Hey guys, what's up? Just letting you know, recent lack of activity has not been simple laziness on my part, no sir. I got really interested in a medium-sized Headhunter one-shot and I'm devoting attention to that-however, I just wrote this one night while bored, and I hope it tides you over in the meantime. The Headhunter story will be finished soon. Anyways, enjoy and stay frosty! What has led me to this point?
Life is...what works, what doesn't work and what can be improved. An oversimplification? The repeated mantra of my kind? Or a Covenant perversion, even? I...cannot be sure.And he, and his, weren't sure of much anymore. Granted, life continued on...as it had long before the San'Shyuum, with long, grasping fingers and even longer necks had set their eyes on-well, whatever it was they sought. Divinity, if the mutter of the Sangheili and Unggoy was anything to go by. The Kig-Yar cared for nothing that did not hold a beckoning, alluring shine (although he could not entertain the concept himself-what value to that which had no function?) and the Jiralhanae were still sunk in the throes of primitivism. A status quo, then, one that held a place in the Covenant and even before that. The Huragok remembered that much, at least.
But now...
Rough hands grasped his bladders with the uncompromising grip of the unchallenged master. Prodding, poking. Attaching...something. Whatever it was, it was heavy, spiky and stank of something acrid and fierce. Worse than the trademark stench of the Jiralhanae, which was in abundance. He could barely breathe now, let alone raise his tentacles or head. He gave a long, mournful trill. Any infant Huragok knew that noise. Fear.And there was so, very much of that here. Here, in this dead city. Still reeking of plasma residue and the smoke of human projectiles, the crash and thunder of the destruction the Covenant brought with them wherever they went. Wreckage, some from the sky tether, everywhere. Bodies in every conceivable position of death. The sky above was red on black, given a garish radiance by the uncountable fires that raged unchecked in the metropolis. For an instant, an old, old memory-not his, never his-flashed past in front of him like a waking dream. Or in this case, a nightmare.
-planets laid waste by the parasite-
-measures taken-
-the sky blotted out by radiologicals and bombardment-
-rolling thunder on the horizon, yet there was no storm-
-some were evacuated, others not-
-the deaths of untold thousa-He barely managed to shake it off, before the fear consumed him entirely. That would have been even worse than his current position. Fear to a Huragok was worse than a negative emotion. It was the first link in a chain that resulted in death.
Another memory came to him-one that actually belonged. Many times ago, back in the crèche. His breed pair, tooting their welcome as he emerged from the grey, slack material of his birthing capsule. Strangely comforting tentacles wafting over him, transmitting his first flash of organo-data. Yet strangely, he knew exactly how to react. Not long after that, he joined the other hatchlings, and the learning process began. Proclivity to Meander. That was he.
The fear came not long after.
Still, the memory was a blessing, and he kept it there, in his head, like a small lantern that kept out the dark. There is too much of that also. The Jiralhanae had been complaining earlier, that they could not pierce the veil of darkness that ensconced the city. There were not enough Kig-Yar scouts, who possessed naturally adept vision and ocular-scopes besides, and those that remained were unruly and undisciplined. Requests sent back to the fleet in orbit were pointedly ignored. The isolation continued, even as the human resistance was definitively crushed and gone. The irony of the situation was too delicious to pass up-through their own bull-headed ambition, the Jiralhanae had wrested control of the city from at first the humans, and then the Sangheili. They were victors, in a sense-and look where they stood. Here, in this ruinous nightmarish place.
The dead city consumed all of them, no matter how many dropships pervaded its skies, or how many patrols wended through the streets. Sometimes-when the darkness was extra thick, when he was alone save for the snarls and growls of his captors-he truly believed that the hubris of the San'Shyuum had sentenced them all to this fate. Better to have been killed in the battle, when the Hierarch remained presiding over everything, like a fat-bellied spider gloating over a particularly juicy fly. The alternative was this: conquestors of a dead city, one that defied their best efforts to raze and ruin. He tilted his head up for a few moments, ignoring the strain on his frail neck. The ominous figures of the human buildings clustered tightly, not unlike a group of his kind clustering for warmth.
Suddenly, his tentacles flailed wildly as a new memory was shared-
-thunder and skyflash, rain-
-the dripping of something, was it blood? so much spilled-
-no noise, else they would be found
-the creaking of metal, half melted by plasma
-six in all-A meaty fist crunched into his side, and the pain brought him back from his mental abyss. The problem with this shared memory was that it was impossible to pinpoint location, or even time if one was not sure. And we are not sure of much these days.The fumbling and clumsiness returned, and so did his train of thought. Train of thought...what an odd expression. That he had learned from a human communiqué, one of the precious few he had been permitted to read, before it had been confiscated and he severely reprimanded. However, what he had managed to learn he had shared with his kind. They had been just as eager, if not more so. Even on long-range missions where science and discovery was the aim, there was little they could salvage. High-output plasma bombardment tended to have that effect.
In any case, he had concealed a small book of human philosophy once, and together with his fellows, he had studied it. The teachings inside had prompted his wonderings. My train of thought. Hah. It goes round and round. It can derail if not properly minded. So apt. This metaphor alone should be reason enough to spare the humans. But the Covenant did not appreciate metaphors as much as he.
