Whakaeke
1203 EARTH TIME / August 23, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / STRONGHOLD COLONY REACH / NEW ALEXANDRIA MUNICIPAL CENTER / LAST DAY OF SKIRMISHES AROUND NEW ALEXANDRIA / 45TH DIVISION’S MISSION: EVACUATE
@bamf-b312
“Go! Go! Keep feckin’ pushin’, Welkins! Thet yard’s got three feckin’ ships left, end we’re not missin’ a boat off this rock!”
The Atlas IV 45th Division, now little more than two companies of marines, had been fighting in the streets of this city for several days. Now, with the specter of Covenant ships coming, there was a panic to get everybody out, and at the moment, that was the objective of most every UNSC unit in the city. As for the 45th, they were – for once – not one of the units slated to defend an evacuation point, but rather one of the ones to be evacuated. The problem, of course, being the fact they had to fight to the evacuation point in the first place.
Corporal Barclay’s squad had been whittled down to her and one walking wounded. It was hard going, and their convoy had stalled out, with most of the vehicles disabled or destroyed, forcing them to walk. Barclay’s SMG barked and another jackal screeched as its hand turned into mush, but it didn’t live for much longer. Nor would its killer, Private Welkins, who was hit in the heart by a Covenant carbine that pierced his armour like butter.
Corporal Barclay was cut off from the rest of the unit with a squad of Covenant troops between her and everyone else. She knew she had to keep going, but pinned down as she was, she couldn’t see a way out of this. With a jackal coming closer on one side and a brute coming the other, there was a choice – death by plasma pistol, or death by spikes.
“Faa, tō meho.”
Her SMG raised, and began to bark again, the brute roaring as bullets pierced its skin. Behind her, the jackal’s plasma pistol raised, its shield pointed towards her.