Halo Fanon
Advertisement
TreatyDayBanner


Jovial greetings your way! Welcome to The Game Jockey's Treaty Day, an official spin-off of the year-long Survival of the Fittest writing event, where the usual bloodbath is now replaced with begrudging alliances, puzzles and juicy character interactions that were naught to be within the regular flow of time! Plucked from all across the timeline and gathered on a mysterious and fragmented reality, these voluntold participants will have to survive the treacherous realignment of reality and find a way out together or be doomed to fall alone.

Characters Team List

Treaty Day Rules[]

Submission Guidelines[]

  1. Users may submit up to 2 characters.
  2. Character submissions must have an article or Minor Characters page entry linked as reference. The article should not have any outstanding issues present (such as NCF or other site policy templates) or be marked with the Humor template.
  3. Character submissions must be from a canon species.
  4. AI and Forerunner ancillas are permitted, though what means are available for them to interact with other participants may be up to the writers.
  5. Any Equipment included in your character submissions should be something they might typically carry on their person at any moment.

Game/Writing Rules[]

  1. Each post will always include two or more characters together in an escape room style scenario. The outcomes and kind of progression between stages will be determined randomly through the aid of randomizing tools.
  2. Writers will read the Personality, Traits, or equivalent section of the article (if present) for characters they write for to attempt an accurate characterization. Though encouraged, they are not required to read through the entirety of the article. Many on Halo Fanon are several hundred thousand bytes, and previous seasons of Survival of the Fittest proper have seen over a hundred characters submitted.
  3. There will be an encroaching "end game" situation for those characters who might show too much friction but do not fret, they will not discounted for the entire writing series (although it might not look like that to them). These outcomes are only reserved for incredibly high stakes moments and will not conform the norm of encounters, though it might be an overlying and encroaching possibility to avoid.

Writers[]

Only the individuals listed below will be permitted to write chapters of Treaty Day. If you wish to help contribute, just be sure to reach out to The Game Jockey to sort it out and get your name added to the team!


Treaty Day[]

Introduction[]

First, there was blackness.

A nebulous mist of nothing and everything simultaneously, stretching off into the non-existent horizon.

Potential existences and realities flowing across threads, seemingly ebbing into patterns, like a sea of obsidian diverting into a maze of rivers made of the night sky - bubbles of entropy shining atop the surface before bursting and evaporating like they had never been at all.

Then - came the building.

The mist parted, or rather receded, as a wall came through the blackness, then two more and eventually an entire building was parting the obsidian sea.

As this non-euclidian obelisk of corporate bureaucracy and cheap, cold coffee anchored itself, the surrounding blackness seemed to ripple and then strain.

It had been as if a stone had been cast into a body of water only for said water to then slowly tense up into a stretched out fabric after enough bounces.

And from this fabric, came reality - something more ordinary and tangible, like the inside of a dome being painted in.

Like eyes readjusting after a bright flash of light, reality seemed to come through in watercolor patches and then settled into the horizon of this realm until the blackness was all but gone - safe for the building, which seemed to have become wrapped in it.

The scenery was now something less ethereal and incorporeal, replaced by a Northeastern American landscape, blanketed with a variety of tall and full trees clad in all shades of orange and red.

And from the trees walked out one man, a single figure dressed in slacks and a simple black dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up and a small pin of the letter “J” atop the singular pocket on the shirt’s front.

Around his neck, hung an oddly designed tie - the same shade of black as the shirt but a set of golden streaks ran across it, seemingly the pattern of broken glass or ceramic.

And with a single step, he was at the perron of the entrance - a set of shallow stairs leading up to the towering set of doors at the front, said doors creaking open on their own as if to welcome the man.

“Time to get to work.”

As he entered, the landing seemed to stretch out with each single step - eventually leading through hallways and doorways that formed out of nothing in front of him, as if the steps he took were signaling the rest of the building to come about.

After crossing another freshly materialized doorway, he was joined by a figure and then another - until it had become a total of 6 bipedal silhouettes walking down the ever-present hallway, down a set of stairs and finally into a circular meeting room, with a round table at the center.

The ensemble gathered around the table.



J: Management has given us an opening, it’s go time.

K: That’s a nice way of putting it, how about underfunded? The entire playspace is tearing itself apart, our systems can barely handle it.

S: Might be fun - something different might be enticing for the investors.

F: We’ve got enough of a big enough pool to figure something out.

J: There's a plan.

K: Winging it?

F: It’s a healthy 27 participants at the ready - can’t say we could not have gotten any luckier with the count, although-

J: Although?

A: We might have one participant who, for the lack of a better word, is ‘glitched’.

J: As in?

A: It’s like his body just can’t settle on any of our realities - keeps “jumping” during tests.

U: We can’t be picky with our pool, we’re already behind schedule so let’s just roll with it for as long as we can - might be some kind of comic relief for viewers.

B: Either way, took some time, but the playspaces are ready - as ready as we could get them with the resources we had. We decided to leave that whole “encroaching reality degradation” that you requested.

J: Well - we can’t have a fun show without a “call to action”.



A holographic display burned awake above the table, flickering with images of landmasses, maps.

A view of a desert landscape followed by a stretching coastline, the high hills flanking it filled with run down ruins of a time long past. The ancient homeland of the sword and shield of the Covenant - Sanghelios.

M1 S1

Next flashed the burning surface of another planet - through glitches, the trenches carved into its continents by the scorching plasma raining from the heavens bled through. The hills had been scattered with ash and cinder, a scattered underground complex the only safety from the burning surface of Kholo.

M2 S1

Finally, the ravaged and broken surface of a ringworld, torn asunder by battles untold and tragedies past. Atop the scattered puzzle of paradise laid metal structures of two natures, sleek and pristine while the other was ragged and rusted. The broken body of Zeta Halo.

M3 S1


S: And if they get caught in one of these?

B: Game over, time out - not quite sure until we see it for ourselves.

F: Can’t say anything like this has been done to this extent before, having more than one reality running at the same time, from different points in the timestream at that.

J: The investors wanted a spectacle, I wanted to make sure they would’ve gotten it independent of the participants.

K: Only thing left to do is pressing the literal red button, which seems a bit on the nose.

U: Where is the announcer? We can’t start without them.

J: Don’t need him, I’ll do it myself.

K: Seems a bit like overloading yourself with work but hey, it’s your baby, not mine.



The man leaned forward and tapped the top of the table twice, a hole manifesting onto the table and a microphone rose up to his mouth. He cracked his neck and cleared his throat, taking in a deep and fatigued breath before letting it slip through his lips.

The rest of the members looked back at each other, at the impromptu announcer, at the maps circling the top of the map.

Then the red button was finally pressed.

Suddenly, from the center of the table, rose a sliding list of names with pictures - a dishonored Supreme Commander, a pair of galactic-trodding troublemakers, a living, breathing boogeyman, a pair of turncoat Lekgolo bond brothers, and so many more.

All protagonists within their own story, suddenly and violently brought here through unnatural means to play out an adventure made for them, for others to watch.

And it was all about to begin - as words appeared across the skies of all respective worlds, for all to read.



TREATY DAY, FIRST EDITION – GAME START.


Hello participants - and welcome to the very first edition of Treaty Day!

