Disclaimer: I do not own the Halo Universe. That belongs to Bungie/Microsoft. Only the characters are my inventions.
Chapter 1
Frostbyte (UNSC-controlled Territory)
Military Calendar: 30-8-2536
UNSC Bravo Base
2230 Hours
The man sighed as he reclined in the old swivel chair. The dusty leather creaked under his weight. He cast a look around him: rectangular polycrete-and-steel room, large window (no good view, of course) made of bulletproof glass, standard issue Titanium-A door, his chair and its accompanying oak desk, a bed. Nothing special, really.
The man swiveled to face the window, catching a glimpse of the outside world as thunder boomed and lighting flashed. Beyond him lay the great expanse of snow that covered the entirety of Frostbyte. And it was a wasteland, one now that cradled in its arms the blood and souls of many brave men and women. A humorless smile danced across the man's face. This view of storm-lit night was the best he was going to get in a long while.
He turned around to stare down at the datapad that lay upon his table. In its lifeless screen he found his reflection: Blue eyes, young face, cleanly shaved with black hair trimmed to regulation. But it was the haggard look in his eyes that betrayed the man of his weariness. Long gone was the youthful spark that burned in his gaze, replaced now by the tired eyes of the battle-hardened veteran.
As he powered up the datapad he noticed the glimmer of the silver double bars that proclaimed him a Captain of the United Nations Space Command Marine Corps. He recalled the old man before him, who'd worn the bars on his collar with as much pride and fervor that befit such a man in service to Humanity. And it was this service that the old man had given his life to. Thankfully the plasma bolt that had burned into his chest was as mercifully swift as it was scorching hot.
Numbers and words began scrolling up the screen, but to the Captain they were just that: Digits and letters. These were statistics, listing the casualty reports of the Battle of Frostbyte. And the list was the one thing that the Captain least wanted to see now.
He set the datapad down on the oak desk, leaning back in the chair with another sigh. The past week had taken its toll on him. He was so tired… Oh, what he'd give for a rest.
The door to his office slid open with a whisper, and two squeaks were heard as a pair of UNSC-issue boots swung together in attention: "Captain Hummel, Sir. Permission to – "
"Permission denied, Lieutenant." Inwardly he cursed; he was being too harsh on the aide. But he had a point to get across, and he needed his sleep. "I gave orders that I remain undisturbed until standard Reveille tomorrow morning, did I not? Now leave my office, and make sure everyone else gets the message. Dismissed."
Eyes still closed, he could picture the Lieutenant – barely out of Officer Cadet School on Luna, yet as much the man as everyone else – raise his hand in order to get a word in edgewise, then give up and leave the room, more than a little dejected.
The door slid shut, to muffle the retreating echoes of boots clacking on the cold, hard floor.
The rain was winding up, driving its rhythmic tempo into a frenzy. Thunder boomed, and the wing howled its fury at the glass window that refused to yield. For the tired Captain, the beating of the rain became the staccato barking of rifle fire, the rumbling thunder morphed into the belching of artillery, and the screaming wind twisted itself into the dying cries of men and women.
Mercifully, Captain Edward Hummel slumbered.