Space - despite the tumultuous maelstrom of death and violence that had been visited upon the silent dark above the fallen world - was peaceful. A sense of stillness had descended upon the remains of a battlefield decided long ago. The flashing light of weapons fire no longer traced like bolts of starlight across the vastness of infinity and the engines of great machines no longer churned eddies of disturbances across the serenity of airless seas.

Armistice had descended upon the once fierce frontline of humanity's latest attempt at staving off the intruding inevitability of its laborious decline. And for Noble Six, it was all the bitter for it.

A new asteroid belt had been spawned into existence, born of the shattered hulls of hundreds of vessels, some alien, but far too many human. The field of debris stretched vast in its dimension, both in lateral and longitudinal vectors, an orbital graveyard that kept in its lifeless hulks the voided remains of thousands of souls. It was like many such artificial creations before it, a harsh lesson in futility.

Once again the staunchest of mankind's efforts were left barren and discarded, cast away like the neglected toys of a careless god. There was no hope to behold at the sight of broken warships and blasted fragments of wasted humanity despoiled and made wane by the callousness of extraterrestrial rage. There was no rallying cry of vengeance afire in his heart, no call for retribution in an impassioned voice.

He only felt tired, and cold.

The lone shadow of his sabre weaved slowly through the sprawling wreckage of what had once been an enormous battle, coasting on the intermittent sputter of maneuvering thrusters and precipitated only by the sheer tenacity of his indomitable patience. The intent was to appear as little more than a chunk of errant debris, no different from thousands of other such pieces that drifted amid the ruins. As he had not yet been hunted by a pack of seraph interceptors, he could only assume that his deception had confounded Covenant sensors.

It was not the first time, but he was sure it'd be the last.

Noble Six had spent many hours searching the debris field, scanning by vision alone for the lauded prize he sought. He dwelled little on the possibility that what he sought did not exist, after all, the Covenant were nothing if not thorough. Yet there was no place for doubt, not now and not ever. If he was not to find his target, well…

The spartan glanced out the canopy into an infinite void of black.

He had a feeling he'd have more than enough time to make his peace.

But not yet, it would not end until he was given his pound of flesh. He had a plan, not a very good one, but good enough, he hoped, to see this to the end. Everything he had left, everything he was, had built to this last opportunity.

There was no second chance, no coming back.

He had one shot to make this work, with no guarantee of success.

The prospect was enough to force him to smile, as grim as it may have been. He supposed that in truth nothing had really changed. The odds had always been against him, every day of every moment, every breath, was in defiance of the monsters that had taken his life, his family, and a hope for a future. Now was the hour.

He would have his reparation.

The spartan laid eyes upon his objective, one of many lifeless shells that floated in the abyss, yet made remarkable for the fact it was suitable for his needs. The eviscerated superstructure of the UNSC heavy cruiser did not quite cut the same noble profile as it once did, and the cloud of crystallized hydrogen and spaced personnel did not count itself as the warmest welcoming mat he had trod upon.

But dead was dead, and they were long beyond his help.

Maneuvering thrusters sparked twice, the first turning the nose of the sabre in the direction of the hanger and the second pushing the small profile of the strike craft inside past the warped metals of what had once been the launch doors. There was little left that was recognizable, and from his experience Noble Six was able to discern that a plasma torpedo had been the final death of this ship and her crew.

There was no real defense against the overwhelming superiority of Covenant technology, and so was the work of their power realized in the wake of its devastation. The warhead of superheated plasma had gutted the heart of the once mighty colossus, melting through meters of Grade-A titanium battleplate to tear the life from the marathon class cruiser's core, opening its iron bowels to the cruel grasp of the void. The damage was catastrophic, and as he popped the sabre's canopy and floated out into the debris strewn skeleton of the desolate warship, he wondered if this really was the answer he had been searching for.

It must have, since it was pervaded by the touch of death he knew so keenly.

The corridors of the ship, at least those not fully exposed to hard vacuum, were strewn with broken corpses and sheets of paneling ripped from the deck. The spartan weaved through the frozen remains and pushed aside lengths of cable suspended from the exposed wiring inside the ceiling. His spacewalk through the ravaged interior was decidedly different than customary. The route was frequently interrupted by emergency bulkheads that sealed core sections of the dead ship, not that they had prevented much in the end. Regardless of the obstructions, there were plenty of breaches and crude exterior openings for him to find a way around the impediments and in that way memory served as his guide, leading him to the first of two destinations.