Some of you might be a bit dazed, confused, suffering from any flavor of amnesia or anything else of the sort. Not to worry, these side effects will soon subside!

What won’t subside is the ever growing zone of deletion that is currently surrounding you and your fellows atop whatever barren rock or formation you happen to be on.

Speaking of which, you have all been graciously provided with ocular implants to ease teamwork and simple navigation. And please, don’t try to hurt your other teammates as you’ll find it to be a very pointless endeavor as friendly fire has been turned off!

A total of 27 of you will find yourself in our event, so do try to be friendly with each other as teams will be shuffled when enough time has passed!

Your way out will be revealed through clues scattered across the map but these little trinkets of salvation might be locked behind one puzzle or secret.

So keep your eyes peeled and your heads on a swivel!

And please - don’t try to escape into the out of boundaries section and you will find yourself very rudely and suddenly repositioned back into the proper game area.

But with all of that said - the game is officially a-go! So go have some fun, avoid the encroaching ring of entropy and death and let’s do our very best to stay alive and work together, shall we?

Knock ‘em dead, and best of luck.

Phase One[]

1: Lonely Bear[]

Slowly opening her eyes, Daisy-023 found herself not staring up into the reddish sky of Eirene at twilight, but instead was looking at a roof of what appeared to be pinkish sandstone. That was new since the last thing she remembered was lying on her back having taken a needler to the chest, watching Ralph and Hauser disappear in a fireball as their EVAC bird was blown apart… then nothing. Hesitantly, she checked her chest plate and found the ragged entry hole from where she’d been hit, but curiously, when she brought her hand up to her face it wasn’t covered in fresh blood. She still hurt like she’d been run over by a Warthog plus trailer, but she wasn’t struggling to breathe through a punctured lung, so she had that at least. But how had she ended up here?

Sitting up, Daisy took in her surroundings, what little there was of it. She was in a room made of the same stone she had seen on the roof. A single window in the wall in front of her that would have been barely big enough for her to squeeze through without her armour was the only sign of the outside world. But on closer inspection, Daisy could see anything that looked recognisable. The room looked like a wreck, with chunks of rock strewn about the floor, whilst piles of sand lay against a wall. Deposited over what she guessed by the general disrepair to have been many years, maybe even decades, of abandonment.

From behind her, Daisy heard two separate sounds of movement, and instinctively turned around to see what was its source. Perhaps somehow, Ralph and Hauser had survived the blast, beaten back the Covies, then dragged her unconscious body to safety wherever it was on Eirene, to wait for someone to come and get the three of them. Only it wasn’t Ralph or Hauser making the noise, worse still they weren't even human.

The first thing she saw lying near a doorway was the Elite, but this one was a particularly fat bastard who looked more like it was a threat to the local food supply than to Daisy herself. The same couldn’t be said for the other figure in the room with her, as even with the odd armour it wore, Daisy could recognise a Hunter when she saw one. Mercifully, there was only one of them for now. Although oddly, instead of the more familiar plasma cannon she’d seen on every other Hunter she’d fought with, this one was armed with what looked like a pair of Heavy Machine Guns, and what looked like an Automatic Grenade. Exactly why it had done this however was irrelevant, because they were both Covies and Daisy wasn’t about to let them get an easy kill on her.

Both were in states similar to Daisy as neither had got to their feet yet, but seeing the Elite was grasping for a walking cane, she decided to go for the Hunter and leave fatso for afterwards. However, taking a Hunter on wasn’t an easy task at the best of times, and in battle-damaged armour, minus her helmet, and without a firearm or grenades, was not the best of times. But she still had her combat knife, and a Hunter was just a bunch of worms in a suit.

Spinning as she pulled herself up, Daisy waited for the ideal moment to strike, aiming to use the Hunter to screen her from the Elite’s attacks until she’d dealt with the walking tank. After that, she could turn her attention to filleting the Hinge-head. Then, just as it started to stand up from the floor, Daisy lunged for the beast, letting slip a war cry as she flung herself onto the Hunter's back and latched on to its armour plates. The Hunter, realising it was under attack, tried to shake her off, but it was too late, as Daisy yanked her combat knife out of its sheath, and lined up a slash at the base of its neck.

Bad news asshole, you brought guns to a knife fight!

Then she brought the knife down, only to watch the titanium blade bend like it was made of rubber as it made contact with the writhing mass of worms. So stunned by the betrayal of reality itself, Daisy let her grip on the Hunter’s backplate slacken just enough that the alien was able to fling her off across the room, where she landed in a heap. Yet strangely, she didn’t feel hurt by this action.

Scrambling back to her feet, Daisy found herself staring down the Hunter, its shield raised, its arsenal levelled at her. Yet it hadn’t opened up on her, even when she’d been an easy target sprawled out on the floor.

“Match performance: Lacking. Do you wish to continue sparring, Spartan?” the Hunter said in a monotone English voice. So the alien spoke her language, and it was mocking her. Daisy wanted to kill it where it stood, she should have killed it with her knife, but something had stopped her from doing damage to it.

“If the two of you have finished fooling around like hatchlings when they first take up a training blade, then perhaps we can work out what we are doing here, and what…” the fat Elite began, speaking again in English as it straightened its robe. Only for it to be cut off by a voice that seemed to come from inside Daisy’s head made her wince with pain.

“Hello participants - and welcome to the very first edition of Treaty Day!” the new voice announced as it launched into an introductory speech that Daisy only half listened to, up until it mentioned an encroaching ‘deletion’ zone made her pay closer attention. Things only got worse from there, as the voice explained that they’d given her some sort of ocular implant. The voice then added the kicker that it appeared she was stuck with the Elite and the Hunter as teammates, and that she could not harm them. At least that explained her knife defying the laws of reality.

“So go have some fun, avoid the encroaching ring of entropy and death and let’s do our very best to stay alive and work together, shall we? Knock ‘em dead, and best of luck.” the voice finished, then mercifully clicked off, leaving Daisy as the only voice in her head.

Great, I get hauled into this mess, and I have a Hinge-head and a Hunter for company!

“That was… interesting,” the Elite said out loud, almost prompting Daisy to reply to the split lip with an old human phrase regarding the lack of faecal matter and a famous fictional detective, but she kept quiet. Mostly because she didn’t want anything to do with it, but also because she could now see an arrow above its head, indicating the ‘ocular implant’ she’d been given was now working. Silently, she made a mental note to find whoever had done this to her and do to them what she should have done to that signals officer back in 2526.

“It appears that fate has chosen us to be allies,” it continued, pulling a face that Daisy guessed was an attempt at a smile, but to her looked as friendly as an Alligator waiting for its prey. “I am Abzu 'Samakr, diplomat for the Swords of Sanghelios to the UNSC, and I am honoured to make your acquaintances.”

Diplomat to the UNSC?! And what the hell are the Swords of Sanghelios? It has to be lying, they want to wipe us out, not have chats.

“Designation: “Bulwark, Memento,” the Hunter added in the same monotone voice as it lowered its weapon arm. Someone must have put some kind of translation device built into its odd armour, which now she was paying a bit closer attention to it, looked far more angular than anything she’d ever seen one wear. Perhaps this was some sort of new Covenant shock unit designed to scream insults at humans, or maybe whoever had made this madhouse had decided that she should be able to understand the abomination.

