A/N: Don't kill me! I sincerely apologize for how long this took and all I can say for it is: I got bored. Plot bunnies abound in this pointed head of mine so you can look at my profile for evidence of this fact. I'll be honest part of the boredom sprouted from the simple fact that I didn't know how to write the fight scene against the demon. It's hard to do those fights right because you can either make it too fast and easy (that's what she said) or it can end too abruptly it feels...unsatisfying. Which is also what she said. Enough of those jokes though you came for the chapter. If you want my advice when you get to the demon v. demon fight at the halfway mark, right as Hunter gets his new shiny toy, follow the music selection. Please. I promise it's fitting. I took inspiration for some of the demon's parts and abilities from the book Damnation of Pythos by David Annandale.
As a side note: I'm in C-school which is where I'm learning the specific system that I'll be working on. I'll spare you the official designation and just say I'm a part of the Navy's Geek Squad and the taxpayer is paying for it. So thank you all for the free college credits.
Fear No Evil
Hunter has fought and killed every breed of the Covenant in his time. The horrors of the mutants that greeted him upon his arrival to this time were a new, disturbing experience. Not something to fear. Just a sickening evil breed that needed to be killed so he could move on. The freaky space-wizard shit that the cult leader had at its disposal was a new experience but again he could adapt. The wave of...wrongness that greet him and the Stormtroopers with him sends a roiling pit of unease straight to his stomach. Flamers spit gouts of oily flame at the massive twisted figure that stands at the center of the courtyard. Bolters roar and hellguns scream the fury of their wielders at their maximum fire rates. Flesh bubbles and bursts under the wrath of the Faithful.
Oaths to the Emperor fill the air spewing their hate of the Demon and the Heretic. They call upon their deity to lend them strength. Hunter never believed in God: what kind of deity would allow such constant suffering and death to haunt his people and still expect their love? Religion never had its place in his training or limited interactions with the other members of the UNSC. But here, before him in all its demented glory is a true demon. Not the nickname foisted upon him by the fanatical aliens that worship the dead creators of advanced technology. Not the brimstone and hellfire fiction that has entertained mankind in novels and comics. A being formed of raw energy and corrupting flesh that laughs in the face of the abuse its mortal shell endures. Flesh and bone knit themselves back together as soon as they are torn. Muscles swell with demonic power and bones snap into being forming two massive bat-wings that spread across the courtyard.
Purple and white fires smolder in place of eyes and promise pain beyond imagining. Tattered robes disintegrate in the fire but the staff clutched in a clawed hand, once bearing the Imperial Aquila, glows and shifts to represent the eight pointed star of Chaos. Waves of despair radiate from the demon taking shape on what was supposed to be hallowed ground. Hunter's training allows for no hesitation. There's a foe before you: kill it before it kills you. The simple survival instincts of a soldier. The booming report of his BR55 joins the more advanced weapons of the Inquisition and Sororitas, emptying an entire magazine of 9.5mm semi-armor piercing rounds into the form of the demon. It laughs in response.
"Fools!" it barks. Then something happens. Reality tears asunder as a wave of power ripples from the head of the staff. Bodies are flung against stone walls and the unyielding flanks of tanks. Several are pitched from the wall to impact the ground below, their lives ending with a sickening crack of ruptured armor and bodies. Blades of distorted space-time scythe through ceramite, flesh, and bone as if they never existed. Seventeen lives snuffed out as easily as a candle. Hunter adopts a new strategy. Recovering from his impromptu back-flop against solid ground faster than anyone else in the courtyard he sprints for a fallen weapon. His BR55 is hastily mag-locked to his back to take up the new weapon.
Its unfamiliar bulk throws him for a second but he adjusts and finds the trigger. The short three weeks between Hydratus and...what was the name of this world again? He shakes that idle thought off and sprints for the cover of a ruined Rhino. The Demon's laughter rings out as the gunfire suddenly slacks off. Oh it's not from shock or the need to let the villain monologue. It's for a reload. Hunter makes the first move. Interesting thing about meltaguns: they shoot what is basically a concentrated nuclear blast in a narrow stream intense enough to melt take armor like butter on the surface of a sun. And there's no recoil. The hiss of air and flesh. A flash of brilliant light and the demon's left torso ceases to exist. This catches its attention for a moment. Burning eye bore into the blank faceplate as both beings come to the same conclusion.