The engine room, like most compartments, had been severely damaged in the ship's final battle, revealed in full by the powerful light emanating from his headlamp attachment. The beam of photons revealed cooled slag seeped from half-formed walls, like the watery tines of a metal waterfall locked in endless winter. Given the myriad of obstacles he was compelled to maneuver down through the floating maze of hull plating and abandoned circuitry. And though outside appearance foreshadowed significant damage to interior systems, he was relieved to discover that the destruction was limited mostly to the external coverings. Setting his boots on the deck with the dull thump of magnetized steel, he brushed a gauntlet across the maintenance console's display.

The screen flickered to life, albeit dimly, and the spartan worked quickly to access whatever remained of the ship's electrical systems. There wasn't much to speak of in regards to power, little more than the pilot light of a dying star.

But, it was enough.

His work was brief, but extraneous, as he applied his incomplete knowledge of aerospace technology and extensive understanding in mechanical engineering to breathe new life into the ship's reactor. Sufficient enough to restore working order to the engines, weapons systems, and the key to his half-cocked plans, it was not quite able to turn the lights back on or restore any semblance of life-support. But even if it were he would not have taken the risk. Anymore energy and they'd light up like a nuke on any Covenant sensors across the system.

The spartan glanced at his Heads Up Display, noting the counter at the bottom right of his vision that continuously cycled lower and lower. There was less than sixty minutes left in his air tank before he would start to suck down C02, and significantly less than that before he blacked out. It was good then, that his plan would actually work, as the thought of suffocating on a dead starship hardly appealed to him. The thought of death reminded Noble Six of his encroaching mortality, and the spartan grew contemplative and withdrawn, bathed in the irradiated fissile of the reactor that shed an intermittent blue hue across the battle-scarred breadth of engineering. The power plant's dying efforts to return to full functionality offered a token source of vision as he exited the empty compartment and took an express route through the spine of the fallen warship. With power came access, lifting the emergency lockdown and giving him a direct line to the bridge.

The time spent in transit was… peaceful. If not for the occasional frozen corpse bloating the corridors and the horrific scarring left in the wake of the conflict that had ruined the cruiser, it might have been a pleasant experience. The practical architecture of the halls evoked a sense of needed familiarity, and was a reminder that he was one step closer to getting the rest he had long sought.

Near on fifteen years he'd served in the best interest of mankind. In that time he'd lost a hell of a lot more than he'd won, friends, family… his entire world. The Covenant had taken all of this from him at an age where he had been unable to even recognize the true extent of his circumstances. The years in the absence of all the comfort's he had grown to appreciate, and the realization that the normalcy he had once known would never come back, had been a harsh reality check.

Noble Six forewent such distractions as he stepped onto the bridge to a scene suspended in time, bodies still buckled into duty stations, the duress of their last moments frozen on their grim countenances for the remainder of eternity, or so at least as long as the ship was still needed. Focus was mandatory if he were to implement his grand design. There were yet pieces to be played, the last crux that hinged success or failure.

The spartan-III approached the captain's seat, unbuckled the stiffened woman from her station, and released her icy corpse into the borderless beyond waiting outside the bridge's shattered windows. She had done her duty, and it was time he performed his. Six subsumed her position, interfacing with the neural lace jack to take command of the shattered derelict. The connection was crude, and never intended to be taken so far. But considering the situation, and his lack of self-preservation, he was not overly concerned with any long-term side-effects.

Sitting in the dark amidst the dead, in governance of a ship that would sail one last time not for the UNSC, but under the spirit of vengeance, Noble Six revisited his memories, searching for some kind of solace in past deeds as he laid eyes upon his target and set course. Though when engines flared, forcing the broken skeleton of a starship to partake in its final flight, the spartan grasped, with a sense of detached reality, that there was no solace for a man like him. He could not recall the tattered remnants of his childhood or the features of his parentage. He had nothing but the war, and a decade and a half of war-torn reflections to contemplate. And in those bloodied memories there was no reprieve.

