The Valley of the Moon

Specialist Mathias Alonso gently placed the binoculars down beside him before picking up his radio. He quietly pressed the activator, and whispered into the mic.

"Numbers, click off."

 He slowly replaced the microphone, and slid the binoculars up to his eyes with patient grace.

The radio began to sound with successively longer groups of clicks. One, pause, two clicks, pause, three, and so on until all the rangers in the valley had signed in, indicating their health and readiness.

"Copy." Mathias finished. Takanome's Rangers were... unconventional. But they were all most refugees had.

He scanned the horizon again, noting no disturbance. It could be a good day. A refugee group was on route to the city, and the Rangers were here to make sure they made it. They weren't always needed. And besides, this was a new route.

Mathias hoped they would not be needed today.

He did a visual check on the Rangers, sweeping his binoculars slowly over each position in turn.

In truth, there was nothing to see. Which was exactly what he was hoping for. Takanome's Rangers had few advantages in the field, but skill with camouflage was one of them. All good.

There was silence and stillness for two hours.

"Four, package inbound." fizzled calmly over the radio. Mathias swung his binoculars over to sniper four with the calm precision expected of one of Takanome's finest. He then began searching for the contact Four had called in.

"Six, confirm." Came whispered over the radio. Mathias gazed into the gap in the foliage between the two snipers, and saw the first hint of refugees.

Before long the column was clearly visible. A few hundred exhausted, ragged survivors marching, defeated, to the Last City. Mathias wondered how long they had been travelling. How far they had come.

They were almost done, at least.

Suddenly the ground beneath him grew a familiar gentle quiver, and his heart sank.

He clenched his fist around the binoculars and hoped it was geological. He held his breath, and scanned the sky. His hope died when the radio spoke.

"Three, dropship. South south east." Sniper three calmly informed the rest of the group.

Mathias swore silently. His binoculars focused on the ship settling down a few dozen feet above the ridge on the southern side. Small drop arms extended from the hatches on the underbelly, and Fallen started pouring out. Four, eight, ten, a dozen. Eighteen, Mathias counted.

He swore silently again before picking up his microphone.

"This is Eight. I count eighteen tangos, confirm." He hoped he had miscounted.

"Three, confirm eighteen tangos."

Damn.

Some members of the convoy had already seen the dropship and panic was setting in. The refugees were starting to scatter. Mathias radioed on an open channel down to the convoy, relaying the number of Fallen and the number of Rangers. The leader of the convoy, between shouting at his refugees, responded with little faith. But he got his people organized, and got them moving.

This was enough for Mathias.

The fallen were starting to work their way down the mountainside. They were a few hundred feet from the refugees, and Mathias realized something. They had deployed behind. They didn't want to cut off the refugees. That wasn't enough.

They wanted to hunt them.

Mathias' blood burned as he called out to his rangers.

"One through seven, weapons free. Stagger shots. Don't give away your positions without a fight. Make your bullets count."

The radio crackled to life as each ranger in turn clicked that they copied his transmission.

Mathias glared into his binoculars at the alien menace of the Fallen, and hoped that the Rangers would be enough.

The first Dreg was almost within weapons range of the back of the stampeding convoy when the valley echoed with it's first thunder clap. In an instant the creature's head was gone, a crackling black mist in it's place.

It's rabid brethren at first didn't seem to notice, but as the valley began to pop with gunshot after gunshot (staggered carefully after weeks of training) and Fallen Dregs two and three collapsed, they scattered.

The creatures began moving erratically, searching for the sources of the gunfire. But still moving ever closer to the convoy. The success that had seconds ago flushed Mathias with pride was quickly evaporating.

Any bullet that didn't find it's way to a Fallen mask seemed almost not to matter. Dregs were taking round after round to their hate-filled alien chests before they dropped to the earth, hopefully for the last time.  Always searching for the source of their attackers. Always making their way towards the convoy.

The refugees were in a full sprint now, but somehow it didn't seem to matter. Even suppressed by the fire of the Rangers, the Fallen were too fast. Too strong.

Mathias watched helplessly through his binoculars as the first Dreg made it to the last refugee.

An arc knife, a scream silenced by distance and gunfire, and the Dreg was ready for it's next victim.

Or it would have been, but it's head erupted in a geyser of oily blood. But it's place was taken in an instant by another Fallen. And another behind. And another behind it. All staring at a particular space in the brush as they ducked and weaved.

It was then that Mathias realized they had found one of his snipers.

"Three, you're under suspicion." He called into his microphone.

"Copy." Came the terse reply.

Mathias watched angrily as Sniper Three's position lit up with crack after crack of sniper fire. The closest Dreg dropped to the ground, dead, and the second stumbled with the impact. But now they were sure.

One of them screamed something in their infernal language, and gesticulated wildly in the air. It pointed at Sniper Three and the rest of them began to charge.

"You're blown Three." Mathias calmly whispered into the radio, following procedure.

"Copy." Sniper three responded mid-gunshot. Her position became a staccato rhythm of gunfire, four shots in a row followed by a silence. And then another four.