"Oh fuck—" The Spartan barely makes it back into cover before a blade of ruptured reality carves through the space that he occupied a tenth of a second before. A second and third carve through the Rhino's armor leaving nothing left. Hunter huddles down against the final remaining section as gunfire erupts once more. This time screams accompany the rattling bolters. The demon waves its staff in a lazy arc silencing half the guns in an instant. The Battle Sisters falling to pieces. Faith and armor availing them little in the face of overwhelming demonic strength. For the first time in his life the Spartan feels true despair.
"Spartan, use the sword…" the Inquisitor's pained voice crackles in his ear. The man himself is leaning heavily against the shattered door leading further into the chapel with a tourniquet tied around his thigh to stem the bleeding in his leg. More blood leaks from a bandage wrapped around his skull where the demon's wing clipped him. His bolt pistol barks in a steady rhythm as a show of support though he knows it does nothing. A last spiteful act that soothes his soul. For now.
"What sword sir? There's at least seven!" the Spartan retorts and edges around the Rhino for another shot.
"The one in the Rhino! It's what banished the demon the first time!"
"Really!? I can't just shoot him until there's nothing left?" Hunter replies incredulously. Of all the things to kill the gigantic reality shattering demon it has to be a sword? A long litany of curses spills from his lips as he stealthily creeps back around the Rhino to peek through the massive gaps between the thirds of the tank. There it sits: leaning against one of the bench seats as if the apocalypse wasn't raging just outside.
"No! Only an artifact blessed in the eyes of the Emperor and the hands of the Saint can banish this creature! Just do it before more of its kind can be brought through or it kills us all!" Hunter sighs heavily and drops the meltagun. A missile that slams into the back of the demon's skull is enough to distract it for a moment. Hunter scrambles for the sword and curls around it praying to any deity that feels charitable that he escaped the demon's notice. Satisfied that his death isn't coming right this instant he examines the sword. The moment his hand touches the hilt he feels...strange. A warmth bathes the back of his hand as if a specter covered his hand with theirs.
'He trusts you,' a woman's voice whispers in his ear. Calm and soothing like the hazy memories of his mother. Unbidden, his eyes slide shut for a moment. A smiling face, a soft touch, a few strands of black hair. His eyes snap open.
[Five Finger Death Punch: Fake]
"No one lives forever right?"
He bursts from the ruined Rhino sword in hand hissing free of its sheath. The beautiful blade, untouched by the ages that it has sat in the shrine and still razor sharp, shines in the dull sunlight filtering through the clouds and the oily flames left by the Sororitas assault. The power field activates on instinct. Instinct guiding his thumb to the ignition stud on the crossguard. A shimmering power field flares into being along the three feet of high carbon steel. Cool blue light honing the edge to an impossible degree in an instant. His eyes lock on the demon.
Burning eyes whip around to glare into his very soul. He ignores it. A presence beyond that of a mortal's understanding, death and madness given form and feeling, presses down on his shoulders. He doesn't slow. The staff in the demon's clawed hand waves sending incredibly fast blades of ruptured reality screaming for his blood. He is already out of their paths. He detects a hint of surprise in the demon's eyes as he reaches top speed. Perhaps its hubris blinded it to his abilities. He doesn't pause to ponder its mistakes. His perception of time slows as the adrenaline rush takes over.
