"Mayday, mayday. We've been hit and are going down. I say again. Mayday." The pilot's voice was eerily calm, as if he were out for a fishing trip. Patric couldn't help to focus on that as he hung to the lip of the pelican's rear entry way, his armored fingers digging into the metal. He hadn't even had time to strap in when a seraph fighter had swooped in and clipped the pelican good. Now he hung in the air as the pelican spun out of control. The nearest person, a female ODST he had managed to save earlier in the day, was holding onto his too heavy frame, her grim face set as she pulled and sweatily exerted herself. He couldn't blame her. The pelican lurched, Patric felt himself fold and unfold, much like whip, the metal his fingers bit into giving way. As his vision blurred he saw the ODST's face-
Eyes popping open, right arm shooting up, a cold sweat drenching him, Patric stared at a metallic ceiling. Letting his arm fall, patric slowly sat up, his entire body on fire. His mind was too boggled, too spotty to recall when he had arrived here or where here was, though he could remember quite vividly why he had been brought here. They had been surprised he had lived. So had he. In the end they thought it would suit the legend of the Spartans if he were to survive, now that the project was publicized. the skin of his scarred body was slightly tanned, his moderately muscled frame well toned.
sliding his legs off the edge of the flat, metallic table like bed, Patric turned to the side and looked ahead of him. His armor; the armor of a spartan, gleamed as if new. Some of it was, parts of the original having been broken beyond repair. Straining against the burning pain within his calves patric stood with a faint feeling of nausea and looked beside the armor, a full mirror showed him what he looked like. Whipping his head away from the sight, Patric grimaced and forced himself to look again, taking it in, letting the details soak in.
His right had was completely replaced at the wrist with a mechanical one. His original flesh hand had been obliterated into a bloody mass. The new hand had some feeling but nothing like the original. Moving the fingers of the hand proved to be just as easy. His abdomen had been blown out from within him when he had attempted to put a stop to...to...something Reaching up with his left hand, blessedly flesh and blood, Patric wiped his forehead. Too painful to think about that last mission.
His left knee had been busted as well, yet feeling at the flesh revealed that only the knee itself needed to be replaced, the flesh around it blessedly saved. His left eye, his good eye, had been smashed to bits when a raging Hunter had smashed his helmeted face, the visor shattering, pieces of it slicing into his face, his eye the unlucky recipient of a shard. Looking at the new mechanical left eye, he had to admit it was difficult to tell it wasn't real, yet he could see from it just fine, if with a bit of difficulty in focusing. His back had been busted and he knew it had been replaced. He could still vividly remember being awake for that operation. The pain as they removed the damaged spine, managing to save as much of the connected brain matter as possible to connect to a new reinforced spine.
Looking in the mirror, Patric sighed. He truly was a cyborg now. Turning back to his armor, Patric quickly put it on, feeling safer, more secure as he easily slid his second skin on. It felt good to be skinned again. The boots had gone on first, then the legs, hips, stomach, chest, shoulders, arms, gloves, then least but not least, the helmet.
They had upgraded his armor, giving him a slightly larger size than before. Having already been tall for a Spartan, he now reached just to eight feet in the armor. The back of his armor had a built in comms unit, much like the ODSTs designated as communications specialists. Checking the diagnostics, Patric nodded as his theory was prooved correct, the comms pack came with everything he could want, a strengthened signal and priority code, while not one of the best, was definitely better than he had originally had. A few bonuses were added in as well, additional power cells just under the pack, heavily armored to prevent accidental detonation meant he could hook up to some very draining equipment.
what in the world was command thinking? Giving a Spartan so much power was one thing, but hinting at the possibilities at newer, energy depleting weapons? As much as Patric enjoyed the thought, he had some reservations, giving too much power to a soldier could lead to some very serious setbacks, none of which he intended to get into.
Moving in the armor felt better than out. Leaving the spacious room and entering a deathly empty corridor, Patric loked both ways before picking the left, heading for the clearly visible stairs at the end of the hall. Seeing a door with large lettering ARMORY stamped above it gave him pause for no more than half a second before altering his course as if he had been heading there already. Opening the simple door revealed racks of weapons with boxes of ammunition. Smiling to himself Patric entered the room and picked up a Battle rifle, taking as many magazines as he dared before holstering three M6G pistols, one for each foot, the third at the back of his right hip. Three spare mags for each pistol made Patric a little more comfortable. Grabbing a racked shotgun splayed a smile on Patric's scarred face as he loaded the chamber, grabbing what ammunition he could.
Something was off, missing..something-Seeing the M9 grenades, Patric's smile nearly split his scarred face in half as he grabbed a quartet. Finding several pouches nearby caused him to unconsciously hum as he dropped a quartet of grenades into each sack, tieing them off and clipping them to his waist. He knew it was overkill and a likely hazard to arm himself like he was, but he always had a thing for grenades.
As he finished up, he checked his HUD, he noticed a blinking MESSAGE. Choosing to open the message wiped the smile right off Patric's face. The Covenant had found earth and appareantly the majority of the staff here had been killed at the time and the last few remaning would likely be dead by the time he regained consciousness. Grunting, Patric look about himself and spotted something very useful, an empty duffel bag. He didn't know what he would find, but he would be damned if he let any survivors mooch of his good will. If they wanted to survive any longer than a few minutes with him around they had better arm up. Shoving as many pistols, rifles and SMGs as he could into the bag without filling it, he ground his teeth in thought, unconsciously moving to the ammunition and shoving as much as he could into the duffel bag.
Once fool he zipped it tight and flung the bag over his right shoulder, left hand gripping the battle rifle. Exiting the armory, Patric walked up the stairs and opened the door...to find the building above completely obliterated, turning into a smoldering rubble.
"Any UNSC Personnel who can hear this respond. This is Spartan Three-Three-Four. I say again, UNSC Personnel Respond, this is Spartan Three-Three-Four."