-AN
Hello all. Rough Buncher here. This is the second fan fiction that I've started. I've been planning it for a while and have finally put proverbial pen to paper and started writing. Rated M for swearing, violence, dark themes and inclusion of cockneys. Of course, I do not own rights to halo, its universe or its characters, only the content I have created myself. Now, read, review and enjoy!
25/08/13 Update: I've removed many of the repetitions of the word 'but' as it was getting... Well... Repetitious. I also changed the final two scenes quite significantly for realism.
The interesting thing about having an opinion is that stating it causes others to develop their own opinions. Unfortunately, a side effect of this is that others will often develop an opposing opinion. Of course, there will be others whose self-developed opinions will naturally align with yours. So what does one do? Does one keep their opinions to themselves, leaving others' opinions to lie dormant? Or does one simply make their opinion as tantalising and persuasive as possible to reduce the number of opposing opinions formed?
As with many things there is no right or wrong answer, and if a decision must be made then the result depends on the person and the circumstance. By the year 2587, many opinions have been formed on the subject of interspecies peace. More specifically, peace between the sangheili and humans. The Sangheilian Diplomatic Union (SDU) have set up embassies on Earth, treaties have been signed and legislature passed. But from those who have expressed their opinion that peace should be maintained, the opposing opinion that all peace should be broken has been catalysed into development. Disdainful groups of humans and sangheili alike plot against organisations both within their own species and the species in which they hold their ultimate enmity.
It is impossible to tell what the ending of such a situation will be; although it requires only simple logic to predict that the path to said ending will be long, violent and convoluted.
"Happy birthday to you dear friend. In the real old days you'd send a card on special occasions like this. However, in the modern age, a message on your pad will have to do. In a burst of unusual recreational activity I thought up this poem and felt that it applied to you pretty well:
I'm happy to have met a prat,
Such as you, you fucking twat.
Elf like in your miniscule stature,
You're a Santa's helper caricature.
Satisfied you're not a snitch,
Even if you're a moany bitch.
I'm glad I've got ya Little Steve,
And hope you receive,
This message with mirth.
Yours truly,
Big Ben (or as you guys have come to call me, the Old Clock)"
The pad's touch screen was pressed and a prompt subsequently displayed "Are you sure you wish to delete message?" After another press "Message deleted."
The five foot tall man known as "Little Steve" was sat down in a ragged, brown leather chair with pad in hand. Opposite him was a TV, either side of which were thin decorative curtains covering square glass windows. The dim light of sunset penetrated these and reflected off of both the stout man's bald white head and the frown he wore on it. Dissatisfied facial expression persisting, he lowered the pad onto a small wooden table to his left, folded his arms, crossed one leg over the other and turned his gaze to the television.
Likewise focused on the TV were two men to Little Steve's right, sitting on a leather sofa of similar colouration and condition to the man's chair. One was equipped with short shiny black hair, a likewise moustache and one of those ever-unimpressed stares. The other owned fairly long, spiky brown hair, a pale face and a gaunt, slightly vacant gaze.
The subject of the three men's attention was a press conference displayed by one of the most widely hated but commonly viewed news networks, the BBC. This would have been a perfectly familiar viewing experience were it not for the podium speaker's sangheilian origin. The alien was in the middle of his speech, his voice clear and strong. "My brother's unfortunate cardiac failure was a personal blow to me, as well as a blow to the union which I proudly serve. But we will not let it set us back. A new liaison for inter-agency negotiations has already stepped in to fill his position, and in our united goal to further both the sangheili's and humanity's interests, we will be bonded as brothers would be. Thank you." A respectful clap of hands arose from the observers surrounding the podium however it was soon cut short as Little Steve promptly muted the television.
"Nice to see our work make the news, but God don't it make ya sick. That fuckin' podium's built for a human to stand behind. Bloody split-chinned prick's twice its fuckin' size!" Little Steve's accent carried an abrasive cockney edge to it, an edge classically associated with the city of London in which he now resides.
Non-committal grunts of agreement sounded from both of his couch sitting associates. The moustached one placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a flick lighter. The resulting noise and sparkle of illumination drew the attention of the room's other inhabitants: Little Steve's head slowly turned from the TV to the man, expression neutral, while the spiky haired one's eyes flashed between moustache man and Little Steve repeatedly, gaunt gaze still in place and mouth hanging just slightly open.
The oblivious man simply closed and stashed away his lighter before crossing a leg over the other and continuing to watch the noiseless, moving images of the television screen. He sat this way for another ten seconds or so before glimpsing the other couch sitter's stare during one of his exhalations of smoke. After a second of observing this stare he turned his attention to Little Steve, whose neutral gaze held a sinister unsettlingness.
Cigarette still held between two fingers, the man's eyes glanced back and forth as he tried to figure out what was wrong. Little Steve saved him the trouble "Dave, tell this noob, scratch that nob, about my rule."
The spiky haired man thought for a second, pulling an eyes to heaven, before turning to the smoker and stating simply "You ain't smoke indoors."
Dave's unclear statement lit up the disapproving area of Little Steve's brain, prompting the appearance of another frown. "Dave, I know your cognitive cogs ain't quite turnin' properly, but could you be a little more clear mate."
The not quite all there man was rapt with concentration as he found a way to reword his sentence. Reaching some kind of conclusion he tried again "You ain't s'posed smoke indoors."
