(This fanfiction is based off of events in the Google+ community Halo Universe RP, based off the eponymous video game franchise. I do not own this community, nor do I own all characters presented in this story. Credit to username: John -A222 and the people of the HURP for making this possible.)
(I will provide context for the sake of the viewer.)
(In the UNSC colony world of Trost, in the Delta Forti system, an outbreak of the virulent parasite, the Flood, threatens to consume the star system and the galaxy. With the help of Heritage of Broken World, a relict Forerunner warrior, a Halo ring is discovered encased in ice in the system's Oort Cloud. This ring, Instillation 02, is humanity's only hope of cleansing the system of the Flood. An alliance of the UNSC and the Swords of Sanghelios stage a last ditch effort to fire the ring. A three way-battle between the alliance, the Flood and the protectors of the Halo, the Sentinels, rages across the surface of the planetoid that has formed around the ring. Tunneling down into the ice, two Spartans fight their way to the Control Room. Having acquired the Activation Index that will prime the Halo, these Spartans, Spartan III John-A222 and Spartan IV Marc Bedragare, wage a desperate fight for their lives and the lives of every sentient being in the galaxy.)
(No more delays. Enjoy the story.)
The sword expires. A222 looks around for another weapon. A tank form rushes and slams the him back. The Spartan rolls and slides on the floor. The tank forms emit a guttural laugh as they approach the downed Spartan. A222, on his back now, reaches over and grabs a plasma grenade.
Bedragare snatches up the Index and pushes it into the terminal. There is a low humming noise, then a huge burst of light that knocks Bedragare off his feet. He jumps up immediately and starts calibrating the Halo's range and yield. Outside, the ice starts to crack.
A222 lays there, his shields slowly recharging. He places his thumb on the plasma grenade primer, and the sphere hums. He comms, "A222 to all UNSC forces. He pauses. Leave... Leave the system... To Beta Forti..."
Bedragare finishes his work on the Halo. It will deliver a pulse with a radius of two light years, enough to purge Delta Forti and its planets. The pulse will be the same as before. Anything with a nervous system, including the Flood, including him and John, will be rendered into dust.
He steps back as the beam of light and energy starts to pulse. He reaches up and pulls off his helmet, squinting in the light and dropping the helmet.
The grenade hum grows to a louder ring. The Spartan looks at the tank forms.
Great rifts appear in the ice, accompanied by deafening cracks. It comes off in chunks the size of continents, until the Halo is freed, surrounded by comets and debris.
Inside, Bedragare opens the hidden pocket in his left chestplate. He pulls out a photograph, beaten and torn. He looks at the image and smiles.
She complained that day. She said she didn't want to have her picture taken when holo-stills were so much newer, faster and better. He told her that photographs are, in some ways, the most important things in human history. She made a face, but held still once he bribed her with ice cream and a moa burger. They had such a good time that day. The day before he shipped out to Trost. Thanks to the ghost in his head, he never sent her a message on her eighteenth birthday. Prom. Her graduation. He blinks away a tear.
Photos are better than holo-stills. You can't take holo-stills with you. He closes his eyes and holds the photo tight in his hand.
Behind his visor, A222 closes his eyes and feels the grenade shake in his hand. "Going Nova..."
Around the Halo, the UNSC fleet, the Sangheili Carrier Zeal and the Judgement all disappear into Slipspace.
In orbit above Trost, the scant few Sangheili ships remaining retreat into Slipspace as well. The Gravemind screams, not in victory, but in sorrow and agony.
A great beam of energy lances from the control room, collecting in the center of the Halo like a star. A second bolt launches from the Library, moving lazily to the dancing current in the origin.
Then they connect. Marc and John vanish in light.
A white wave of energy cascades outward from the ring, washing over everything. It grows brighter, faster, clearer. Finally, it flows over Trost.
Gargantuan Flood constructs break apart and blur. Spores vanish from the air. In the oceans, in the valleys, on the plains and across the planet. All life more complex than plants and cells are enveloped. They blur in the light.
And they die.
The wave continues, swallowing the whole system and crashing back in on itself, breaking apart and shattering into background radiation. A nebulous cloud of energy lingers about the Halo a moment longer, and vanishes.
The photo flutters to the cold, dead, metal floor.
Halo: Isolation
Chapter 1
Two hours after firing.
Marc drifts in a state of oblivion. He feels no pain, no comfort, no anger, no joy. In fact, he feels nothing at all. A numb, silent oblivion. All thoughts, all memories are simply absent.
So, this is death.
A sensation brings him away from his zen state. Cold. He furrows his brow. The dead don't feel cold. Other sensations follow. Tingling, then waves of dull, persistent pain. His eyes snap open.
Marc is lying on his side. His arm is balled up underneath him, cramping. He shifts it, and pushes himself into a sitting position. There is a faint blue glow coming from... somewhere. He blinks, confirming that his eyes are working. A sudden wave of nausea rolls over him, and he doubles over, dry heaving. After what felt like many minutes, he composes himself somewhat. He reaches and taps the pad attached to his right gauntlet. The screen flares to life, illuminating the immediate area a cool blue.
The Commander is lying a few feet to his left. Marc straightens, pushing himself to his feet. He strides over to John and kicks something blended into the floor, sending it skittering across the floor. His helmet. He retrieves it, slipping it over his head. As it seals, the HUD lights up the room with night vision. He looks over at John. The commander's vitals appear on the screen. Alive. Unconscious, but alive.
