#directly inspired by the terror of fighting hunters in enclosed spaces

[doom-dreaming]

Stars!

"Chief, you have to find cover. Now."

Black spots are swimming in his vision, pinging around his HUD, melding and diverging and zinging and popping. Cortana's voice sounds light-years away.

"Another hit like that and we're toast. Literally. Move!"

Instinct is the only thing kicking his legs into motion, straining against the pain. His shield warning is blaring inside his skull, he can feel portions of his undersuit melting against his skin, he's still seeing stars. A wave of nausea swells and threatens to break, but he swallows it down, collapsing behind a pillar.

The enraged Hunter bellows somewhere close by—too close. He hears the heavy clang of its weight moving around the room, searching him out. He doesn't have long. He grits his teeth, tries to focus on his breathing, reloads his rifle. His shields begin to recharge, not nearly as fast as he needs.

Two grenades left, that was something. He yanks the pin out of one, counts to three, then lobs it around the side of the pillar. The Hunter howls over the sound of the blast.

John hauls himself to his feet and runs, shoving aside the searing pain of the plasma burns. Cortana was right, he couldn't take another direct hit. He sprints through the dissipating smoke, past the Hunter, and launches himself onto a platform on the other side of the room, pivoting on his heel the second he touches down.

The Hunter's back is still turned, but it's starting to shake off the shock of the explosion and swing around to face him, plasma cannon already glowing—his window of opportunity is getting smaller by the second. He fires a burst from his rifle, aiming for the sliver of squirming orange worm-flesh under the armor. The Hunter stumbles as the bullets connect, just long enough for John to fling his final grenade.

The explosion thunders through the room, amplified by the residual energy from the half-charged cannon. White-hot fire roils against lime green smoke. A satisfying splash of rust-colored viscera coats the walls. The Hunter crashes to the ground beside its fallen sibling, twitches, then lies still.

His shield alarm is sounding again, he must've been caught by the fringe of the blast. Nothing pings on his motion tracker. The adrenaline that'd been carrying him through the last brutal fifteen minutes starts to fade, making room for all the stress and pain he'd been ignoring to come screaming back with renewed intensity.

He barely manages to unseal his helmet and rip it off before he vomits. It doesn't make him feel any better; the convulsion tears at his blistered, charred flesh, sending a fresh spike of pain through his chest. The air tastes like metallic smoke, but he takes a minute to just breathe.

"...we've gotta keep moving, Chief." Her voice is closer again, but tinny, projected through the helmet's external speakers. "We can rest when we find a medkit." Authoritative as always. But he hears the concern.

He nods. Spits. Takes one last deep breath before fitting his helmet back on and willing his battered body to carry him to the next room. He's still seeing stars.