"That's a little more like it. Now listen noob," Steve raised an explanatory finger, "I don't know how you were livin' before you joined the gang. Now though, you're in a shared livin' space. Blasting your smoke round is socially insensitive in a shared livin' space. So stub the thing out, and don't pull that shite again you hear me?"
The man's moustache twitched to the left once or twice while he stared at his oppressor. However, deciding not to pursue the issue he pointedly looked into Little Steve's eyes before dousing his ciggy on his tongue, standing up and walking to a bin to dispose of it. If one listened closely, one could here mentions of "No one told me..." and "draconian living..."
Steve's eyes trailed the man's movements for a short moment before turning to the TV, hand pressing unmute on the remote.
"I demand an explanation as to why my brother is lying dead in a morgue at this present moment."
"Demands are not necessary Ambassador Pulam. We are in a state of mutual cooperation after all."
A deep blue skinned sangheili wearing his race's standard politician's robes was leaning forward with frustration on a large computer chair, surrounded by a blue and purple themed office characteristic of his kind. On the wall opposite him was mounted a broad and tall communications screen, on which was displayed two individuals: a man and a woman. Both stood at parade rest, the former had dark brown hair and similarly coloured eyes, while the latter possessed bright purple eyes with a palpable and disconcerting glow to them. She stood half a foot taller than the man.
The extra terrestrial released an exhale before leaning back in his chair and laying a hand on his forehead. "You need not remind me of our treaties Agent Johnson." The hand departed his head at this point. "However, I am sure you can appreciate my displeasure at the situation."
"Of course, and you have my condolences." Whereas one may expect a "thank you" or "much appreciated" after this phrase, all that Johnson was met with was a cross of the arms and a steady, neutral stare. After a moment of hesitation the clean shaven man continued. "Toxicology tests conducted postmortem revealed that your brother had ingested a time delayed poison several hours before his death which instigated the cardiac arrest. It would seem that the man who had brought him his final batch of refreshments was responsible. Surveillance didn't catch him doing anything to the drinks but he later attempted to commit suicide. He lost his nerve... Botched it up, shooting himself in the chin."
The woman interjected here "My boys were able to find 'im soon after that part." Her voice was rough and distinctly cockney.
"Our boys, Joanna." Johnson corrected.
"The boys." Joanna settled.
Johnson nodded his head and was about to proceed before being interrupted by the ambassador. "This is shambolic, you do realise? Our sangheilian liaison is assassinated by a human employee within your government buildings. That does not bode well for any involved parties."
"No, it doesn't. We understand the sensitivity of the situation. This is why we have retained the exact nature of Era's death from the public."
"Hmmm." The sangheili tilted his head to one side and made a conceding motion with his eyebrow ridges. "I suppose I cannot fault you on your handling of that element of the issue. Now I presume that you attempted to 'extract' information from this felonous degenerate. To what extent was this successful?"
The purple eyed woman responded to this. "Well, we discovered that the man's part of a larger organisation that he named as 'Big Ben's Boys'. Though he says he doesn't know of any other infiltrations nor of any cells."
"Did he appear to be deceiving you?"
"We have no evidence to use as context and sensors didn't tell us he was lying."
"Right. Was there anything else?"
" 'E said this was only the beginnin' but I'm not sure about that: 'e lacked conviction and was pretty anxious."
Johnson's eyes glanced in her direction momentarily before returning to the sangheili.
"Do not leave his claims at that though will you?"
"Of course not."
"Good. I am sure you're not finished with this man. If you will, keep me apprised of your progress with him."
"Yes Ambassador." spoken by both man and woman.
"This conference is concluded." Pulam pressed a button on his wrist mounted computer, cutting off the video feed and leaving a blank screen in its place. A deep sigh that was curiously similar to a cough was released by the room's only occupant. Then, without obvious stimulus, he chuckled slightly. "Humans. The go to race of people when it comes to concealing the truth from the public and subjecting a man to horror for interrogative purposes."
Many miles away from the sangheilian embassy within which the above exchange occurred was the headquarters of the National Defense Agency (NDA). Two fairly high ranking members of this organisation were Agent Jonathan Johnson and Raid Operations Chief Joanna Joannan: two people presently standing before a black comms screen, engaged in somewhat of a tiff.
"Must you be so... Unrefined." spoken by the man, two fingers stretching across his brow.
"Fuck you Jon. You know I'm not some Hooray Henry prat. I'm not into all that 'no conjunctions there' and 'don't speak your mind, speak what they want to hear' stuff." Joanna had applied a poncy British accent to that last section.
"Well I'm not especially into it either but, as part of the job, I make sure to appear into it in front of influential sangheilian high-ups."
The woman raised her arms in a gesture of frustration. "Oh come on, he's not gonna have us stabbed in our sleep because I didn't speak formally." Joanna placed her left hand on her hip and waved her other in a dismissive motion. "I'm sure 'e's got his personal murderers stabbing other, more socially offensive, individuals." A heavy layer of sarcasm was spread thick across her second sentence.
Jonathan released a considerable exhalation of air, his irritation following it out of his lungs. "Just..." He raised a hand near his head. "Try and speak in a more formal tone next time." The hand bobbed back and forth in a bargaining motion. "If not for him then for me."
"Just like I wore a suit in that conference for you?"
"Yes."
"Ok Jon. Ok. Now, we good?"
"Yeah."
"Bro fist."
A quiet fleshy thump accompanied the joining of knuckles that occurred between the two associates.
-AN
To those that are following To Lose Your Way To Memory Lane, I am still interested in that story however this one is taking precedence at the moment. Rough Buncher out.