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The helmet was different. His helmet was black, sleek, and rock hard. He knew that when his platoon wore them, they looked like the horrific professionals they were. But their helmets, those helmets were something different. The sage coloured headgear was more than just terrifying... it was inspiring. His did nothing to gather the morale of his men, nor did it do anything to prevail in a campaign against the Covenant. His visor had no power to make both enemy and allied forces quake in fear, like the reflecting gold world of the Spartan visors did. His was just a plain black helmet with "Corporal S. Wilshire" on the back. It could stop plasma from burning through his skull, so it was fine by him.
He had only actually seen the Spartans twice though each time was significant enough to change his life.
The first time was on some jungle-covered cesspool of a planet whose name he had long ago forgot. The planet was only considered a colony to the UNSC because of a single Titanium-A mine. When the covenant invaded the space command decided against evacuating the small single town. He didn't know why the UNSC had sent his men to die there, whether they thought a "possible" win would be good for morale, or if they just couldn't give up a battleship's hull worth of armour.
Either way he found himself pinned down with three quarters of his platoon dead, 8 injured, a right femur broken in twelve places, and only a clip and a half of ammo left for his MA5B assault rifle. The drop from orbit had been brutal, killing a record number of his squad mates. The forests had made it hard to gather together, and made it easy or the Covenant to ambush. Their objective had been a covenant stronghold 2 kilometers away, instead they were defending themselves against an onslaught of Elites, Grunts, and Jackals.
But the ODST were the best, and even though they had suffered high casualties, they had taken out even more covenant. The Covenant, however, they had the advantage of not caring if one of them died, they just kept coming. A plasma grenade had attached to his Warrant Officer's back and taken out their last commanding officer, which had more severe results than any other death.
The ODST had the reputation of keeping up the assault no matter what and always thirsted to kill, especially if it meant their death. He and his squad were no different. When the sergeant had died half of the dozen black-clad warriors charged from behind their cover. They ran shooting straight into the scalding plasma fire and both alien and human screeches were heard while purple, blue, and red blood splattered across the trunks of the war-torn trees.
He had been just as crazy back then, but when he turned and limped into the fray, he had been thrown back behind the safety of the burning wood. There were three of them, around seven feet tall, and entombed in their thick green armour.
He was given an order to stay there, but he could not. He managed to drag his body to the front lines, or rather, where the front lines had been. The three Spartans had done more in three minutes than his men had done in four and a half hours. The highest ranked Spartan, a Master Chief, turned to head back to the marines when the last bullets had been fired. There is where he saw it, the helmet, the visor was like a mirror and he could see the annihilated remains of his platoon from within its reflection. The purple splattered on the visor angered him. It said what the marines knew but would not accept, it said that the Spartans were better.
He had always hated the covenant, for everyone they had killed, every innocent they had murdered, and for their disregard of humanity. But the rage that swelled in him now was greater than all of that. By saving his life, the Spartan had insulted him. The ODST were the best of humanity, an all-volunteer section of the military that had more victories, more kills, and more respect than any other marine force. When the Spartan II program was declassified, and their existence became public knowledge, they had taken away all honour from the ODST. And they were freaks, unnaturally altered to beyond the definition of a human being. They were nothing but humanoid equipment utilized by the UNSC, like a rifle or spaceship.
He was given a sedative and some biofoam, then loaded onto a troop carrying 'Hog. When he arrived at the HQ, he wasn't rushed to the medical building, instead loaded directly onto a pelican and airlifted through covenant antiaircraft turret fire to a destroyer class ship orbiting the planet.
After twenty minutes he had been quickly patched up and sent off for the more serious cases to come in. He walked with a slight limp to the barracks, and there he met the Spartan for a second time.
He climbed into his bed and began to look over the list of casualties in his platoon when the Spartan he only knew as Master Chief walked in. He only recognized the Spartan because of the insignia and his massive frame.
The Chief put his helmet on his bed, and then began to make minor repairs to it. This is where the Spartan had saved his life the most, when he made him rational. The hate he felt before was gone, with no trace left. Without his armour Wilshire had seen him for what he was, a person, like him, trying to save the lives of everyone he knew. Wilshire now knew what he must do. He would never divide himself against another human. He would stay alive, and keep his men alive, so that they could do anything to stop the Covenant.
The Spartan left the barracks, and Wilshire got up to follow. The Spartan was faster, and his limp didn't help at all. He gave up when something else caught his eye. He looked out the window, and saw the planet burning. The covenant war ships shifted around in a crisscross manner, setting fire to the world below. He looked at the list of KIA, MIA, and WIA clutched in his hand, and then turned back to the planet.
The ship lurched forward, and the glassed planet disappeared as they entered slipspace...