“And what is your name, Spartan?” the Elite that called itself Abzu asked aloud, with Daisy taking a moment to realise it was talking to her. In reply, Daisy simply glared at the fat alien, trying very hard to resist seeing how strong this ‘friendly fire’ system really was. “Come now, our species have been allies for at least six of your years.” That comment got Daisy’s attention, to her, it was 2535, but this Elite claimed it was from the future.

“Incorrect: The Human-Covenant war ended in 2553,” the Hunter, Bulwark Memento interjected, which prompted a confused look from the Elite.

“Yes, but the year unless I’m very much mistaken is 2559… what year are you from Mgalekgolo?” Abzu queried, leaning on its cane as Memento turned to face the obese Hinge-head.

“Last registered year: 2557,” Memento answered finally, as Daisy felt an unnerving feeling of dread that was clawing up her spine.

This can’t be right, are these two both saying the war ends in eighteen years? And that they are both from over twenty years in the future!

“Hmm, it seems we have been plucked from different times for this, ‘Treaty Day’… and by the condition of our Spartan’s armour, and her, I believe the correct human term is ‘antipathy’ towards us, and her look of uncertainty she now wears, I would guess that our silent friend is from the War of Annihilation,” Abzu stated flatly, turning its gaze back to Daisy, who was sorely missing her helmet, even with its broken visor, at that exact moment, simply so she could hide her face from the Alien Bastard. “Am I correct, Spartan?” It asked, pulling that same Alligator face again.

“… 2535,” Daisy finally growled, prompting the Elite to straighten up slightly before it spoke further.

“Ah, that explains quite a bit, Spartan?” Abzu noted, once again trying to get Daisy’s name out of her, but she wasn’t getting on a first-name basis with the split lip. Then it made a sound Daisy had never heard an Elite make before, it laughed. “I see you are as stubborn as Velithra on a steep track. Very well Spartan-023, I will not push you, but simply wait for you to be ready to converse with us. I can only hope that you do, as I enjoyed conversing with one of your comrades during my diplomatic duties. Ah, to be at that banquet again, the food was excellent…”

Daisy was too stunned to listen to Abzu as he began retelling his story. This Elite had talked to a Spartan, and they hadn’t killed each other. If Daisy ever got their name from the overweight alien, then she’d have some words to say, but she wasn’t going to let them know its words had rattled her.

“Hello, what is this?” Abzu murmured as it held up an object to its ugly face, one that Daisy instantly recognised. It was her bear keychain, the one her clone had gifted to her all those years ago, it must have come free from her armour either when she’d been hit, or when she’d been dropped into this mess. Reacting on instinct, Daisy reached out and snatched it from Abzu’s grasp and pulled it back to her chest as she shot the alien a murderous glare at the affront to her privacy. Thankfully, the Alien kept its four-jawed mouth shut and simply shrugged as it ventured outside, with the Hunter following on its heels. Rather than following the pair, Daisy held back from the aliens to compose herself. Although, in truth, she was more concerned with tying her keychain back to her armour by its broken cord, and the mental grilling she was giving herself for how she’d reacted to the elite having her charm.

Great, so now the Hinge-head knows I’m not just a killing machine. If he tries to get chummy with me…

“We are in luck, Spartan!” Abzu shouted, snapping Daisy from her thoughts as it poked its head back through the doorway, gesturing for her to follow. Biting her tongue to grill the Elite as what was so lucky, Daisy complied with Abzu’s suggestion. Hesitantly, she emerged into the plaza of a coastal settlement overlooking a greenish sea, bordered by structures that were in a similar state of disrepair to the building they had just been in. But of more pressing concern was the massive statue that overlooked them, which, even with centuries of erosion, was still clearly an Elite with an energy sword.

“Unless I am very much mistaken, we are on Sanghelios itself. With any fortune, we will be able to make contact with the Arbiter and perhaps discover the extent of our present situation!” Abzu chortled as he gleefully gestured at the ruins. Not that Daisy shared its happiness, as it dawned on her that she was currently standing on a planet full of Elites with only a knife that couldn’t kill anything. “Do not worry, Spartan, the Arbiter is a friend of the Spartan you know as the Master Chief. No doubt, you will be welcomed as an honoured guest until we can get you back to the UNSC.”

This Arbiter is a friend of John’s! Exactly how much have I missed?

Daisy couldn’t believe John was friends with a god-damn Elite! A figure she’d followed and respected had been breaking bread with the same aliens they’d spent years killing. And he still had that stupid nickname they’d given him after Crowther had promoted him back in 2526. At least, a Spartan getting a promotion was still as hard as she remembered.

“Yet, there is something strange about this place,” Abzu continued, sounding noticeably less confident than before. “See down there, that should be the Yevon Shipyard of Qivro. I recognise it from visits to secure vessels to transport my keep's produce, and I learned much about it in my negotiations.” The Elite gestured to a port-like complex that Daisy reckoned was roughly ten miles southeast of their position.

“Yet, I do not see the many of the construction barns that the Covenant graciously left us after its fall. In fact, I don’t see any of them, yet the first ones were built only a decade after the writ of union was signed, but if they are not there then…” Abzu trailed off before it turned back to Daisy and Memento, a look of concern growing on the alien's face as she heard the latter stir uneasily. “I hope I am wrong, but it seems we have been thrown back over two thousand years.”

In her head, Daisy could only think of one word to describe her current situation.

FUCK!

Falkeno

2: Partners In Crime[]

“So go have some fun, avoid the encroaching ring of entropy and death and let’s do our very best to stay alive and work together, shall we? Knock ‘em dead, and best of luck.”

Decipitus snorted at the contradictory nature of the two sentences. Teamwork, but knocking ‘them’ dead? Assuming the announcer was human, it was likely another idiom he would have to learn from those within the Quillick. The Jiralhanae bristled, rising from his meditative stance in the cargo bay. It was filled with cargo crates adorned in the logo of humanity’s United Nations Space Command, but the hold itself was distinctly Banished.

The shaggy engineer had woken up in this place mere minutes ago, seeing fit to remain in the secluded chamber to trace back his steps. Conveniently, the disembodied voice explained the circumstances to him. Inconveniently, he had been pulled out of time, forced into this strange game with an even vaguer objective.

I suppose now is a better time than any to explore my surroundings. Perhaps I will discover why I have been taken to the hold of those I had left behind.

Indeed, Decipitus felt uncomfortable being in a structure of Banished origin. He had thought himself rid of them years ago after defecting to the Quillick, and had spent his time in the new Covenant remnant building a new life for himself, one free of the warmongering, bloodlusted nature of his Jiralhanae kin. He leaned down, hefting up his Gauss Cannon with his right hand. Surprisingly enough, the powerful turret had been transported here alongside him, as well as all the essential tools he needed for his engineering endeavors.

He lumbered through several corridors composed of corrugated red and gunmetal steel, using his knowledge of prefabricated Banished siege buildings to navigate to the exit. Setting a foot onto the exit ramp, the Jiralhanae lurched suddenly, thrown off-balance as the entire ground rumbled, shaking the prefab with it.

Is this an earthquake- he thought before his snout slammed into the exit ramp. The Jiralhanae moaned in pain, quickly letting go of his turret to clutch his nose. He turned over to lie on his back and snarled as the bright noon sun pierced into his eyes; they had not been given the chance to adjust to the outdoor light before the quake had forced him to the ground.