The end, his end, would come, and he would have no pleasant thoughts. The impending culmination of his retribution, as he discovered here at the apex of his plans, did not fill the emptiness in his heart. That would have been too far a kindness for the likes of him.

He would die unfulfilled and discontent.

And yet what else was there he might have suspected?

Silence deafened his senses, broken only by the steady pace of his breathing, yet sufficiently quiet to offer him a gratuitous bubble in which to dwell on his impermanence in ponderous introspection. Outside his musing, the ravaged hulk of his commandeered marathon class cruiser pulled away from the debris field, first at a sedate pace, and then, as minutes passed, gaining further and further speed.

The Covenant response was lethargic, perhaps disbelieving or more likely amused at the sight of the broken human vessel limping from the skeletal clutches of the orbital graveyard, trailing scrap and corpses like the blood of a desperate animal in its final throes. A single ship pulled away from the flotilla to investigate, a CCS-Battlecruiser, which upon seeing no genuine threat from the visibly crippled human vessel, did not even deem it fit to raise shields. It did however launch a full array of boarding craft and seraphs, perhaps seeing some amusement to be had.

The spartan, with a series of commands input into the captain chair's interface, turned the marathon's prow towards his foe and activated what remained of the point defense array to little effect. The main gun of this ship had been slagged in its last battle, a fact that offered no alteration to his plans. He had no need for such tools of war, not for what was to come.

Chains of alternating light shot across the darkness as the handful of functional AA batteries unloaded what was left of their payloads, firing far out of effective engagement range as little more than a display in futility, one he knew would goad the sangheili captain. Despite their technological superiority, their overconfidence as a species was a well-known, crippling weakness when exploited properly.

As expected, the bulbous prow of the battlecruiser cleaved through the currents of space at greater speed, intending to come aside the audacious human ship that dared to challenge Covenant preeminence. No doubt to them this was merely an unanticipated game, a little sport to occupy themselves while their other forces finished their work down below.

Noble Six let them come, intentionally ensured the AA batteries would not hit their targets, and breathed new life into the engines., bidding his time with patience born of measured inevitability. The warped remnants of the ship's superstructure, shuddered as multiple boarding craft slammed into its hull, disgorging a plethora of zealous warriors that would soon discover that there was no prey to hunt amongst the dead. Still he waited, silent and enduring, for the gratification he hoped he might finally feel before the end.

And then, in a single moment, as a thousand calculations at last shifted into place, he struck with speed and precision.

The trembling of the cruiser's frame turned violent and explosive as he suddenly cut power to the engines, firing all of the remaining maneuvering thrusters on the starboard side. Already battered and broken, there was little resistance before the ship started to come apart. He could feel riveted plates buckle as they gave way under immense stress, and the decking under his feet warped and cracked, nearly tearing the captain's chair from its mounting.

But thanks to the enduring work of UNSC engineers the ship only nearly prevented itself from tearing apart. And in the moment as the worst of the damage subsided, he put all remaining power into the fusion drives, and prepared to once more show the enemy the price of their unmatched arrogance.

He had calculated everything perfectly, the culmination of all his plans plunging like a lance into the heart of his enemy.

The spartan leaped from his seat and departed the bridge as fast as his legs could carry him away from the keel of the Covenant warship that was getting closer by the second. Rounding one of several corners along the passageway from the bridge to the stern, he came across a small party of boarders, a single elite and his grunt escorts.

The spartan sprinted past, his fist crashing against the sangheili's ostensibly bewildered mandibles as he leaned into the turn. Disengaging the magnetized grounding in his greaves, he planted his boots firmly into the sidewall of the next corridor and launched himself down the stretch of hallway.

And then the two vessels impacted, and everything went black.

Lumi awoke under duress, roused by raised voices and the very fact that the ground beneath her shuddered and bucked like a wild velithra. The female sangheili's attempt to sit up was a dismal failure, as she instead hunched over and held a hand to her throbbing skull. The rapid trample of many pairs of hurried feet ushered her out of her confusion as she forced senses to reassert themselves.

Opening her eyes, she was not sure whether or not to regret the decision.