"Wilshire! Wilshire! Hey Seth!"
Seth turned back from his memories and looked to his lieutenant. It had been a few years since he had seen the Spartan, and Seth had begun to loose his reputation as a true Orbital Drop Shock Troop, something that suited him fine. He had been able to keep himself alive, by falling back. However with no control over his platoon, most of them fit the classic ODST statistic of living for 17 minutes after they dropped.
"We drop in fifteen minutes, get you shit together and let's go!" ordered Lieutenant Harold. Wilshire put his helmet on.
He paced slowly to the weapons locker and studied the arsenal. He took two MD6 pistols, and six grenades. He looked over the rifle selection, they were going in hot so the sniper rifle wasn't of any use to him. Which left the MA5B Assault rifle, or the BR55 battle rifle. He slung the battle rifle over his shoulder, he wasn't going to be facing waves of grunts or jackals, and therefore the full auto MA5B wasn't needed.
He managed to cram a rocket launcher into his Human Entry Vehicle, HEV for short and then strapped himself in. With one hell of a ride ahead of him, he sat and waited for the Helljumper pre-hell speech, and jolted his helmet's speakers with classic flip music.


Amber continued to paint the Pelican when her commanding officer gave the new orders. She was to take two rides to transport troops and warthogs to the surface. The only thing she thought of, adding more touch-up paint to the battle scarred vehicle, was how long would it be before she would airlift the troops out of there when the covenant glassed the planet.
"Now the Helljumpers are going to clear a drop zone for you, but to get there, you'll be going through some deep shit," Commander Spade informed over the intercom.
"What kind of shit?" Captain Andreas inquired with a playful tone, while she continued to repaint the writing on her bird.
"Nothing I couldn't handle, but you might need a prayer", Amber laughed, and she took a few steps back to admire Sistine chapel of plain black lettering.
She went through the preflight checklists, thinking if it's the oil pressure that will kill them. The green uniforms of the thirty or so men in the back were inspiring, how they were going to fight to the death, and yet all uniforms were neatly worn without any imperfections.
Their CPO was last to enter, but he took notice of her work. " 'Bird of Asskicking' well we shall see won't we?" he said with a smile, she returned the gesture.
With the art connoisseur in the back, Amber felt free to fly, and blow the hell out of the bastard alien invaders. As the engines hummed to life, she checked the weapons systems again. If she were to get into a dogfight with some banshees, she wanted to be prepared.

They were clear of the destroyer and on their way to Cobalt, a mostly ocean covered world, with over three hundred and fifty million inhabitants in the mountain region overlooking the vast deserts. It was only 7 light-years from Reach, and always thought to be a safe place for families to live in peace.
But there is no peace with the Covenant.
Amber put the throttle to full and headed towards the LZ, she could start to see the flashes of molten plasma coming towards them.
"We've got fire back here!" Yelled a marine, but Amber could only hear the screams of the marines strapped in next to the plasma hit. She continued evasive maneuvers, but her co-pilot had spotted a trio of banshees heading their way. The whining engines of the purple craft became clearer through the screams the closer the banshees got. The co-pilot managed to shoot one down and clip the "wing" of another.
The third fighter craft had evaded the turret and swooped above them. The fire in the back had spread and it began to burn her neck. A flash of orange reflected off the cockpit window, a grenade had blown in their cargo hold. Amber needed more speed and jettisoned the warthog, and then she commenced a ridiculously steep dive. A green explosion hit to the right of her.
Her head nearly split open with the force of the fuel rod hit, she looked over for her co-pilot, but saw nothing but a gaping hole, and a jagged horizon. She noticed her bird had begun to barrel roll with the right wing gone, she tried to compensate but it was no use. She looked for a good place to set it down, but the pain in her head was deteriorating her consciousness. She would not let the Covenant win and aimed for a clearing, even with her growing tunnel vision making it difficult. Amber felt her strength slip from her and she lowered her head. The peace she felt now as she slipped from consciousness could not over come the feeling that she had just let three-dozen soldiers die.