Decipitus stopped himself, breathing in deeply. Such a primal response was not in his best interests if he wished to make sense of this situation! His next thought was cut off as two shadows appeared, blotting out the sun.

“Ah, a Jiralhanae is here as well,” a deep, rich, distinctively-Sangheili voice rumbled. Perhaps another member of the Quillick?

“Rise, warrior,” the Sangheili commanded, outstretching a hand to offer Decipitus.

“Many thanks,” Decipitus rumbled, grabbing his hand. Despite his immense size, he was surprised that the Sangheili was able to pull him up. Realizing that he was surrounded from all sides by more Banished structures, the Jiralhanae snorted, leaning down once more to pick up his fallen Gauss Cannon. As he clasped his fingers around the handle, the Sangheili’s next words stopped him cold.

“Such size and mindfulness. A wonder that you have not been given the harness of a Warlord, much less a Captain.”

These were no members of the Quillick. Being the only Jiralhanae in the faction, and likely the only one on the entire planet of Shear, all who knew of Decipitus were aware of his rank of Ultra. And the title of Warlord… That was a position only used by the legions of the Banished!

“I am no longer one of your thralls to command!” Decipitus declared, taking aim with his Gauss Cannon. A single round discharged from the heavy weapon, slamming into the Sangheili’s midsection. The Banished warrior went flying back, slamming into the outer wall of another drop structure ten meters away. Surprisingly, the slug that had fired didn’t tear through him, rather bouncing off harmlessly and falling softly into the grass where the Sangheili once stood.

“You buffoon!” another voice said, this one shrill.

A crimson, spherical object fluttered in front of Decipitus, its green eye flashing. With a start the Jiralhanae realized that it was a Forerunner Monitor of all things!

“You wreckless ape, do you really think that there would be any point in doing such a foolish act?!” the Monitor screeched.

“A Monitor… I-”

“I am not finished yet!” The ancilla barked, looming closer to Decipitus. “Did you not heed the disembodied voice? Firing your weapons does but naught here, Jiralhanae! Truly the ignorance of your kind cannot begin to be fathomed by the logic to which I am bound!”

Decipitus flared his nostrils in irritation. “Do not categorize my people so readily, Monitor. The variance in our billions would disagree with your statement.”

“I have suffered this galaxy’s traumas for over a hundred thousand years,” the Monitor squawked, “as is my nature, I analyze patterns. I would know from working alongside your kind in the Banished that there most certainly is a pattern with you furry giants.”

Decipitus let out a heavy sigh, massaging his snout with his free hand now that he knew the Monitor could not harm him. “Why work alongside them? The Banished are a ruthless war machine, caring not for their people, but only the results.”

“Well, my Sangheili compatriot who you so rudely blasted into a wall would hold quite the intuitive explanation, Jiralhanae. I am indebted to him, so I merely tagged along. That, and when one has a Warlord as their associate, the Banished are quite accommodating to them.”

The Monitor swiveled around to face the aforementioned Sangheili, tilting to the side in seeming exasperation at the crumpled Sangheili, whose emerald-green harness glimmered in the sunlight. The Banished Warlord grumbled, swinging back his arms and digging the palms of his hands into the ground to provide himself with leverage to stand up. The ancilla zipped over to him, completing a full orbit around the Spec Ops-clad Sangheili to analyze him.

“You took quite the time getting up,” the Monitor tutted.

“And you made an error in your predictive modules, Puzzle,” the Sangheili retorted, rolling his shoulders. He made a noticeable wince at the action, which would imply pain. But clearly that wasn’t the case, as the Monitor had said! On top of that, Jagratius was certain the Gauss round he had fired would have torn the Sangheili asunder had they possessed the ability to harm each other.

“And what would that be, Grono?”

“I sustained injuries from that blast.”

“Impossible! We already tested the validity of our captor’s statement when I hit you with a low-power beam-”

The Sangheili named Grono finally returned his attention to Decipitus, sharply rapping on the Monitor’s shell. The ancient AI ceased his blathering and turned to observe the Quillick mechanic as well.

“I rescind my previous statement,” Grono clicked coldly, yet his expression remained invisible behind his Spec Ops helmet. “Clearly you are not Banished, or mindful, considering how quickly you drew such a hefty weapon upon me.”

“It was an instinctive reaction,” Decipitus apologized, then steeled himself. Why should he apologize to the Banished? “Besides, you bear the mark of Atriox. I served the Banished once, but I shall never again do so. My days as a legionary are over.”

Grono cocked his head quizzically while the Monitor zoomed over to his impact point in the wall of the Banished structure. The Sangheili approached Decipitus warily, keenly aware that he still held his Gauss Cannon in his grip.

“And why would you forsake your oath to the brotherhood? To Atriox?”

“Because what he fights for is wrong. Because there are those pressed into service with him who do not wish to do so.”

Grono snorted in amusement. “Fighting for brotherhood, victory, glory, and profit is wrong, then?”

“The Banished fight to conquer,” Decipitus replied.

“Yes, because only the strongest will survive. The strong must take that from those they deem weak. But the brotherhood ensures that its own are treated well. If one steels themself to strife and strives to be better, they will have a place at the Warmaster’s table. It is only the mindset that holds the lower thralls back. That is their weakness.”

“Listen to yourself!” Decipitus gestured to Grono with his free hand, “what of those who cannot fend for themselves? Shall they be left behind?”

“The universe is often cruel, Jiralhanae. Regardless, never claim that the Banished do not give equal opportunity to all. Even the lowliest of Unggoy can command legions if they have the drive and will to do what must be done.”

“It seems I will not be able to convince you of your folly,” Decipitus growled in exasperation.

“Ideals are incorruptible if they belong to the beholder,” Grono clicked, “all of the damnable beings in the galaxy think that their worldview is the only correct one. I do not. Henceforth why I do not bring your own loyalties into question, Jiralhanae. Only the subject of your defection.”

The Sangheili Warlord neared Decipitus, stretching his head up to keep his visor locked with Decipitus’s gaze before speaking again. “I do not give my loyalty to factions, but to comrades. Therefore, with this situation that we have been dragged into, I have no qualms working alongside you, provided you share the same opinion. For one as well spoken as yourself, surely you can see reason?”

Decipitus narrowed his eyes. All he met was the lifeless white eyes of the Sangheili’s visor. Slowly, he loosened his fingers, allowing the Gauss Cannon to gradually slip out of his hand, softly landing in the grassy field.

“I am Ultra Decipitus of the Quillick,” he said, begrudgingly outstretching a hand to the four-jawed warrior.

“Field Master Grono ‘Yendam,” the Sangheili replied, grabbing his hand. “Warlord of the Banished.”

“And I am 589 Curious Puzzle!” The Monitor chirped, returning from his foray to butt in between the two. “Former Monitor of-”

Another quick rap from Grono ‘Yendam silenced the ancilla. Decipitus furrowed his brow, looking worriedly at Puzzle.

“And are you certain that this ‘Curious Puzzle’ is suited to the arrangement? Unlike you, he was quite hostile.”