Enhanced senses pick up everything: the scent of his own sweat soaking into the padding of his helmet, the roar of weapons hammering the demon's broad back. Every bolt detonating within its flesh and every tongue of flame weakening it however imperceptibly. He can see the veins in the thin membranes of the demon's wings, and the grotesque sight of the eyes sprouting into being across its chest. Each and every one of them burns with madness and hatred. It personifies all that is wrong in the universe with the perversion of its very being. Hunter's legs coil as he leaps sword raised high. A rocket's sudden appearance saves him from death when it streaks past him and detonates against the demon's shoulder. The blow meant to cleave him in half flies wide of his armored form allowing the Saint's blade to kiss the demon's flesh.
It screams. Warp essence spills from the wound, short and shallow as it is. Ethereal wisps of smoke or mist shot through with purple and pink tones drifting free of the impossible's wound. Hunter lands heavily and flows into another strike. Skill not of his own guiding the blow to the back of the twelve foot tall demon's knee. Flesh that was never meant to exist bubbles and boils across the cyan energy field. More wisps of the being's origins taints reality but again he is moving. Just barely evading the scorpion tail that sprouts from the demon's back. The black chitin armored appendage is severed by an almost careless flick of the wrist. Three quick steps and he is clear of the still thrashing tail. Unimaginable force slams into his side sending the superhuman soldier flying through the air. Enhanced bone and muscle bruises along his side and titanium laminate armor plating cracks.
The ground slams into him three times recognisable only as a wave of pain crashing over his senses before he slides and comes to a stop against the curtain wall. Pain. Pain he hasn't felt since his augmentations. The Spartan-III might have a higher survival rate than the second generation but that doesn't translate to less pain. And this eclipses his body's forced growth and the surgeries by far. By some miracle the blade is still clenched in his fist when he manages to open his eyes.
"You...will pay for that mortal!" the demon bellows furiously and stomps towards him. Hunter frantically pushes down the pain and leaps to his feet. Ice flows through his veins as pain becomes a distraction nothing more. The mission. The mission is all. Kill the monster.
"Come and get me...fuckface!" The demon bellows with a thousand voices and charges the Spartan with speed that no creature of that size should possess. Two more missiles slam into its back. The staff waves almost as if warding off a fly and two Stormtroopers die. Enhanced muscles propel him into a run outpacing the fastest olympic sprinter in the first three steps. The Saint's blade shines brightly as it nears its old foe as if the Saint herself is within its lattice of copper and steel. Hunter ducks under the staff, jinks past a clawed wing, and leaps over another. The demon's staff rises and ripples. The only warning Hunter gets before a tear in reality nearly decapitates him. As it is a quarter inch section of his helmet ceases to exist and every hair on his body stands on end. The Saint's blade flashes and carves a furrow along the demon's side from hip to armpit. It screams in pain.
"Die!" it howls and rams its staff into the ground, raw power making the earth ripple like the surface of a lake. Hunter merely jumps over it and rams the Saint's blade up the hilt in the demon's chest before yanking dowards to the left. Impossible flesh parts like wet paper under the powerfield sheathed blade. The demon groans as its strength leaves its vessel and it slumps to its knees, hatred no match for the blessed instrument that plunders its flesh. Hunter pants and rips the blade free. A roar of effort and savage rage long suppressed tears free of his throat. The Saint's blade buries itself up to the demon's throat. A flash of light and the world is ripped from Hunter's mind.
Olavara smiles softly beneath her helm at the flash of released Warp energies sprouting over the battlements of the Mon'Keigh fortress. The Banshee and her sisters, accompanied by a squad of Scorpions, were told to watch over the fortress when the Demon emerged. The rest of Warhost is occupied harassing the Chaos forces still advancing on the monastery but this is the only part of this world's act that is of any value to the Eldar. She hardened her heart when the female's in their clunky power armor fell from the ramparts, and when they were eviscerated by the demon's power. Her War Mask seems to have faded with that strange Mon'Keigh's blow making her more...emotional during battle.
Her hand tightly grips the hilt of her blade as she stands from her position behind a snow bank and melts back into the forest knowing that her brothers and sisters are behind her. Their job is done here whether or not the Mon'Keigh survive the assault from their fallen kin the Craftworld is safe. However...there could be worse things in the galaxy than that strange human surviving the coming battle. Much, much worse.