"The Jiralhanae had always remained an independent force...until now,"
"We are better because of the Covenant, Traysrektan, we are stronger than ever before"
"Do you call this strength? If you do than you are dumber than I remember Gretneklab, this Covenant will sap our strength," Traysrektan growled at his old friend while they walked down the narrow hallway.
"The Prophets have given us weapons, armor, and assault vehicles the likes of which were beyond our imagination. They have united all clans into one, one race to crush the enemies of the Great Journey," replied the brute as he thrust a quartet of Kig-yar into the wall, painting it with the disgusting violet blood of the bird like creatures.
"Bowing down to the Prophets is a weakness, you know this, you must! No Jiralhanae has ever kneeled to a foreign ruler, and to these "Prophets". They are not rulers, they are weak, and they only use our warriors for their needs."
"What you are saying is heresy I should report you to be torn limb form limb," Gretneklab threatened as he checked his appearance. If he were to meet Tartarus he would make damn sure that he would be promoted.
"Listen to yourself, 'heresy' these words are not our own, they were embedded in our minds like poison. Regret, Mercy, Truth, these creatures have corrupted our chieftains. And if you cannot see that, you will soon become like the Sangheili. Blind and insane, throwing away your lives for the 'Great Journey'..." the Brute felt his helmet crack against the deep purple metal walls. Gretneklab had the blade of his brute shot against Traysrektan's own sinewy throat.
"We are not the Sangheili, we shall be the ones to bring about the Great Journey, not them," he pressed the blade deeper in until the correct shade of honourable purple Jiralhanae blood dripped onto the metal alloy, "you are the one who is blind!"
"If you continue to question the will of the Prophets, and the will of Tartarus..."
Traysrektan grabbed his old friends' arm, and twisted it to a crack. The massive brute yelled in pain, and his eyes focused on Traysrektan's with a rage and thirst for death. It was their species greatest asset, it had been dubbed their "berserk" mode by the Covenant, a name that did not do justice to the massive power it possessed. They wrestled for a while, but Traysrektan found his foe's head in his grasp, and while he silently struggled...the neck snapped in two.
Traysrektan continued his march towards the chieftain's room, wiping the purple-black blood off his armor. The door gave as hiss as it opened, Traysrektan could see his people guarding the true "heretic". The only chieftain to surrender, the chieftain responsible for the end of the Jiralhanae freedom, the chieftain he had sworn allegiance to.
The white-haired brute turned his head to greet him, Traysrektan bowed down and lowered his head. "Welcome Traysrektan... where is the other summoned?"
"When I found him, he was fighting a pack of Kig-yar, one managed to place a grenade on his back...I executed the heretics immediately. He may be alive, but in bad condition."
"Have him killed immediately," Tartarus ordered one of his guards, "his defeat from the Kig-yar is not the first time his failure has made him a heretic, nor is it the first time he has embarrassed our race. As for you, your fate it as yet undetermined." Traysrektan saw saliva hit the floor as the Chieftain spoke these words through his teeth.
Traysrektan raised his head slightly, "I have heard reports of you making remarks towards the Prophets and their wisdom..." Tartarus waved his hand and the guards locked the exit. "The reports have no real evidence to support them. Normally that wouldn't save you life, but you have always been loyal to me, and the Prophets favour your strength."
Traysrektan thought about how he had killed for Tartarus, long ago fighting for him to be chieftain...how wrong he had been. He had often thought that the death of the entire Jiralhanae race was better than being slaves to these weak leaders of madness.
"There is an artifact of the Great Ones on a human invested planet, you shall be sent to the front lines. If the Forerunner want you to live, you will come back. But remember, this is Mercy's will, I would have killed you no matter your history." More spit had landed on the back of Traysrektan's neck.
One of the guards returned to the chieftain's quarters, "If I were you, Traysrektan," Tartarus was yelling wrathfully now, "I would reach down my throat and rip off my tongue. We all know what happens to heretics..." the Guard placed the head of Gretneklab on the table, Traysrektan looked up to see the glazed over eyes stare eternally at him.
Traysrektan stood up and pivoted towards the door, he smelt burning flesh when one of the guards branded him, he made himself continue walking making sure not to show signs of pain or fear. The mark of the Heretic forever on his right shoulder. To him, it was a mark of sanity.

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