Protocol Upheld

''Protocol is all that stands between the universe and annihilation. Protocol is more than just regulation and procedure. It is the duty of all Warrior-Servants, the bulwark of their place in the Mantle. And you wanted to be a Warrior-Servant so badly, didn’t you?''

Strives-Against-Time swept his gaze over the darkening skies and the yellow-hued plains beneath them. The battle for this world was long over. The fleet holding the Flood at bay on the edge of the system had finally collapsed after more than a decade. Little less than a year later he stood upon a lonely hill, the last Forerunner left to and watch the world be consumed.

We held them here, he noted to himself, observing the craters and ruined hulks of building left over from the enormous battle that had raged across the plains. For all the good it did. This planet’s fate had been decided the moment the fleet’s line broke up in space. Every moment of surface warfare had simply been a holding action, token resistance meant to slow the Flood’s advance while the fleet regrouped and prepared to defend the next system.

We fight for time, nothing more, the Warrior-Servant noted with disgust. It didn’t matter how many Flood hordes he and the other Forerunners vaporized with their glittering array of advanced weaponry. Millions more always rose up to take their place. Every Warrior-Servant who died on this miserable planet did so for the sake of granting the Ecumene the luxury of time to choose where the next doomed fight would be.

This was not the first world Strives-Against-Time had seen fall to the Flood. It wasn’t even the tenth. And now that his last tiresome duties here had been discharged he could go rejoin the rest of his legion as the planet was consumed behind him. He turned back towards where his War Sphinx waited patiently atop the hill.

A feeble whimpering reached his ears and for a moment Strives thought the Flood were already upon him. He whirled, bringing his lightrifle to bear on three huddled figures struggling up the hill after him. They froze when they saw his weapon, proof enough that they were not infected—or at least not yet aware of it. He cocked his head at the creatures, struggling to recall whatever it was the inhabitants of this planet were called.

Sangheili. That was it.

The Sangheili approached when he lowered the lightrifle, moaning piteously through their mandibles. Strives did not bother trying to get his helmet to translate. He already knew what they wanted: safe passage offworld.

Strictly against protocol, of course. No aliens were allowed to leave infested planets except on carefully guarded and maintained Forerunner refugee barges. Strives-Against-Time and his single occupant War Sphinx certainly didn’t rate as designated escape couriers.

''I’m to leave as soon as possible to make my report. No sense wasting time arguing with the locals.'' He wondered how long it would take the Flood to overrun this hill. Would these helpless Sangheili still be here, waiting to be consumed? He could wonder about that all he liked; the Mantle and its protocols were clear.

Still, a minor breach can be forgiven…

Strives-Against-Time snapped his lightrifle back up and fired three times. The Sangheili didn’t even have time to show fear as the Warrior-Servant cut them down.

A merciful fate. Far more merciful than what the Flood had in store for them. The self-justification meant little to Strives as he headed back to his War Sphinx. It wasn’t worth getting upset about one way or the other. What were three more dead against the billions already dead on this planet?

''Protocol has been upheld. I’m sure the Mantle appreciates the blood I shed in its name. It is, after all, what’s going to save the galaxy.''