What were all the events in his life, great or small, that had brought him to where he now was? Being created...he could not recall enough, save his breed pair. Service in the Covenant...there was far too much in that to debate. Perhaps something he had forgotten? The shared memory was strong when other Huragok were there to help, but alone it was no better than an itch you couldn't scratch. Desperately, he recalled a scrap of writing.
"The choices in your life are just that: YOUR choices. However, keep in mind that everything you do has ramifications, consequences. No-one goes through life without having a profound effect upon something or someone, be it the entire galaxy or a single leaf, on a single tree, in a single forest. This may seem daunting, particularly in the later stages of one's life when past experiences weigh upon you. An easy remedy is to recall all that you can, all that led you to where you are now. Such an exercise provides calm and acceptance..."But what was the point if you couldn't remember?
Suddenly, the pressure stopped, and he was shoved forward, to float and bob along, albeit far slower than before. Clumsily, he tried to turn and view his captors, but he could not defeat the weight of the thing they had placed on him. To turn would take much time. Dimly, he heard one of them growl, "Give it room. Let it do the Prophets work."
Exactly. The Prophets work. The despicable duty they have forced upon all Huragok. For a moment he felt nothing but contempt for the so-called philosophy he had read, seeking to understand. Choices were only yours for so long, and freedom was an illusion in any case. In a galaxy such as this, choice was the pathetic cry of a newborn against the implacableness of others. Others that took what they wanted, did what they pleased, exterminated whatever species they chose and enslaved others.
And then there were these rumours, that there had been an outbreak of the parasite on Installation 05, where High Charity and the fleets were massing...that quarantine had been broken. That the Flood had escaped the confines of the ringworld on which they had festered and rotted.
Things can scarcely get worse.As he nosed forward, touching tentacles half-heartedly to human vehicles, he heard the rasp of a boot on a ledge opposite him. Before he could even reach through his recollection of sounds, he heard something unmistakeable: human gunfire, the din of an exploding grenade. The sound of his captors roaring, returning fire, falling one by one.
Cursing the damn burden on his back, he manoeuvred successfully enough to see what was happening. Five Jiralhanae had ensnared him. Now, four of them were dead and lying on the ground. A fifth snarled with rage, swinging sluggishly at the lithe, black-armoured warrior that opposed him. Jiralhanae were undoubtedly titans, but this human made them look hopeless.
The Covenant warrior slashed viciously with the blades of its spike rifle, and the human ducked. Jamming the butt of its weapon under the simian's chin, it pulled the trigger and blew its head into skull shards and brain matter. Blood splatters gave the pavement a macabre pattern, made even more gruesome by the ochre streetlights.
Relief rushed through him, clashing sharply with the instinctive fear that came from a firefight. This human had slain his captors-
...would slay him too.
Abject failure. That was the best description he had for what he felt as the black-armoured man, face hidden by an opalescent visor, raised a plasma grenade and tossed it towards him, burning like a flare.
Did he deserve this? Had his choices in life led to this moment? Was there anything he could have done to redress it? Was there anything anyone could have done to prevent this? The human, of course. But that was lunacy...
Just before the explosive went off and struck him from this plane of existence, he recalled a conversation he had once had, with his breed pair, only days before entering service in the Covenant as an explorer. A tool. A slave.
Your feelings are...intrusive., his breed mother signed. There can be no room for such things in the service to the San'Shyuum. They will not tolerate it. His breed father nodded agreement, adding a stern hoot of disapproval. Stung, he looked away for a few seconds, through a small viewing port, where even more birthing capsules were being readied. Then he signed, What of the safety of my kind? Your kind. Is that not more important than service to those who are not even our true masters? At this, they both performed the Huragok version of a sigh, and they flapped their tentacles in frustration. You do not understand, they had both signed.
*******************************************************
The Engineer gave one, last cry before the plasma grenade went off, activating the plasma charge harness it had been strapped to. The combined force sent chunks of Engineer flesh and blood everywhere, bouncing and spraying with considerable impetus. One piece even managed to dent the side of a car, and burn out the tires. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like anyone was going to be coming back for it.
Standing silently in the quiet rain, the Rookie breathed slowly, heart still racing from the firefight. Another patrol down. That made four in the past hour. Not his best work, but not bad either. And there were always more to kill. The invasion had seen to that.
Consulting his VISR navigational frame, he saw that the next beacon was not far away, barely two hundred metres. Of course, this being New Mombasa, two hundred metres meant streets, alleyways, warrens, and more. All packed with God-knew-what. His death could be waiting for him, just up ahead.
But he had to press on. Find his squad. Find his own kind. That was the important thing, right?
He made a quick ammo snatch, and then moved on. Before leaving the plaza, however, he cast one look back at the charred Engineer helmet. Strange that the tentacle creatures were being so mistreated by the Brutes. They were invaluable, and sometimes prone to wander, but he had never seen them being treated like this. It was odd.
The Rookie shrugged. What did it matter, anyway? All Covenant were the same. Kill all humans. That was their bottom line, each and every time. Not worth pondering over.
Stepping over the corpses of his foes, the lone Helljumper proceeded down the street, gun up and senses wired tight. The night was still young.