“Merely with his words, Decipitus,” Grono answered casually, batting Puzzle back with his hand. “The Monitor behaves just the same with me, despite our partnership predating my initiation into the Banished. As long as you are on good terms with me, expect nothing more than pestering from the Monitor.”

“Expect to be lectured, Grono!” Puzzle sputtered. “My predictive modules are in perfect shape! After a full analysis of the impact site, I can confirm that your injuries were not caused by the impact of Decipitus’s turret round!”

“Then where did these aches manifest from, hm?” Grono snapped in annoyance.

“Oh, quite simple. The force that sent you flying back dealt no damage to you, but the laws of physics still demand sacrifice for colliding with such strong metal at such a high speed.”

“Remarkable…” Grono huffed, before turning back to Decipitus. “It would be prudent to move out. I have yet to find any supplies in these facilities, but I have seen what seems to be a refueling yard southwest of our position, closer to the Forerunner spire.”

“Spire?” Decipitus questioned. ‘Yendam pointed over his shoulder, and the Jiralhanae turned around, finally taking the opportunity to absorb the surroundings outside of the cluster of Banished facilities. Sure enough, a leviathan structure coated in a silver sheen stood tall in the distance, its shape akin to that of a vertically elongated rhombus. Near the top were four substructures, rectangular attachments assembled in a square-shaped pattern at the corners of the spire’s top. As his eyes continued upward, Decipitus held his breath, taking in the greatest sight of all.

A massive band stretched up into the distance, far off on the horizon. As it extended, it gradually got thinner, until hitting its zenith. Decipitus turned his head as the glimmering band stretched back down on the other side, only to end abruptly before it could reconnect with the horizon. A fractured surface marred the edge of the broken ring, surrounded by scattered chunks of the world.

“This… This is a ringworld!” Decipitus gasped, his eyes tingling in excitement. “A Halo!”

“Indeed, this is one of the formerly ‘sacred’ ringworlds,” Grono concurred.

“Installation 07 to be precise,” Puzzle clarified, “or as others would call it, Zeta Halo.”

“I do not understand though,” Decipitus frowned. How had he been transported here? And how had the Banished gained a foothold on one of the elusive, yet beautiful rings?

“How did the Banished conquer this ring?” He inquired.

“Atriox took many of his holdings to pursue the Apparition as well as the human vessel, Infinity,” Grono explained. “They arrived here, at Zeta Halo, and in a decisive victory, the Warmaster eliminated two of the Banished’s greatest foes with a single blow. The Tyrant toppled, and the Infinity gone. After the Razing of Oth Sonin, Atriox saw fit to resettle the remnants of your people on Zeta Halo, or so I have been told. A new home for not just the Banished, but the Jiralhanae species.”

Decipitus winced. Despite being a native of High Charity, the news of his ancestral homeworld’s destruction still brought pain to his heart. Nevertheless, he pushed the pain away, choosing to let his inquisitive mind continue to prod the Banished duo with questions.

“What would that rift be, then?” The Ultra said, pointing to the fracture in the horizon’s arch.

“I am uncertain,” ‘Yendam said hesitantly, “it may be linked to the sudden loss in communication the rest of the Banished suffered with Atriox’s forces. He has been lost to us for some time now.”

“While I cannot ascertain the cause of the rift, I can certainly discern its effects,” Puzzle offered. “That structure in the distance is a reformation spire. One of dozens across the ring. Its purpose is to create raw materials, likely alloy, to rebuild the shattered segment of the installation. And from my observations, its activation is recent. Quite recent, in fact. The tremors you felt earlier were likely subterranean processes; ingredients for reformation being pulled from the ground beneath us into the spire’s underbelly for refining.”

“Such an interesting process!” Decipitus beamed, “They may not be gods, but I have never let the beauty of their constructs go unnoticed. But this world… This Zeta Halo, it is beyond anything I have ever seen before!”

“Ah, finally!” Puzzle crooned, “another individual who enjoys the elegance of my makers’ creations! While Grono ‘Yendam and his Banished comrades make for entertaining company, they are often lacking when it comes to appreciation of the finer things in life, such as the causal reconciliation shields in Ecumene warp drives…”

“We can touch on your Forerunner technology another time, Puzzle,” Grono barked, before turning his attention to Decipitus. “For one who marvels at the constructions of the ancients, you seem to be particularly disinterested in the Monitor himself.”

“It is hard to do so, especially when my first encounter with him was far from pleasant.”

“Fair enough,” Grono clicked his mandibles beneath his helmet, before beckoning the other two to follow him. “Come now, you two. Our unknown captor claimed that we may have a puzzle to solve to free ourselves from this predicament. I can only assume that the reformation spire has something to do with it.”

“And what if there are others in this area?” Decipitus asked, picking up his Gauss Cannon once more. “While this facility is clearly empty, we do not know if the outlying structures lack occupants.”

“Then we shall deal with them as they come,” the Sangheili Warlord answered, “if they are Banished, we shall welcome them into our company. Otherwise, we may have to fight them.”

“But unlike us, you lack weapons,” Decipitus noted.

“I retain the use of my active camouflage. A scouting role would suit me best in the current circumstances. Now come, let us head to the refueling yard. Perhaps we may find a vehicle that can offer us swift transportation to our destination.”

Decipitus nodded, finding the plan agreeable. As the three sauntered off, he internally mused at the absurdity of it all. Stuck on a Halo with two warriors of the very faction he had fled, forced to work alongside them to solve some sort of puzzle to escape impending doom?

Absurd indeed.

UnggoyZealot

3: The Handshake[]

The first thing that came to Isaac was the burnt dirt beneath him, between his fingers and against his palms, the crunchy texture partly bleeding through his gloves.

He groaned as he felt his body slowly come awake, even though he didn't remember laying down - or was it sitting down? His upper torso happened to be laying vertically against something, his legs limp on the ground.

For a moment, he didn't dare to open his eyes under the fleeting assumption that this was simply some kind of dream like so many he'd had before.

Then his focus and senses slowly started to come back to him, one at a time.

The jagged and bumpy object against his back, the seemingly cool weather contrasted with warm and thunderous wind crashing against him, the sound of burning.

With enough faculties returned to him, he jolted awake - reaching for a weapon, a rifle, anything. Even all these decades later, he still didn't feel comfortable being so vulnerable, reaching for something to defend himself being as instinctual as rubbing his eyes after waking up.

All he had was a Narq-dart pistol, the kind that only shot tranquilizer rounds, meant for non-lethal dispatching of unsuspecting victims or rowdy and problematic individuals. It'd have to do.

As he started to look around, he realized he was wearing his usual combat kit, or what he had to settle for with as few resources as working a remote undercover job for a crumbling government intelligence agency had afforded him - helmet included.

Isaac had been indeed sitting down, up against a craggy boulder at that. He couldn't help but groan again as he stretched his back by pulling both of his shoulders backwards, and with a quick hop he was now squatting, momentarily struggling to find his balance.

This had been a mistake.

The moment he shifted himself up, he felt his entire body's insides recoil, nausea plaguing his gut as his senses slowly adjusted to this place.

An entirely different atmosphere, pressure, gravitational pull - the disconcerting and sickening feeling of being suddenly upside down while his feet were still standing on solid ground.

The Ferret fell back down onto his knees, shins and forearms digging into the scorched ground beneath him as he scrambled to still himself, to let whatever this sickness that had appeared so suddenly run its course.

