hour or so before according to the soldiers internal clocks.

A small fire had been made in the center, large enough for warmth but not enough to lead a trail of noticeable smoke. Two marines took up watch and the others rested. It was once again eerily quiet, no insects chirped and the only thing that could be heard was the rustle of the wind and the steady reassuring breaths of the Admirals sleeping men.

Keyes sat by the fire next to the Chief, the mans helmet at his left, cradling his pained shoulder and holding onto his assault rifle with stiff, white-knuckle hands.

The Spartan had hit him harder than he had originally thought, possibly a fracture.

Whatever it was it hurt like hell and his shoulder refused movement, the small sheen of sweat upon his brow shone in the firelight, betraying his strong and unwounded visage. The medic had bandaged him; he'd said it was a sprain and that he would be fine, that he was damn lucky to have escaped the full force of the Spartan's blow.

He sat still, gazing into the flickering embers and listening to the sounds of the night, the breeze lapping at the strange fauna and the soft breaths of his men with the rise and fall of his own.

The Chief coughed hard and held his eyes closed in a grimace. The sudden noise startled the Admiral and he rounded on the noise with fast precision. He blinked a few times and gave a sigh with something akin to relief and annoyance.

Keyes pulled at the med kit and it opened with a metallic clang as the clasps peeled back. He took out a small medicinal packet and poured the powdered contents into a tin cup, adding warm water to the mixture and stirring until the concoction became clouded water.

The powder was a high-grade antibiotic medicine, meant to fight back infection and suppress a fever.

Anybody who had ever been sick on the field could tell you full well that the stuff tasted like shit and that the chalky residue would stick in your mouth for days.

The men called it repellant; for once a desperate medic had thrown a packet of the powdered medicine at an Elite, who upon getting a mouth full of it, nearly chocked to death before the soldiers killed it, it was quite a sight to see.

Keyes sat stiffly and set down his assault rifle, he hated having to do so with a passion, it left him exposed and that went against every instinct he had in a situation such as this.

He shuffled over to the side and lightly tipped the Chiefs head and the large area of his back upward against his knee and their salvaged travel pack to give him the medicine. The clouded water dribbled down the side of his left cheek and soon the solution was given. The warrior's hair was the standard military cut and the sandy grey prickled his hands, the sleeping mans form to heavy to maneuver properly.

Keyes set him down gently, the heavy armor thudding against the ground with a deep seismic trill despite his efforts and he settled back down listening to the beginnings of a calm wind, the quiet breeze blowing a soft kiss against his brow.

Somehow right at that moment it felt as if nothing could go wrong, a strange and consuming peace in contrast to what had just happened.

The Chief shifted and rolled over in his sleep, muttering something incomprehensible and earning himself a cockeyed stare from Keyes.

36 hours of hell, nearly killed, electrocuted and torn open, and he just turns over in his sleep and sneezes in the dirt.

What the hell?

Keyes took that moment to ponder a question, in the army, in a war like this, you never pondered such things; reason one, it was a moral killer and reason two, if you spent too much time thinking during a fight, you might loose your head.

Although, it was a legitimate question and there was no fighting, it pained him to think it and with such a rare moment of peace it just wasn't worth it. Strange how comfort can bring pain, when something that once brought joy to so many could at times bring only sorrow.

So he took the end of his shift and passed out flat on the ground, broken nose filled with dirt as he turned in his sleep and gave out a slight painful sneeze, a quick rasp and a shift in the soil.

When would they ever go home?