Somewhere in Iraq (1990)
A Black Hawk helicopter could be heard loud and clear over the desert sand. Up ahead, a combination of United States and British troops had engaged a regiment of Iraqi troops. In the chopper were six individuals. Two of them were US Army co-pilots. A pilot coughed as cigar smoke was drifting into the Black Hawk's cockpit. Turning around, he looked at the large man with the cigar and said, "Sir, would you mind putting that thing out?"
Shaking his head, the big man mumbled a few inaudible words under his breath while putting the cigar out in the palm of his hand. The four individuals in the back of the military helicopter were a specialized group appointed by the United Nations. In times of need, this group would be transported in to "clean up" as needed. The special ops group was given the name "Peacemakers." Like in the days of the Old West, this group had the sole purpose of identifying any threats, eliminating them, and therefore "keeping the peace."
One of the members was Demetrius Arkelis, aka the Spartan. He stood at seven feet tall and weighed over 400 pounds of sheer muscle. His job as part of the task force was to not only provide his strategic input, but to serve as the primary muscle of the operation. Easily able to lift over eighty tons, endowed with a remarkable healing factor, and having his skeleton covered in adamantium made the fierce Greek the ultimate killing machine. Although no one know exactly how old he really was, the Spartan was rumored to be over two thousand years old. Yet, he maintained the look of a man in his prime.
The three other members of the task force included Mike Lockhart (aka Sovereign Son / Last Arrow), an elite operative from the United Kingdom; Jason Hamilton, a deadly fighter and vigilante who had seen his fair share of combat through the years; and a goddess by the name of Kiara Sullivan. Demetrius rarely trusted anyone other than himself. However, this group had gained some of his trust; but not all of it just yet. He could still remember when he had first met Kiara. His cocky attitude and rude behavior earned him a slap that sent him crashing through walls. But still, Demetrius got some enjoyment out of occasionally irritating Kiara so. Sometimes, he felt as if it was a game.
"My grandmother could go faster than this piece of $hit." he said, looking over at Mike. Demetrius had just finished putting his cigar out in the palm of his hand. It did not even burn him at all. As he finished, he looked up at his team mates and shrugged it off. Truth be told, the Spartan wanted to just jump out of the chopper and get into the fight as soon as possible.
"We're just about there." one of the co-pilots said from the front.
With a somewhat disgusted look on his face, the Spartan shook his head and said, "I'm glad the UN sent us into this Hell-hole. Saddam... that genocidal b@st@rd... he needs to pay." Reaching over, he gathered up his oversized shotgun and his makhaira (a small Greek sword that he wore on the side of his boot).
Already, gunfire could be heard down below. "Alright," a co-pilot said. "Let us descend to a lower altitude so you can safely be depl-..." He was cut off as Demetrius impatiently kicked open the door of the chopper. Without a moment's hesitation, the Spartan leaped out of the Black Hawk and into the fray below.
As he landed from over 500 feet in the air, the mighty Greek's body made a slight crater as his feet hit the ground. "Alright you little $hit bricks... COME ON! Show me what you've got, maggots!" he roared at the top of his voice. An Iraqi troop ran up to him, yelling in Arabic as he fired his machine gun. The bullet struck Demetrius directly in the forehead, but to no avail. Due to the adamantium, it had no effect upon the Greek.
Turning with a smile, the Spartan blasted his shotgun and blew the Iraqi away. Letting out a laugh as he did so, he then began to walk directly toward the enemy line. "Take that, $hit bricks!" he yelled with a laugh, continuing to blast his shot gun away at the elite Iraqi Guard. When the weapon had run out of ammunition, Demetrius hung it on his back, then took out his makhaira. Then, like a true Spartan warrior, he began to move quickly among his enemies.
Ducking low, the Spartan slashed his blade through an opponent's midsection, staining the sand with Iraqi blood. Leaping forward, he then brought the blade down and cleaved through another soldier's gun. Before the man could even react, Demetrius spun around to his right and simply decapitated the man. Some of the soldiers from the US and the UK could not believe their eyes. The Spartan was taking no prisoners - showing no mercy or compassion whatsoever. Perhaps the many years of war had dulled his value of human life. Nonetheless, the Spartan was in his element.
However, the battle was far from over. The location which was being bombarded supported a powerful garrison. The Iraqi forces had ten machine gun turrets, some heavy artillery, and enough troops to back them up. However, an air strike was out of the question because the settlement was also the location of a large prison. Sure enough, those "innocent" captives could be rescued; but that was not why the Spartan was there. He was there to do what he did best.... he was there to kill.....