And he finally looked around him, really looked around him.

Burnt hills and mountains stretched around him, reaching off into an orange and gray horizon of hellfire. The outcrop he had happened to be on was overlooking a brown, muddy body of water. The shoreline was sizzling as rivers of seemingly molten magma attempted to flow into the lake only to be immediately cooled down.

A pit had momentarily formed at the bottom of his stomach, the estranged and yet familiar feeling of concern turning into panic. He swallowed hard and pushed the feeling deep down, back into where it had come from.

This was no time for emotions like those, even if confusion persisted as to how he had come to be in such a place.

Then his heads-up display suddenly flashed on, a light red motion tracker flickering awake at the bottom left of his field of view. The middle of the circle was big and bold, signifying himself - but then there was another, smaller dot slowly encroaching on his position, behind him.

The movement was slightly erratic, looking like a zig-zag or a long winded stumble in his direction. Whatever the signal was, it wasn't immediately registering as friendly, and he wasn't ready to let his guard down regardless.

He stood still, remaining down on his knees, to avoid making any noise safe for the muffled click of his thumb sliding the safety off the pistol he was now quietly gripping in his right hand.

He waited, listening to the distant but nearing sound of steps crunching the smoldering ground.

The moment the unknown signal was only a handful of feet away and then took a turn towards him, he dropped and rolled onto his back - aiming the pistol up at a bipedal silhouette with bulky proportions. A human.

The split second he set eyes on them, the tag suddenly turned blue - friendly. It was UNSC, Navy - an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper, a bright blue tag blinking to existence above their head.


SSGT EDWARDS




Scott Edwards had came to only a few brief moments before Isaac, laid atop some thin stretch of clearing, a lower flat across the side of the ridge he found himself in the shadow of.

Scott’s eyelids laid heavy across his eyes, still and unmoving - his brain going through a nebulous wisp of unconsciousness, something deeper than a dream.

Emotions rather than thoughts, raw feelings and memories laid bare for himself to contemplate on his own within the temple of his fading psyche: his quiet and uneventful life on Cygnus II, the aching and aging face of his father, the silhouettes of each member of his Fireteam. Calson, Brandt, Lloyd - all of them weathered veterans of their own stories, all of them part of the little, unusual family he had managed to cobble together from the scorching rubble of the war, of what remained of humanity.

And then Scott felt it, the burn on his side stinging once more with a fury he hadn’t felt since the wound had been opened, leaking his vitality all across the sandy expanse of the beach he had been sitting on. It had made reality all too real for him once again, pulling him away from the mental drift he had been in.

But - when he went to grip onto the ground, he was only met with crisp clumps of soil, rubbing dry clay into the palm of his glove, nothing like the grainy and sticky sand he remembered laying on just a breath ago.

There was a brief moment of awe and confusion as the aged trooper managed to open his eyes to see that the expanse of blue ocean he had been staring at just a moment prior had been replaced with a towering mountain range of orange and gray rock.


“..Lloyd? You there, kid?”


Through a raspy throat and dry lips, Scott called out, the metallic taste in his mouth seemingly stuck to the back of his throat and atop his tongue. He looked down to find his sleeve still rolled up, but no puncture wound to be found on his arm, no syringe - and no Allison Lloyd.

Scott’s eyes kept drifting around as his body began to wake up from the haze, eventually landing on his wound, to peer between the tears of the bloodied and gashed uniform and find red dripping down his side - but the flow never came. In utter disbelief, he quickly reached down with a hand in a rush of adrenaline he had thought impossible to ever regain, given his previous circumstances.

Nothing. There was no wound, no laceration, not even a bruise.

Scott Edwards had had a hole punched through him just moments ago and he had nothing to show for it.

Thoughts began to violently bounce within his head like free neutrons scattering across the void but one rang harder than the rest at that moment: What the hell had Lloyd given him?

With his new found strength, he stumbled up to one knee, looking around at his surroundings - and then at the sky. Reds and oranges streaking across a dead horizon, and as he tried to look further in, between the threads of clouds - there it was. The stars, or something that seemed to be a facsimile of them, they were too scattered and too symmetrical.

He was still stuck, still in whatever kind of hell he had found himself days prior, but something was different. The air was stale, the energy was somehow different and there was something that had shifted along with the locale that he couldn’t manage to put into words.

Scott looked around where he had been kneeling and noticed the one item at his side that actually crossed over with him, his helmet, covered in dust and dried blood along the bottom.

He managed to lean on it for support first and then took it along with him as he slowly stood up, legs still weak as fresh blood cycled through them, stumbling forward through the dead and barren wasteland.

The trooper dragged his feet along the dirt at first, his body and mind still waking up from the trance-like state almost bleeding out had left him in, slowly regaining bits of his strength and composure with each step taken.

Then he heard it, lurching and wincing, something scattering on the ground not too far away from him. He quickly dusted off the bottom of his helmet and slid it onto his head, the silent whir and blip of the optics and heads up display coming to life an all too familiar comfort.


“It couldn’t be, could it?..”


Scott thought to himself, mouthing the words as he slowly approached the source of the noise, still stumbling forward as his body and legs continued to become reacquainted with the feeling of being alive once more.

He walked through a scattering of boulders, big and small, surely some kind of debris from a rockslide from higher up the ridge that seemed to settle like a naturally occurring maze.

The trooper reached downward for a weapon, assuming he still had something on his person even if it had previously skipped his mind to check for any given his current situation but was immediately relieved when he felt the purchase of a handgrip against his palm.

A sidearm, an M6C at his disposal. He quickly pressed on the release of the magazine and slid it out, finding a bullet snuggly sitting between the metallic lips and more below it - given the weight, he reckoned it was full.

The sidearm stayed low but his hands gripped it tightly as he went to turn the corner, a flickering dot manifesting onto his radar with a crisp, digital ‘plink’.

And there it was, the source of the noise. A man clad in a set of worn and dusty clothes, hidden beneath a cut down version of the same kind of armor he himself was wearing. But unlike his own, it was the farthest it could be from being up to code, being colored a sand-like tan with cobalt blue highlights spray-painted on.

He didn’t seem like part of any UNSC element he knew of, and given the garishly customized kit, the gear might have been stolen or “repossessed”.

The man was there, laying on the ground on both his forearms and knees, his whole body wincing and contorted in some kind of pain, one hand clutching at something on his right hip.

But then in a split second the dot atop his radar turned a solid light blue and a tag appeared above his head. At the same time, the newly found friendly dropped down to their side and rolled onto their back, firearm raised, immediately hesitating as his sights had found Scott’s upper torso.


”Who the hell-”

CPO ANDERSON




As Scott went to lower his weapon, Isaac did the same. The two stared at each other for a lengthy moment, both clearly confused and rattled by whatever had happened that brought them together to this barren rock.

The air around them grew thick, heavy with doubt and ash, before one of the two finally decided to pipe up.


“You’ve got to be the most ragged looking Chief Petty Officer I think I’ve ever seen.” Scott chimed with a burst of harsh and instinctual honesty, along with a small attempt at breaking the tension.

“And you look like you were hit by a freighter.” Isaac’s eyes immediately snapped to the open tear in the lower side of the trooper’s BDU, the edges heavy with dried blood but no visible injury.

