1350 Hours, June 19, 2545 (Military Calendar)/ Billar Pavonis System, Covenant Controlled Space

Annalee cycled through her rangefinder in quick succession, peering down at the teams of Grunts and Jackals that littered the red, dirt trail leading to the Covenant relay.

This was it.

After spending the last week crawling through conduits, stowing away in crates, clambering up rocks, and over fissures, she had finally managed to ghost her way up the mountain trail to the Covenant Citadel—close enough, anyway. After carefully and quietly scouting the surrounding area, she had found a rock overhang with a prominent panoramic view of the trail, Citadel, and the staging camp which surrounded it. Now, days after finding the overhang, it had become her refuge from the buzzing army surrounding her. Not only that, it had also proven to be the perfect overlook to plan an infiltration. Admittedly her own situation was hardly as perfect.

Annalee slowly brought the rangefinder to her side. Softly, and quietly, a magnet secured it to her armor with a metallic click. She paused, staying still to make sure that she hadn't garnered any unwanted attention from her friends below her. She didn't dare to test the senses of a few dozen Jackals in such close proximity.

As she was, she knew she couldn't take on the Covenant forces in the region—electronic intelligence had estimated its strength at upwards of ten-thousand strong. And, since the initial UNSC attack on the support structures, Covenant forces had been arriving for days to reinforce the Citadel. Maybe they knew she was still alive? Unlikely, she considered. She estimated at least a third of the regional battalions were now there: more than what was needed to defend themselves from a single person. It seemed their intelligence collection was as lacking as hers. They were genuinely surprised.

Annalee had no backup. As far as she was aware, she was the last surviving UNSC unit on the ground. Being that she was deep in Covenant controlled space, contacting the Prowler ship in system—if it was still even there—ran a high risk of alerting Covenant vessels of her location. One slip up, and she wouldn't see a strike coming; she would be dust before she knew she was in danger. The thought made her wince.

Assuming she was the last alive to complete the mission, she remained painfully silent—there wasn't any need for pointless sacrifice now. Without the proper tools and manpower to complete the original mission parameters, she decided she would improvise: sabotage what she could, and hope it silenced the monstrous communications relay that stood before her.

Satisfied with what she had seen, Annalee slowly pushed her way back beneath the stone overhang. As she reached the narrow rear of the overhang, obscured from the outside, she sat upright, stretched her arms and neck, and took off her helmet. She took a deep breath and her vision steadied—she had been holding it on and off for hours to avoid moving as much as possible.

It was curious to her that the moon had a breathable oxygen content. Though, after a minute of breathing particularly sulfuric air, the novelty wore off and she returned to the properly saturated atmosphere of her helmet. Were this anywhere else, she quietly admitted, her oxygen scrubbers would have been unable to keep her air from becoming toxic after only a day. But, the air system had been able to collect more than enough ambient, oxygenated atmosphere to keep her breathing. She had to count her blessings at this point. Counting.

She began again to take inventory of her supplies—what remained of them, anyway.

The back of the overhang had become her "armory", with her weapons propped up against the rock face, and her ammo and pouches laid flat on the ground. First, she studied her reconnoitered Covenant Carbine and counted the cylindrical power packs that paired with it. Her squad commander, Joel, once had taken one from the field during a recon mission. Each of their squad took turns learning to use it. Between Joel and her, they taught the rest of the squad the ins and outs of the weapon. But Joel, ever the marksman, flourished with it like any sharpshooter would. He would have been the perfect soldier to wield it, but she would have to make due on her own. She had also taken more than enough cylinders for a squad of trigger-happy Jackals. For what skill Joel would have had on her, she would make up for it with more ammo. The issue, ultimately, was that the carbine was far from a suppressed weapon. One shot would alert every Covenant unit along the trail and hillside. She decided she would take it with her, but swore to use it only if things went haywire.

The remainder of her weapons were much more underwhelming: an assault rifle which had had it's ammo counter blown off by a plasma bolt, a combat knife, and her standard suppressed sidearm. She had only one extra magazine for her pistol, and the assault rifle was now down to twenty rounds. Worse, though, the firing mechanism on the rifle had deteriorated and often required that every few rounds be racked by the bolt due to the damage—she decided it was no longer useful, much to her chagrin. She would have to make do with her pistol and combat knife.

Last, she checked the belted ammo pouch. She fished out two snack cakes; it was the last of her food. If miracles existed, Annalee considered that it was a miracle she had any food at all. Seeing as the mission hadn't been designed to last long, virtually none of the squads had prepped any. She happened upon the cakes accidentally and had been rationing them ever since. They had helped, at least a little bit, over the last few days when hunger had really started to set in. She was indebted to Ahmed for having brought enough for her entire squad. When she had grabbed his ammo belt, she hadn't known, or cared they were there. Now, though, they were immeasurably important to her survival. She imagined he had likely envisioning doling them out when they were no longer planetside. In that moment, she wished he were still there. His outlook had always been positive, and she knew she was in need of a bit more of that.

The last of his pouches were empty. She set the belt back down.

Sparse loadouts were not foreign to her, but often in those situations she had her squadmates to rely on. Now she was alone, hungry, and outgunned. She had trouble imagining what she could really hope to accomplish on her own. She wasn't convinced of much at all. But, considering the amount of Spartans—friends—who had died to get her this far, she felt it her duty to see things through.

She sat at the back of the overhang, and rested against the stone. She set a timer for an hour, then set her motion tracker to wake her if it detected anything which came too close to her position. Sleep was almost unheard of considering her surroundings, but she was still human. She would force herself to sleep, if need be—she needed the rest. She closed her eyes, trying to drown out the cacophony of alien tongues, clattering of equipment, and ever present hum of pulsing plasma energy.

She gripped her pistol tight, and nodded off. For a short while, she was at ease.