The Fallen had all but abandoned the convoy at this point, and the humans were making considerable ground. All the Fallen seemed to care about was Sniper Three. The rest of the Rangers were using the distraction to focus their fire. Maintaining procedure, firing and then waiting. Staying invisible. Staying safe.

"Three it's time to give it up. Get out of there." Mathias ordered over the radio, his voice growling with authority.

"Copy."

The hundred feet in front of Sniper Three's position was littered with Fallen corpses. Five of them had met their end at the wrong end of her, and her companion's, rifles. Mathias quickly scanned the battlefield. Four more had been felled before reaching Three's area of devastation.  Nine of the Fallen remained, two of them Vandals.

"Three I order you to disappear." He practically shouted into his microphone. He checked, the Fallen were still well within range to chase down the refugees, but they were focused on Sniper Three.

"Copy."

Three's position continued to roar with gunfire. Two more Dregs fell before her.

The Vandals, four armed savage monstrosities with incredible rifles and a burning hatred for humanity that dwarfed the Dreg's, were directing their remaining troops around to pincer Three. The jig was up.

"Three you have done your job now move out." It was a lie, as soon as the Fallen realized she was gone they would chase down the refugees. They would be out of most of the Ranger's line of fire. Most would make it. Some would not. By the time they repositioned, the loss would be devastating. But it was a lie that could save a Ranger's life, and Rangers were in short supply.

"Copy." Four more shots rang out, doing little but aggravating the nearest Vandal.

"Three you are going to get yourself killed."

"Copy." Came the emotionless response, in time with the click of a reload.

"Three..." But it was far past too late. The creatures fell upon her position with interstellar fury. Mathias found no reprimand on his tongue. "...Ayane would be proud."

"Copy." sparked the radio, in the half-second before Sniper Three's grenades all went off. Her position was erased, replaced with a thirty foot wide golden fireball consuming all the remaining Fallen. The valley was bathed in a warm red glow for an instant, fading into an orange light that followed the cloud of gas up into the sky before dissipating.

Mathias' eyes burned from the brightness, he told himself. His binoculars calmly, coolly surveyed the battlefield, counting bodies and confirming kills.

Eighteen, at his count.

"Eighteen kills, please confirm."

"This is Four, confirm eighteen kills."

There was silence for a time.

Finally Specialist Mathias Alonso rose from his position, and collected his things. When he was finished, he raised his radio to his lips one last time.

"Sniper Three, Seong Choi. Gave her last full measure in the Valley of the Moon."

As he began the long walk back to the city, the clicks of Takanome's Rangers called out their respect in ascending order.

Where Indeed

It's just a knife.

Okay, it's not just a knife. It's a symbol of identity, it's a tool of survival, it's a focus and a question and an answer.

But it's still just a knife. I mean... it's not a special knife. Except that it's special to me, I suppose. I skinned a bear with that knife. I used that knife to cut my way out of a silverweb nest. That was the knife I had when the Sparrowhawks won the pennant. But it's not...

It's not made of anything special, I guess, is what I'm saying.  It's a simple, boring, metal knife.  It has a sharp side, and a dull side.  It has a worn-out rope grip. it has a scratch down the side from an Ahamkara tooth. Some fool was wearing it on a necklace.  Didn't do him much good, but it wasn't great for the knife.

But I digress. It's not an iridium blade, or an arc-charged stunner or a high-frequency vibro-blade.  It's just... a knife. It's my knife.  My trusty, old, rusty knife.

And it cuts through the enemies of Earth as though they are butter. So my question is this, Warlock... where is your knife?

Not the Last

My tripmines are placed on the corners, waiting for the vanguard to set them off and start everything. My finger is on the trigger, my rifle's scope pressed up against my good optical sensor.  I take a deep breath.

Any moment now, a stream of angry Fallen are going to make their way down that hall. They're going to scream and shout and try to take my head off. My face itches under the helmet.  I actuate the servos on my head to try to scratch it against the helmet.  It doesn't help.

I know there's at least one Captain coming. I saw his furious impotent arms waving as I sailed over his head after Ghost got the data we came for.  So, safe to assume he's still mad. He'll probably kill me. I do a visual check on the mines again. Still good.

One more deep breath, and the Fallen appear.  The first Dreg has just enough time to shout to his comrades before I detonate his head. The rest of them swarm around the corner, right into my mines. But there are more.  There's always more.  I squeeze the trigger, feeling the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the auto rifle punching into my shoulder while I pour a stream of ammunition down the hallway.

It's a crashing wave of violent death, a slow tide of explosions and steel working its way down the hallway for me. My auto rifle runs dry, and I switch to my sidearm.

I can see the captain now, striding through the carnage for me.  Two of his arms bring his shrapnel launcher to bear, and annihilate my shields.  He charges me, and I think to myself... don't let this death be the last.

Praxis-11

You look confused, soldier.  Of course the Hunter wants your boots.  They're nice boots.  Oh, he just wanted the one boot?  Well... they're like that.  Whatever they can put together that works.