The interior of a Covenant vessel was familiar, but entirely unexpected given that her last memory had been on the once human held world. And the sense of urgency undertaken by the rush of shipboard personnel that passed by her, and the array of weapons clutched in their hands was quite alarming, even to her concussed faculties.

The young sangheili smacked the side of her head, bringing sudden clarity to the muffled speakers around her.

"…ower decks are crushed or venting atmosphere. And we have lost communication with Minor Ra'el and his scouting lance. Shipmaster Kelamee has reported a foreign life sign onboard. It is… human."

"No… it is not human."

Lumi froze upon that voice, recognized from many televised debates, and yet never heard in person. Nevertheless, for her, it was unforgettable. There was not a sangheili alive that did not know of Ju'das Rasumai, the greatest swordsman and warrior of their times. He was a legend amongst legends, a figure of such renown that not a single keep on sanghelios would ever openly stand against him. He was a born demon killer, their greatest weapon against the best the humans had to offer.

The female eased back in relief, even as she looked up to see the legend standing above her. She did not know where the demon had gone, but now that zealot marshal Rasumai himself had come forth, there was nothing for her to fear. He would make things right again.

She gazed upon the legend, his strapping figure bedecked in a special operations combat harness, and armed heavily with many tools of war. The great warrior turned from his conversation, centering his stern expression and battle worn features upon the young female as his fellow marshal departed in haste with an escort in tow.

His mandibles flexed, either in amusement or resignation as he spoke to her. "It would appear luck has favored you, young one. That or the gods, though I fear their voice has not been heard as of late."

Lumi was speechless, her capacity for words arrested as she came face to face with one of her greatest idols. Instead she sat, half drawn from her reclined position, listening intently to words whose intent was beyond her ken.

She baulked in awe as the larger than life figure rested a hand upon her head to convey his departing words upon her. "Rest now young one and find shelter. Soon this shall be all over, for good or ill."

She believed him, with fervent conviction and idealistic faith.

Whatever may come, he would save them.

A thick haze of gunsmoke choked the corpse strewn corridors of the Covenant battlecruiser, the acrid scent of cordite and the saccharine smell of disinterred offal lingering over Noble Six's most recent site of carnage as the spartan took a brief moment of respite to reload and rearm. He had a few minutes at most before they reorganized and sent the next wave in an attempt to dislodge him from his position, and each was more determined and organized than the last.

It was fortunate then, that this was simply a delaying tactic, as the idea of holding off the entire contingent of a CAS battlecruiser was rather ridiculous and bore no merit beyond a wild delusion. A single battlecruiser had the power and numbers to subjugate an entire planet, with thousands of battle hungry warriors housed in its internals. Against those kinds of numbers he was utterly disadvantaged, with or without his equipment and augmentations. Contrary to popular belief, spartans could not accomplish the impossible, merely the improbable. If he'd possessed any expectations of survival, going against the totality of a Covenant battlegroup was strictly out of the picture. Considering otherwise, this was to be the greatest triumph of his career.

Grabbing the armored collar of a sangheili relieved of a significant weight above the neck, he dragged the headless carcass across the length of the hall to the intersection he had made his stand, adding it to the increasing height and width of his rough-and-ready emplacement. The spartan waded through the blood without care, the fluid pooled up to his shins and possessing a rather unpleasant color as the varied hues intermixed and swirled below. Concentrating intently, he disregarded the irritating sloshing sound the liquid created as he arranged his battlements with an artisan's eye for detail.

He'd have preferred sterner fortifications, piled sandbags or a solid concrete palisade, something more suited to the task than hastily layered bodies. But a craftsman had to work with the tools at hand.

Thankfully he needn't endure the wait much longer, his machinations were in place, leaving him with the rare pleasure to admire his work. All that was left was to keep the enemy distracted, keep them from thinking about the marathon cruiser lodged into the guts of their warship, and stay alive long enough to enjoy the fireworks. It was the last part he was a little skeptical about.

Noble Six grimaced, the appearance of a stoic smirk curling the corner of his mouth as his motion tracker announced the arrival of the next assault. The spartan quieted his demons and crouched behind his cover, shouldering his rifle to conclude his last and greatest task, aware that no one would ever know. He, like the rest of Noble, would be hushed and forgotten, another filthy secret stashed under ONI's dirty laundry, and that was an end he could be okay with.