He looks around the room. Forerunner, clearly. But not the Control Room. The blue light, it seems, is coming from the architecture itself. A great window takes up one wall. Outside it is a swirling gray fog. Marc glances around again. Something about it all is familiar... A voice interrupts his thoughts.
"Then you are alive." It is deep, resonant and easily recognizable. He turns and looks up. Standing above the two is the Seneschal. Heritage. The last known Forerunner. "And well it is. Humanity needs heroes, not martyrs."
The Promethean is dressed in soft, bluish robes. His armor rotates in a cloud above him, seemingly eager to embrace him again. His wide, flat face is staring intently at the blue holographic orb in front of him. His hands glide across the surface, tapping and rotating dozens of glyphs. Sudden anger flares up within Marc. "There were dozens of moments where we could have used your help. Where the hell were you?"
Heritage looks up at Marc. His blue-black eyes reveal nothing. In fact, the Forerunner betrays no emotion whatsoever. He presses his palms together, the way a parent does when dealing with an unruly child. "The Mantle is a sacred constitution. All life, no matter the complexity, no matter the importance to the galaxy at large, is valued by it. In an ultimate flourish of hypocrisy and heresy, my kind murdered the galaxy with the Halos. And humanity was preparing to do the same to your planet. I could not stop you. But I had no wish to help you in what I was sure was a suicidal gesture."
Marc hears John shift and sit up behind him. He continues. "Then why the change of heart?" The Seneschal glances behind Marc, then averts his eyes. Embarrassment? "I do not know."
John walks up to stand beside Marc. "What happened?" His voice is hoarse. Marc looks at John. The Spartan is a mess. Bits of char and melted metal coat the outside of his armor. His right gauntlet is mangled and burnt, and he keeps clenching the hand in pain. His visor, likewise, is dulled by burns. Heritage speaks and steals Marc's attention.
"I returned near the end. The majority of your allies had retreated. I was readying myself for combat when the Halo activated. My scans found you two, and I managed to tap the Halo's teleportation grid. I extracted you two simultaneously, escaping the Halo's blast with a window of time so small I cannot bear to repeat it. The neutrino blast carried into slipspace, and I only just managed to outrun it."
Spartan A222 looks around and speaks again, this time with greater strength. "And where are we now?" In response to this, Heritage gestures to a viewport. The observation window looks nearby but feels distant. After a decent walk, the Spartans arrive at the port. Looking out, through the gray fog, they see the white, black, and icy landscape of the Halo... Installation 02. A thick layer of ice still coats the ring, but the slipspace jump seemingly freed some of it. Marc turns questioningly. "So we are in slipspace and on the ring? Why?"
Heritage does not look up from orchestrating glyphs and controls in his holographic orb. "I have convinced the ring that it was in peril. Currently, it is relocating itself to a more secluded portion of the galaxy." Marc removes his helmet and rubs his forehead in sudden discomfort. "And how are we supposed to return to Trost?" To this, Heritage raises a hand. "Patience. I have planned your return carefully. While the Covenant you once fought lacked reason, at least it possessed faith."
The answer leave Marc dissatisfied and John silent. Nevertheless, it is accepted. A222 returns to the viewing window. Bedragare takes a seat on the floor, still rubbing his forehead and temples. "What happened to that voice inside me? That... second conscience?" The Forerunner looks down at him immediately. "That was the genesong of a legendary Forerunner. Legendary for his works or his atrocities is a true controversy of my time." He looks closer at Marc. "But with the firing of the Halo, it seems as if he receded." He returns his attention to the glyphs. "If you were fortunate, perhaps you retained some of his knowledge. Your mind is not yet evolved to comprehend or contain the full knowledge of a Forerunner."
Marc starts to grow frustrated but calms himself. He sits for a few moments, diving through his thoughts, searching for the rumored Forerunner knowledge. His search comes empty as he gets distracted. "How does this all work?" Heritage moves his head in what appears to be pitiful resentment. "I am not a Lifeworker. The mystery of the genesong is something that not even I fully comprehend." With that Marc is left somewhat satisfied, as if he had been fed up with feeling inferior to the Forerunner.
Suddenly, the Cryptum jolts violently. Looking out the window, it is still docked with the massive Halo. The entire ring has been shaken. It continues to jolt until suddenly, it emerges from slipspace. John instinctively draws the assault rifle from his back. Heritage speaks in observation. "Such instincts, human. Familiar to be sure." This of course, means nothing to the Spartans. The Forerunner speeds through a storm of glyphs in his control holosphere. "This certainly is unsatisfactory. We were interrupted by a foreign force." John looks up at the Forerunner. "So we weren't supposed to exit here?" Heritage is brief. "Certainly not. There is something awry to be sure."
A222 checks his assault rifle as Marc locates his hydra on the dark floor. There is a swift hiss as the Cryptum entrance unseals. After looking back to Heritage, the Spartans cautiously exit and look around. A222 moves up tactically and crouches behind a terminal. "All clear from this side." They continue forward, further toward the control room, the Cryptum still looming in the distance. The pair rounds a corner in the massive corridor, observing the architecture for any signs of a threat. Suddenly, an orange bolt of hardlight flashes past the Spartans, in between them. John and Marc look at each other and raise their weapons in unison. They study the metallic surroundings as hostiles emerge from hiding. "Contacts! Contacts!" A222 calls out, opening fire. The gunfire is partially muffled by the ominous shriek of a Promethean Crawler.
(Written by Marc Bedragare. Edited and proofread by John-A222)