I had this friend once.  A Hunter by trade.  Calmest, quietest little fellow.  Walked everywhere.  Liked to smell the roses, you know? No, I mean literally.  I saw him bend over and take a huge whiff in the Cosmodrome one time.  Full enviro-suit.  No air in-or-out.  Still, he stops, takes a huge bloom in his hand, and puts it to his face for a long, loving breath.  Hunters are weird.

I see you looking at me like that.  A Hunter?  As a friend?  Not really their way.  Bunch of loners.  Hardly ever see two of them in the same place, let alone playing nice.  Each one, thinking they're the best there is, the be all and end all.  But they're smarter than they look.. which I know, is not saying much.  They know there's things out there they can't handle... not alone, leastwise.  You ever had a hunter come up to you, and tell you they found a Hive hole that only a madman would try and clear?  Or a Wolfpack you'd need a deathwish to want to fight?  Yeah... They played you.  Used you as bait so they could get their work done.  And when it was over, you got their comm info from their Ghost right?

Yeah, that's friends to them.  Bait, friends, walking target, their vocab is pretty limited.  All that time in the field, talking to nobody but their Ghost. So yeah, they make friends.  Just not like you and I.  They want people they can hide behind, people that can flush out the target, not people to stand side by side with.  They figure if they're standing next to you then something's gone seriously wrong.

Anyway, this friend of mine.  We went way back.  He once waited in the same frozen hole in the ground for six days to get a shot at an Archon.  Just needed the one.  Rest of the group scattered as soon as their big buddy's head evaporated.

How do I know?  Oh I was there.  He called me after five days, said he found an Archon that needed killing, and where it was.  I told you, we were "friends".   So once I got good and swarmed, he got his shot.

After, he comes sauntering down the side of the hill he'd been dug in.  Takes him a good fifteen minutes to make it to my position.  Picks up a few stones on the way, pockets them.  Why? I dunno.  Maybe he likes rocks?  He didn't say.

Once he gets to me, gives me a little wave.  Like to say "Oh good, you made it".  And he pulls out that weird knife and just starts chopping on the Archon!  Like it was a buffalo.  I'm mid-sentence in talking about the fight and how I could have used some close support for the fiftieth time, and I just stop.  The guy is whistling while he works.

There's blue blood everywhere, he's soaked to the elbows.  Every once in a while he'll pull some mass of wires and neurons out, and hold it up for his Ghost.  It makes one of those intrigued beeps they make, and takes a scan before he chucks it over his shoulder.

I spend the next five minutes dodging Archon body parts.  Every once in a while, there's a mutter like "Oh this is good." or "Won't work, won't work... not compatible." or something similar.  Eventually he pauses, and sits stock-still... in that creepy way they do.  He turns around, and pulls his hood back to look at me.

"How've you been?" he asks me.  Completely soaking in blue alien blood, hands full of cybernetics, he's talking like he just bumped into me at the dispensary.

So I give him the full report, concise and thorough.  Takes a bit, haven't seen him in almost a year.  The whole time, the only thing that moves on him is his cloak in the wind.  He's like a statue.  I finish up, and ask him the same question.

"Good".  He tells me.  That's it.  One word.  We stare at each other for a minute or so.  Akward as you can imagine.  I'm just about to leave when he gets up and marches over to me, and with a flick of his knife he slices off my left cuisse.  All of it!  The whole damn thing, in one motion.  Didn't even know you could do that.  So now I'm shouting at him, no thigh armour, wondering what in the hells he thinks he's doing, when he clamps a piece of the Fallen Archon's forearm armour around my leg.  His ghost gives it a few blasts, and what do you know... best fitting, toughest piece of armour I've ever worn.

Yep, this piece right here.  Told me I favour my left leg forward in an engagement, it needs the most protection.  I never even noticed.  This piece here took a Vandal blade full swing not two days later... would have taken my leg clean off with the old armour.  Instead, the blade broke.  That guy saved my life.

That's why we need the Hunters.  That's why they get what they want when they come asking.  That's why you'll see old Titans happily hand over a piece of armour they've had for years.  A gun that's saved their lives a hundred times.  Any supplies they can.  Because those of us that have been around long enough see the fight how it is.  The Warlocks, bless 'em, are working every day to reclaim our past.  And us, we fight for the people here.  We hold the walls of the city against the darkness every day, fighting every battle to preserve the present.  You won't see a Hunter on the walls with you, you won't catch them in The Breach fighting back wave after wave to keep the City safe today.  And you should be glad.  Because while we fight for what we have, they're out there trying and dying to find us something better.

Don't let them fool you with the machismo and the bravado, it's not the next big kill or the next great fight they're hunting for.  They're hunting for a future. For our future.  And you'd best hope they find it, because there's fewer of us every day.  I'll hold this city until I can't draw one breath more, but I've had lots of squadmates that said the same thing.  And they did just that. We can't do it forever.

So when a Hunter asks for your boot, you give it to him.  And you hope that he's wearing it when he finds the way to get us out of this mess.