Sorry Emile… The spartan's grin soured into a wane smile as the first sangheili warrior appeared to lead the charge. He cut it to size both promptly and literally, scything its legs out from underneath it with a fusillade of 7.62mm FMJ. The alien dropped, screaming as its lifeblood flooded from the pair of stumps jutting below its waist. Six switched targets to its entourage of grunts and put them down before their small brains could even realize what was happening. The saurian still breathed, but he saw no reason to waste ammunition when there were more enemies than bullets. The corridor grew silent, but for the pitiful howls from the alien amputee writhing on the floor. Though it did not last long for the next group to charge in and start the cycle all over again.

The spartan sighed and prepared himself for the end.

The likes of us were never meant to be remembered.

Ju'das stepped off the lift into a scene of anarchy and could only shake his head in bitter resignation. The saurian marshal gained the first few steps into the corridor before pausing in an attempt to drink in the utter chaos and lack of discipline upheld by the Covenant's finest. In the distance, a great length down the winding, spacious halls of the battlecruiser, he could hear the furious sounds of combat, the rapid staccato of a primitive human weapon, and the wraithlike pulse of energy rifles.

The zealot stepped aside as a trio of heavily armed minors thundered down from a sloped passageway to his left, joining the mass of warriors clogging the narrow intersection leading to what was undoubtedly a slaughter.

And he wondered, over the sounds of dying soldiers and the echo of shouts blinded by zealous hatred, how the Covenant had come to this, how they could have fallen so far from grace. Their creed had once stood for something noble, striving for an ideal that there was some grand purpose behind their existence, and to bring harmony and virtuous devotion to the galaxy. This war had been quick to crush the delusion. In the years he had not witnessed any divine intent guiding their hand, merely the covetous whims of sycophants and corrupt politicians, and it was his brothers that died to sustain this corpulent legacy.

The irony for Ju'das came in the realization that he found more honor in the humans' resistance against extinction, than the questionable goals of his own people. There was little purer than a fight for survival, particularly one that had been as tenacious and spirited as the efforts of the humans. He had seen them make sacrifice after sacrifice, committing their warriors to hopeless last stands and condemnable maneuvers simply to buy time for their non-combatants. When faced with such selfless determination it was difficult to see himself as the hero of his story. Warriors with honor did not take the lives of innocents, nor should they derive pleasure from such reprehensible acts. Yet honor it seemed was a dated philosophy to the modern sangheili.

"Great Marshal!"

Thoughts of the dubious nature of the present forgone, Ju'das shifted his intent to the welcomed acquaintance of the stout creature that waddled up to greet him. Though seeing the little unggoy here at this particular location made him… uneasy.

"Minor Nipnup." He returned the greeting kindly, raising his voice a fair margin to overcome the heightened noise of battle up ahead.

The young unggoy seemed smaller than usual, his squat frame hunched over under the weight of an emplaced weapon mount, the other member of his species behind him carrying the cannon itself. Nevertheless he displayed the same exuberance and eager to please nature that had first caught Ju'das' attention and so enamored him with the stout but faithful unggoy.

The field marshal studied the guileless, cheerful disposition of his short statured friend and felt the beginning of a dark, cold feeling settle in his primary heart. "You intend to join the battle?"

The unggoy shrugged complacently, though the action seemed somewhat comedic with the heavy weight he bore on his shoulder. "Orders is orders." He answered with humble simplicity. "Such is will of gods, as you say Great Marshal."

Ju'das nodded silently, unable to find the resolve within to audibly agree with Nipnup's answer. Not for the first time, and perhaps not for the last, he was of disagreeable sentiment. The sangheili mused for a brief interlude, before he made a decision that went against the very values of his religion and his society. He kneeled low to the height of the stout creature, placing a reassuring hand over the unggoy's shoulder as he mustered his words.

"Perhaps so, but this day the gods have a different plan for you, young Nipnup. I have a task of immense import and you are the only one I can trust to see it done."

"You speak true, Grand Marshall?" The unggoy asked hesitantly, the gleam of expectant optimism untarnished and hopeful in the eyes of the diminutive son of Balaho. "You have impor-tant task… for Nipnup?"

