UNSC Spectre,
Sanghelios, Urs System
2500 Hours, 2557
A pillar of smoke drifted lazily through the room, creating a schillouette around the man facing out the obsevation deck window. Below him Sanghelios stretched out in panoramic beauty, draped by a backdrop of stars. A few miles beyond the window two UNSC frigates floated silently in the black of space, outlined by the white surfaces of Sanghelios' moons far in the distance. The man raised a cigar to his lips, taking a long drag and setting the remains in an ashtray on a table. He rubbed the burning tip into the ash-filled cup, twisting it with his grimy fingers until the embers sputtered into darkness. He half glanced back at Thel, blowing a long cloud of sweet smoke into the air, his lip curled slightly upward in a look that mirrored disdain.
"I know your distrust of our people, Arbiter. I've heard the rumors that have surfaced about human intervention on this planet, and talk of human supported insurrection against your…regime." The man spoke, his voice rough and tempered.
The Arbiter grunted in acknowledgement.
The man turned back from the window, walking through the curtain of smoke he had created from the cigar. His eyes stared like polished metal, his face stern and cold. Old wrinkles ran across his cheeks like valleys, and his hair gleamed silver in the artificial light form the overhead bulbs.
"As long as there has been war, there has been intelligence. Five hundred years ago our fathers fought insurrection, terrorism, across an ocean. That war was far away from the prying eyes of civilians. Great men served in that war. The majority of our battles were successful, but there were localized events. We would suffer catastrophic defeats against an enemy far less advanced than us. Broken communication links. A lack of intel. That's what cost us lives. The United States of America; it was probably one of the most corrupt nations since the Roman Empire. Despite this drawback, the United States had one of the most capable intelligence communities in the history of man, but I digress. Intel makes or breaks a fighting force, Arbiter. It is the reason the United States became the greatest power on our planet for centuries. These principles of outsmarting our enemy are the same principles, the same reason why we founded ONI; to outsmart the opponent. It's a necessity, especially in a war with a technologically superior opponent; if you can't outgun them, you have to out think them."
"Yet you hide so much from us, your allies. We fought alongside you. Died with you." The Arbiter replied.
"You were fighting with the grunts. I'm here to show you the truth. ONI has always been there."
The man took a small disposable datapad next to the ashtray on the table. He held it out quietly in front of the Arbiter, who hesitantly took it.
"What is this?" The Arbiter inquired, voice booming off of the metal walls of the observation room.
"Answers. Answers the UNSC would never tell you, or your people. Forerunner secrets, stories of old. Catalogs of ancient history that show why the Prophets waged the 'holy war'. I also added something a little more…personal in there as well." The man said, turning back to face the window, hands deep in his pockets.
"Your friend, John. Your comrade, more like. What would you say if I told you he was alive?" The man continued, staring back at the Arbiter one last time.
"The Spartan? Impossible." The Arbiter asked, his eyes widening in surprise.
"If you believe the lies, then yes. But open your mind and you'll see that the UNSC Brass knows a fraction of what I do. That datapad has the answers."
"Who are you? Why should my people trust you?"
"I'm a friend. A truth-seeker. I'm just doing my job, Arbiter. " The man said, nodding to the Arbiter.
Two marines walked into the room, rifles shouldered.
"Sir, you're going to have to come with us." The older marine said, escorting the confused Elite out of the observation deck.
The door closed with a subdued hiss, and the man sat down in a chair next to the window. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small sphere of polished metal. Small runes glowed in soft blue light across the device, and the sphere began to warm in the palm of the man's hand.
"Answers. That's all we're looking for." The man whispered to himself, almost inaudibly.
He stared pondering out to the surface of Sanghelios, running his fingers up and down the smooth pleated fabric of his trousers, thinking to himself.
"Gatsby, status report." He spoke to the room.
An AI matrix came to life, and a projection of a man appeared on the hologram stand behind the contemplating officer.
"Sir, we've received the location of Spartan 513- Joel. Permission to stir up a Pelican?" A voice reported from all sides.
"Granted. Gatsby, inform the crew to prepare for a slipspace jump within the next six hours. Set exit vector for Mars."
"Aye sir, I'm already on it."
The man stood from his seat, shoving the sphere into his left pocket. He walked briskly to the door, waving it open and walking out to greet two marine escorts.
"Sir!" the two shouted in unison, saluting crisply with their free hands.
The officer nodded back, returning their salute.
The three walked quickly down the corridors to the shuttle bay. As they walked, the man grabbed another cigar out from his breast pocket. He lit it with a spare lighter and puffed absently down the winding halls. Soldiers who encountered the man saluted quickly, dropping what hey were doing almost immediately. The newer recruits stared, unable to move. Finally the man and the marine escort reached the hangar where a Pelican sat waiting, engines whining for takeoff. The man turned to the two marines, nodded his goodbye, and stepped into the pelican. Moments later the dropship sputtered into the air and shot out of the hangar, speeding towards the planet.