Anyone who'd seen Locus's Legionnaire Legacy might recognize this particular memory. It was not a battle, but the end of one. Bodies lay littered across the dust of the planet, broken and bloody and some torn to pieces. Smoking ruins lay behind them, the remnants of a base, and smoke likewise drifted up from the shadow of a city painted against the dying light of day. This was a world moments away from annialation.
A nearby Warthog had been overturned, now crushing the torso of the man who had once been the superior officer of this unit, his eyes staring blankly upwards and his face caked with blood. Nearby, however, a moving figure was struggling to upend the Warthog before cursing, head turning back towards where Locus sat.
Locus says nothing. Does nothing but stare through a sniper scope into the distance. What keeps him from stillness is the fact that he's panting heavily by this point, blood dripping into the dirt at his side where he sits braced against a chest-high wall of debris. And from him, echoing through the memory in ripples, one singular feeling. One thought.
They're dead. They're all dead. Why. Why am I... It's the thought that permeates this memory, soaks deep, lingers. That hopelessness and guilt is thick enough to choke on.
But a face, rough with panic and gritty with desperation cuts through the numb and despair. That figure by the Warthog has come closer, staring down at him through a very familiar scout helmet. Felix. "Look, I get it. Got to follow orders, cause you're a soldier. But see, our orders weren't sit here and die on this rock. You get me? Captain gave us orders to guard this spot, but last I heard? Top brass gave orders to win this war. You win a lot of wars by dying, Ortez?"
This was the turning point. He remembers that. This was the moment the war could have claimed him, when he could have closed his eyes and gone under and stayed there. Perhaps if he had, many lives in the long run might have been spared. But there was Felix, panting down at him, before pointing out the corpses of their fallen comrades all around. "These guys followed orders and they died. But we're better than them. You hear me? We're gonna survive--"
But something goes wrong. The words don't finish leaving Felix's mouth. He stops as a sharp noise pierces in the air, and some purple, luminous spike suddenly juts out of his throat. That brief flicker of something like hope shrivels and dies as Locus watches Felix crumple then and there, fingers desperately trying to tug the needler spike free, before his gaze lifts. An oncoming unit of Covenant forces, Elites and Grunts, towering armored aliens and their minions bearing down on this exact location and now?
Just him. Surrounded by the corpses of everyone he'd known, everyone he'd fought alongside. Maybe this was how it was meant to end, after all. Feeling nothing but a dragging, numbing heaviness, he lifted his rifle and turned it towards the approaching creatures. Only a few rounds left. But turning the gun on himself was the coward's way out. If he was going to die, he'd take as many of them down with him as he could. Perhaps then, this futile last stand wouldn't have all been so meaningless.
New Jerusalem
A nearby Warthog had been overturned, now crushing the torso of the man who had once been the superior officer of this unit, his eyes staring blankly upwards and his face caked with blood. Nearby, however, a moving figure was struggling to upend the Warthog before cursing, head turning back towards where Locus sat.
Locus says nothing. Does nothing but stare through a sniper scope into the distance. What keeps him from stillness is the fact that he's panting heavily by this point, blood dripping into the dirt at his side where he sits braced against a chest-high wall of debris. And from him, echoing through the memory in ripples, one singular feeling. One thought.
They're dead. They're all dead. Why. Why am I... It's the thought that permeates this memory, soaks deep, lingers. That hopelessness and guilt is thick enough to choke on.
But a face, rough with panic and gritty with desperation cuts through the numb and despair. That figure by the Warthog has come closer, staring down at him through a very familiar scout helmet. Felix. "Look, I get it. Got to follow orders, cause you're a soldier. But see, our orders weren't sit here and die on this rock. You get me? Captain gave us orders to guard this spot, but last I heard? Top brass gave orders to win this war. You win a lot of wars by dying, Ortez?"
This was the turning point. He remembers that. This was the moment the war could have claimed him, when he could have closed his eyes and gone under and stayed there. Perhaps if he had, many lives in the long run might have been spared. But there was Felix, panting down at him, before pointing out the corpses of their fallen comrades all around. "These guys followed orders and they died. But we're better than them. You hear me? We're gonna survive--"
But something goes wrong. The words don't finish leaving Felix's mouth. He stops as a sharp noise pierces in the air, and some purple, luminous spike suddenly juts out of his throat. That brief flicker of something like hope shrivels and dies as Locus watches Felix crumple then and there, fingers desperately trying to tug the needler spike free, before his gaze lifts. An oncoming unit of Covenant forces, Elites and Grunts, towering armored aliens and their minions bearing down on this exact location and now?
Just him. Surrounded by the corpses of everyone he'd known, everyone he'd fought alongside. Maybe this was how it was meant to end, after all. Feeling nothing but a dragging, numbing heaviness, he lifted his rifle and turned it towards the approaching creatures. Only a few rounds left. But turning the gun on himself was the coward's way out. If he was going to die, he'd take as many of them down with him as he could. Perhaps then, this futile last stand wouldn't have all been so meaningless.