"I do, young warrior." He assured the small creature, though his internals twisted and churned at the lie he forced from his mandibled jaws. As it was the first lie he ever told, he was disturbed at how easy it had been made. Nevertheless he would not see this fledgling being be led to a slaughter for a war he was too naïve and fervent to understand. This young, frail unggoy was the embodiment of all that was good about the Covenant and its values. Nipnup deserved a better fate than to be used and discarded. And perchance, so did others. "There is a young female of my species in the hanger above us. Find her and keep her safe until this crisis is averted."

"Of course, Great Marshall!" The Unggoy spluttered reverently, carelessly discarding the mounting on his shoulder. It bounced once, before landing on the foot of the hapless individual behind him. What occurred next was a rapid exchange of high pitched barks and squeaks as they argued in their home language.

Though he did not wish to admit to himself, the interaction was amusing to watch and was a welcomed reprieve from his darkened thoughts. Ju'das ushered the stout creature and its companion along on their false assignment, content that he could at least do some good in these dour times.

Though, with Nipnup's departure he was forced once more to contend with the predicament that awaited him. Through the discussion the sounds of battle had not lessened in ferocity. Down the corridor more of his brothers died fighting a beast that possessed no lack of determination and bore a righteous rage that might very well be deserved.

Heresy lay in consideration of such an admission. To validate the monster's rage would be to admit responsibility to an incalculable extent of injustice imparted upon it and its species, to bring in to question the very nature of their religion. Yet he could not help but question the will of the gods, or perhaps more accurately, their instruments.

Ju'das decided with grave severity and a foreboding sense of inevitability… that this day he would serve the gods.

Not the prophets.

"Marshal Rasumai!"

The first to notice his approach was a young sangheili warrior perhaps no older than one solar cycle from adolescence, the bright blue of his untarnished combat harness further denoting him as a minor yet to earn his colors in battle. The unblooded's eyes were slightly widened as he looked upon a figure he had only heard rumors of in his days as a youngling.

Ju'das passed him in silence.

Several others soon noticed his arrival, each offering reverent greeting, from the youngest warrior to the oldest veteran. Each was summarily, if politely dismissed, as he traveled down the corridor lined with wounded and fresh blood eager to earn glory. The cacophony of combat growing more intense with each passing step, he could feel the surety his presence provided, confident that he would bring them salvation from this calamity.

However, this time he did not come to wage battle against a foe. This time he had come to talk, and perchance more notably, to listen.

So it was, as he rounded the corner unto a familiar scene of hapless carnage and death, that he laid eye upon his foe for the third and final time. As he feared the abomination did not suffer its end without due compensation. Bodies lay piled in heaps with no regard to station or status, the non-porous alloy of the floor allowing a marsh-like quagmire of fluids and entrails to swell in the tide of butchery. The harsh discharge of human weaponry lingered in the air, above even the scent of blood, the sheer magnitude draping a thick cloud of smoke over the battleground.

First appearance spoke of a favorable exchange at the hands of the human, but a second glance was more telling. Even a warrior like the abomination could not repel such numbers forever. Much of the blood that coated its battle scarred and scorched combat harness was bright red as it seeped from the blackened cracks in its armor. Yet in spite of its injuries the human warrior had the remarkable temerity to stand tall, its posture unbroken and its tenacity unbowed. The demon clutched a rifle in steady gauntlets, the implacable visage of its faceplate marred by the jagged fracture split down the center. It turned its splintered gaze upon him, and drew its weapon forth, seemingly ignorant of the great harm aggrieved upon its person, ready to fight to its bitter conclusion.

Ju'das would admit, though only to him, that there was some satisfaction at seeing grievous harm inflicted upon his adversary. And though he wished heartily to strike it down in revenge for the dead, he was reminded that discretion was the better part of valor. After all, a wounded beast fought twice as hard. With a wave and a curt command, the next assault force withdrew, with significant reluctance.

"I would have words… demon." He spoke slowly, raising his arms to show open palms as he stepped closer. The Covenant warriors at his behest seemed confused if the whispered utterings behind him were any indication. Yet his rank and prestige proved to be weighty enough to quell any sentiment of doubt. Trust was a valued resource, when placed in the proper hands.

