The flow of combat moved over Patric as air through the sails of an old pre-space yacht- cybernetic arm moving with the precision and speed that only a Spartan with machinery built in could attain, even the other Spartans couldn't quite match the sword play, if only because of the boost given him by the replacement of damaged limbs. The other arm, flesh and blood, armored and well conditioned to battle grasped an Assault rifle easily, his finger squeezing off small, short bursts into flesh bodies, grunts squealing in pain, Jackals flopping down, Elites, though brave and fierce, backed off, keeping their distance from Patric's sword arm, squeezing busts of plasma at the walking tank from their rifles. Brutes, less cautious, stormed in, howling in pain and frustration when flesh met the swift moving blade. Their chieftain leading the flanking manuveur had been among the first to die, a lucky shot from Patric's rifle slamming through his right eye socket to bounce around in that thick skull.<br/><br/>Reaching the end of the alley, arm slowing, Patric let up on his rifle for a moment to scan the area. The Elites were either dead or backed far enough off to pose no threat for the current moment, the Brute's suicidal charge left none to fall back with. Checking the ammo count Patric grimly smiled inside his helmet, the count was at three. Ejecting the magazine and placing the sword at his hip, Patric reloaded quickly, slapping the fresh mag home. Stepping out of the alleyway, his rifle at the ready, his sword activating Patric ran down the street he had stepped onto, parallel to the one Hunter and Gladiator were on. The comms were painting a pretty picture in his mind, the snipers position was lost, the two either dead or MIA, the other Spartans now in possession of a Wraith, Hunter apparently obvious at the lost of a couple comrades.<br/><br/>Ahead of him more covenant were milling about, a wraith exactly where the nav points indicated. Rushing forward Patric fell back into the rhythm of battle, squeezing quick short bursts from the rifle, moving from car to lampost to news stand to car. As soon as his was in reach his synthetic arm burst into movement, the red armored Elite giving a horse, strangled cry of shock as Patric's sword swept threw him in the time it took him to raise his own sword arm. Letting the sword fly at the end of the arc, Patric snatched the Elite's fresh blade from the air, his previous blade sticking into the neck of a Brute who had been raining brute shot 'nades at him the entire run over.<br/><br/>Shocked, confused, more than terrified of the sudden whirl of death and chaos within their own ranks, the Covenant order of battle, in this small cross section, quickly disintegrated, though the vast majority of the covenant turned to bear arms on the lone Spartan, it proved entirely too difficult to hit the constantly moving, killing target as it used not only what was in the street for cover, but their own comrades.  Golden Armored Elites bellowed their rage as the Spartan, demanding their troops kill him, Jackals armed with Beam Rifles squawked their frustration as their repeated attempts to hit the target failed, Grunts panicked and shot wildly, hitting their own comrades as much as peppering the area around the Spartan with burning Plasma.<br/><br/>The Wraith turned where it had sat in what appeared to be a trap for the others to bear it's mighty weapon on him. Leaping into the air with deft purpose Patric landed on the front of the Wraith, tipping it's nose into the ground for brief seconds, the Brute in the gunner seat giving a shocked grunt before the blade of the Spartan's sword tore into him, leaving little else but a puddle of steaming blood and cauterized chunks of meat flesh. Rising from his crouch Patric stepped forward on the wraith and jammed his rifle into the hatch and squeezed the trigger, sending bullets into the pilot's body whom gave a shocked yelp which turned into a howl of rage, then into a scream of intense agony and then into the gurgle of death throws.<br/><br/>Turning Patric took a leaping step off the Wraith, turned off his sword and threw his rifle, now damaged by it's own bullets, a head of him with a great grunt of strength. The Golden Elite, instinctively knowing the target and reacting, backed up, checking the movement half way and moved his foot to the side, trying to step to the side. Too late, the barrel of the rifle slammed into his mouth, blood and burnt air forcing it's way deep into him as the momentum of the weapon snacked the Elite's head back, snapping his neck and breaking his jaws. Already Patric had out his pistol, though it was unneeded for the present moment. The covenant around him were all dead, the few who had survived either run off or dieing.<br/><br/>Satisfied with his work Patric sat on the now disabled Wraith, stretched his arms and surveyed the area. His shields were nearly depleted. His last actions having made him extremely open to the enemy fire. Bodies lay every which way he looked, a myriad of colors splashed wherever there was an open space, a still struggling Elite gurgled so incoherently at him the translation software of his suit couldn't even translate it.<br/><br/>"This is Spartan 3-3-4, I've cleared nav point Charlie of all hostiles. I say again, Charlie location secure."