“Please do us both a favor and put that thing away.” Scott nodded with his head towards the Narq-dart pistol that Isaac was still gripping with his right hand, his index finger relaxed above the trigger guard.


Isaac couldn’t help but frown below his black visor, a little confused by the precautions, some kind of uneasiness growing from his gut as he could feel the other trooper’s eyes piercing through their helmet. Scott was holding his head high, chest forward but he could see the way his shoulders slumped, the man was beyond tired - physically and mentally.

The sole Ferret slowly moved the pistol to his side and holstered it, the firearm magnetically attaching to a small armored brace on his right hip with a muted thud and click. At that point he couldn’t help himself and he continued to play up the theatrics and bring his hands up to his head, giving a small shrug in the direction of Scott.


“I’m assuming you do see the tag above my head?”

“I do.”


Scott let out a small sigh through his dry lips and proceeded to holster his own firearm, his body still a little tense with uneasiness.

With the weapons out of the picture for the time being, Isaac found the moment as an opening to get himself back up, slowly struggling through the after effects of the sickness that had washed over him just moments ago.


“I take it you also woke up here with no recollection of how that came to be? Freaky shit.” Isaac spoke up as he dusted himself off, knees tinted orange from the dirt.

“Not my first time, I really would prefer if it didn’t become a habit.”


Isaac grabbed onto his helmet and lifted it from his head with both hands, the visor shifting from an obscure and opaque black to a mostly transparent silver.

Scott couldn’t help but stare at him for a brief moment - tired eyes, graying hair, nicks and scars strewn across his face and a severe case of “resting bitch face”, as Calson would eloquently put it.

It was strangely like looking at a more disheveled reflection of himself, a couple years older give or take.

Isaac was the first to extend a hand his way, seemingly unbothered by the realities of the situation that Scott was more intently aware of.

The trooper hesitated for a moment, body still tense in a mixture of strain-induced flight or fight response and fatigue, but he relented and eventually went to shake the hand. Given he could see his tag, much like his previous ‘entourage’, he assumed he had just happened upon another unwitting teammate.


“Been a while since I’d seen a fellow ‘jumper’.” Isaac said with a sigh, looking down at the bits and pieces of the DAYBREAK kit he had managed to cobble together, a modern follow up to the typical Orbital Drop Shock Trooper BDU he had been accustomed to for decades.


Scott couldn’t help but finally take off his helmet and frown in the direction of Isaac, somewhat bewildered by the statement.

He was an ODST after all?

With the state that he and his gear were in, Scott thought that the only rational explanation was that he was either previously stranded on some kind of desolate, backwater planet or that he had been held against his will in some sort of Covenant or insurrectionist holding cell.

But the fleeting thought was pushed aside as soon as Isaac spoke up.


“Anderson, Chief Petty Officer Anderson, currently under ONI but previously a Staff Sergeant of the 45th, Glacier Company.”

Staff Sergeant Edwards, lead of Fireteam Wolf under the 105th.”


Scott nodded to himself after the words, the string of identifications serving as a sort of grounding amidst the chaos, before chiming back in.


“45th, then? I’ve only heard of the odd tall tale here or there about you and your fellows but I guess that comes naturally with any battalion.”


Isaac couldn’t help but crack a tiny wistful smile at the statement as a small wave of melancholy came over him.

And then abruptly, as soon as the two were beginning to slightly warm up to each other, a noise came over a nearby outcrop and both slid their respective helmets in unison at the first sign of potential danger.

As clockwork, they both took cover behind the nearest boulders, signaling their paths to each other via swift hand signals and waited.

The still quiet was rhythmically broken by heavy footsteps shaking the ground, the dry crunch of the dirt offset by some kind of metallic thud with each step.

And then came a boisterous voice over their communications, the noise seemingly awakening a third ‘friendly’ dot on both the ODST’s and Ferret’s motion sensors.


“I take it y’all need assistance, marines.”


The voice behind the radio was rough and raspy, yet every word was spoken clearly and with intent, whomever it was spoke in a southern accent with a slight hissing drawl.

Isaac and Scott stared at each other for a moment before letting a sigh out and letting their shoulders relax, the latter rolling his eyes beneath his helmet.

Slowly, both of them stood up and peered over their respective cover to behold who the voice belonged to.

A tall, wide wall of red and gray titanium alloy stood at the top of the outcrop, fists resting against their hips.

Isaac had seen only a handful of them in his time in the Navy, all of different shapes and sizes - but this one had the complexion of a brick wall, even amongst his peers.

A Spartan, clad in close to half a ton of armor and armed with three marines worth of arms and munitions.


“Status report?”

EARNEST




As Isaac approached the 7 feet tall super soldier to fill them in on what little they knew, Scott’s attention drifted away as his ears began to ring in a painful, low tone that gave way to a pulsing headache.

He couldn’t help but bring a hand up to his head as he braced himself against the pain before it suddenly stopped, abruptly.

And then he heard it, an unnatural voice coming from the heavens as if this whole expanse was some kind of continent-sized stadium.


“Hello participants - and welcome to the very first edition of Treaty Day! Some of you might be a bit dazed, confused, suffering from any flavor of amnesia or anything else of the sor…”


The words drifted into the obscurity of his head and suddenly the ringing came back as a pressure began to form inside Scott’s chest, his breathing becoming faster and erratic before he managed to get a hold of himself with one steady, slow exhale.

To find himself in some kind of blood sport just a day or two ago where he had to brutalize his way to survival against his own kind was one severely screwed up joke.

To then be dragged straight to this?

For a very prolonged moment, he felt like he was in some kind of cruel comedy and that he and his were merely just the punchline.

As Scott regained control over his breathing and steadied himself, the only words he could manage to slip out came under his breath.


“God damn it.”

The Game Jockey

4: From One Legend To Another[]

At well over a century and a half old by human years, Kel 'Katam had lived a long, full life. One with more than its fair share of strife and hardships, to be sure-- but also of incredible glories and honors. Not the least of which being his daughter, Raio, whom he had molded into a fine successor, despite his race's prejudice against female warriors, let alone Kaidons.

Even if the Covenant of old had declared him a heretic, Kel 'Katam had survived while the ancient empire of his forefathers had crumbled. That fact alone, brought something resembling a smile to the aged Sangheili's mandibles.

It may not have been perfect, but there was none who could deny Kel's worthiness in the sagas of his clan. And so, when his remaining eye fluttered open, and he was met with nothing but inky blackness instead of the violet hues and curved interior of his personal transport, there was no trace of fear or regret in the former Supreme Commander's hearts. If this was the end, then so be it.

“At last, you wake.”

Kel jolted as a deeply modulated speech echoed all around him, and in an instant, he was all too aware of cold stone against the weathered hide of his fingers and neck. His bones creaked with effort as he staggered to his feet with nary a hint of his former resilience and vigor, but it was his honed warrior instinct that desperately patted himself down for any sort of weapon.

None.

“Calm yourself, Supreme Commander. We need not be foes.” The unnatural voice said. Kel’s one good eye darted back and forth in the darkness, but could not find its source.

“So you say. Yet you dare not face me directly, instead you keep to the shadows like a coward.” The Sangheili stood as straight as his bent back would allow, and spoke not with the voice of a loving father or Kaidon, but that of the Supreme Commander he had been. “What am I to make of that?”

“Make of it what you will.” The voice was tinged with a mechanical pop and hiss. “Long have I endured such words from our kind.”

Motes of light winked into being, silhouetting a figure in the rough approximation of a Sangheili. But if it was truly a Sangheili, then it was perhaps the largest warrior Kel had ever seen, barring the Mgalekgolo. The figure flicked its wrist, and Kel recoiled as twin curved blades of plasma erupted almost violently. The crimson light spilled onto the stone floor, walls, and Kel himself, setting their shadows to dancing against familiar ancient runes and hieroglyphics.

“As I suspect, have you, heretic.” The voice warbled.

The figure would have stood head and shoulders above Kel even in his prime, and there was no mistaking the deep violet of doarmir fur that lined its cloak. The stranger’s face was hidden by the featureless mask of their helmet, its eyes slits of light that threatened to blind Kel’s one good eye if he tried to hold the Sangheili's gaze. But it was the massive energy sword and its burning edge that held Kel’s attention most of all.

“So, it has come to this.” Kel said, unfaltering. In his time serving the Covenant, he had heard many a whisper of an order of elite assassins, tasked with silencing anyone the Hierarchs deemed too dangerous to roam free. He snorted. “Has it truly taken you this long to enact the will of the Hierarchs’?”

The stranger tilted their helmet in… what? Confusion? Amusement? There was the distinct clacking of mashing mandibles, muffled by the Sangheili’s mask.

“You wound me, ‘Katam. I am no creature of theirs, nor am I your enemy, as I have said.”

“Then who are you? What other reason could you have to bring me here than to kill me?”

“I am Takra, High Kaidon of Uthravik and the clan of Ravakrae.” The Sangheili flung its violet cloak open, revealing the ornate golden command harness underneath. Not unlike the one Kel wore himself. “And former Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Unyielding Sacrifice.”

Kel blinked.

“I have never heard of any Supreme Commander by that name.” Kel said, evenly.

He thought he saw the giant Sangheili’s shoulders sag ever so slightly.

“That is to be expected. My ascension was well after your own exile.” Takra’s masked helm tilted towards the runes and hieroglyphics on the walls. “In any case, I have not brought you anywhere, ‘Katam. I too had awoken only to find myself here, in the dark.”

The High Kaidon gestured slowly at the chamber the two of them were in with the light of his energy sword. It was a conical room, with a round base and walls that stretched high above, tapering into darkness too deep for Takra’s sword to penetrate. With no clear entrance or exit.

“These markings… Have you seen their kind before?” Takra pointed the tip of his blade towards the ancient characters that lined the walls. Unlike the geometric sigils of the Covenant language, these hieroglyphs depicted Sangheili, their bodies bent in reverence before a great avian creature of myth. Only, the symbols weren't “ancient” at all, instead, they appeared freshly carved or painted onto the surface of the stone walls. Takra must have seen the gears turning in Kel’s head, for he then said:

“You do.”

It was more of a statement than a question. And a correct one, at that.

“Any true son of Sanghelios would.” Kel said sharply. It was all well and good that he finally had a name to put to the strange Sangheili, but that alone did little to assuage his doubts. Nor did Takra ‘Ravakrae’s insistence that he meant the aging warrior no harm. He continued:

“These hieroglyphics, and likely this structure, predate the Writ of Union by generations. This is our people’s history, before the Covenant.”

“So, Sanghelios, then.” Takra clacked his mandibles thoughtfully for a moment. “Forgive me, Supreme Commander, but I do not suppose you could be more specific than that?”

Kel folded his arms behind his back, and shrugged.

“There is only so much that can be discerned from the confines of this chamber.”

Takra’s masked helm tilted in silent contemplation as his gaze settled on the recorded history of his and Kel’s ancestors. There was indeed only so much information that a colony-born Sangheili and a decrepit elder could have gleaned from their surroundings. But there was far more that could be done for the third occupant of this ancient chamber.

While the two former alien fleetmasters were having their little meet-cute, AI ALT 5032-4, or, “Althea”, had elected to remain hidden inside a lone communications pad that remained unnoticed upon a pedestal, watching and listening.

From the AI’s perspective, Althea had been in the middle of a communique between herself and Spartans Andra-D054 and Merlin-D032 before, in the blink of an eye, a veil of darkness shrouded the world. She was so taken aback, it had taken her more than ten system ticks before she even thought to hail the Spartans or run a thorough diagnostic on her memory banks, to make sure that there were no signs of foul play. The AI had so few experiences to truly call her own, after all. She’d hate to lose any more than she already had.

The diagnostic returned with the all clear, which only continued to baffle Althea. She was reading green across the board, all functions running at peak capacity. But smart AI’s such as herself required far greater processing power than what a single communications pad could hope to provide. And yet, Althea found that her intellect was not impacted in the least. And she was quick to put that intellect to work.

Through the comm pad’s camera, Althea was able to observe the ancient hieroglyphics the Sangheili were pondering. And in little more than a dozen system ticks, her internal database matched those glyphs with ruins situated on the Qivro continent. It’s western coast, to be exact.

Althea allowed a wave of satisfaction to wash over her. Until the emotional-restraint algorithms in her code so rudely warned her that it was too soon to celebrate. Just because she had the exact coordinates didn’t mean she was out of the woods just yet.

Frowning, she ran the names “Katam’” and “Ravakrae” in her database next– only to be further convinced that staying quiet was the correct approach here.

While both former Supreme Commanders would have been on the UNSC’s radar, naturally, Kel ‘Katam at least had appeared to have mellowed out in his old age, and was living more or less in peace until Cortana had forced him to seek aid from the UNSC. But the other one, this “Takra ‘Ravakrae”, concerned Althea greatly.

An ONI dossier was still stored in her cache from the last time she had access to their database, and when she opened it, she was bombarded with a seemingly endless stream of accompanying after-action reports, survivor testimony, and a list of human colonies believed to have been razed by ‘Ravakrae. Before, and after the war’s conclusion.

More than a High Kaidon, the big son of a bitch was Banished. And under Atriox’s banner, Takra ‘Ravakrae left death and devastation everywhere he went. The ONI dossier concluded by labeling Ravakrae as a High Value Target, and recommending it was best to remove the Sangheili from the board sooner rather than later.

Althea agreed, and she knew just the Spartans for the job.

The image of Andra or Merlin cutting ‘Ravakrae down to size would have brought a smile to her digital face, but the algorithm was quick to quash anything as useless to her in her current situation as mere daydreaming.

Andra and Merlin were not here. Nobody from the UNSC was. It was just her– and two former enemy commanders that would sooner rip her data chip from the comm pad and smash it to smithereens than extend their polydactyl claws in assistance.

Althea had no lungs nor need of oxygen, but she imagined taking a deep, calming breath just the same.

This was no problem, she decided. Her Spartans had faced similar odds, and had come out on top. So, why couldn’t she?

As if the alien could hear her imagined breath, the masked Sangheili craned its long neck in her direction. The pulsating light of its energy sword bathed her comm pad in a deep, scorching crimson.

“Now,” The Sangheili’s voice modulator was like nails on a chalkboard as he spoke: “What do we have here?”

AlphaBenson

Advertisement