The abomination's reaction was equally dubious. Its weapon lowered from head to chest height, and he could feel its bloodlust lessen by the smallest of portions. It appeared ready to sell its life, but perhaps sensing the encroachment of its expiration, was at the least willing to entertain what it must have seen as an unlikely delusion.

"Diplomacy?" It hissed softly to itself in a dark, sallow voice that was one part amused and thrice more enraged at the lunacy of his request. "This war has passed the chance for words." It snarled with a censorious scorn in its tone that was nearly as sharp edged as the blade it had used to cleave his throat on their last meeting.

The abomination radiated killing intent like the exposed coils of a primitive human reactor, and its weapon snapped upwards to fire. Ju'das remained unflinching, even as he heard the soldiers behind him ready to turn the small length of hallway into a warzone. Instead the zealot marshal watched patiently as his plan reached fruition.

The human, its bearing once proud and imperious, wilted as it staggered and collapsed to its knees. The fluid pooled around it, once a collage of varied color, now having taken a predominate shade of red as the warrior at last capitulated under the severity of its many accumulated injuries. No matter ones resolve or strength of character, this was a moment that surpassed mind over matter.

Time, unlike before, was now Ju'das' ally.

It would do what no warrior of the Covenant had been able to.

"Diplomacy is not my intent." He assured the abomination in a tone softened to in a way that might have almost been cordial curiosity, as he studied the human straining to keep its weapon leveled upon him even as the essence of life drained from its body. "I offer only to make your passing… peaceful. Consider this a professional courtesy, from one soldier to another."

The demon snorted, the sound ejecting from its throat in a wet and gargled gasp that spoke of damage deep within. "Never thought I'd meet an alien with a sense of humor." It rasped vulgarly. And though hostility was evident in its tone, Ju'das was startled to see it lower its weapon, the rifle slackening in its weakening grip.

It shrugged, allowing an unusually smug chuckle to erupt from battered lungs. "Don't matter anyways. You have lost, split lip."

Ju'das grimaced at the recognized insult created by the humans, but reined his irritation in favor of curiosity as he once more acknowledged the environment around him with a solemn wave. "True many have fallen, but I see no loss here."

The reply he received was non-verbal but nonetheless alarming as it relinquished its weapon, the worn rifle disappearing into the spilled viscera with a loud splash as the abomination regarded instead the tactical machine interface on its forearm. Whatever it saw must have been significant, as all resistance and strength left its battered frame and the human sagged heavily in acceptance. "Not long now." It spoke in a subdued, introspective tone that was to the sangheili's confusion, turning its battle-scarred helm to match him stare-for-stare.

"I suggest you make peace with your gods, sangheili. Consider this my professional courtesy." With swift action the demon tore its helmet from its head, letting the armor piece roll from loosened fingers to join its fallen weapon. The visage of the human was one of youthful rage, pale and bloodied, with eyes that burned with unshrouded fury. The male spat at Ju'das feet, his lips curled into a quivering snarl. "From one monster to another."

Ju'das was, for the first time in many long years, wholly surprised. This abomination was… young, even for the relatively short lifespan of a human. The marshal was not well versed enough to guess age with any reasonable accuracy, but he was competent enough to know that no creature of such aptitude and ruthlessness should be so fresh of face. The hairs growing upon the human's pastel appearance, and the scars that spoke of violent conflict, seemed out of place on a visage that spoke of perhaps two decades of short life.

Were all the greatest warriors of the humans' just younglings? Was it really this whelp that had killed so many of the Covenant's best? That had beaten him in single combat and even now was immersed amid a field of corpses? Ju'das stood amongst the broken and the dead, what was clear evidence of this undeniable certainty, and struggled to accept the truth that had been given.

Ju'das watched, as finally, the human fell. And he found no comfort, no satisfaction, in this long awaited resolution.

There was only silence, but for the sopped thump of the human's armor upon the bloodied deck.

Behind him his warriors cheered, and a great raucous revelry arose in the demise of the last defender of this world and the recognition of another total victory over the unclean, and one more step upon the path. The sangheili instead looked upon the motionless form of a child pressed into service to stave off the threat of annihilation, a life sold to oppose a genocidal crusade of intolerant piety.

Ju'das realized, for the first time in his long life, a life served with unquestionable belief and righteous faith, that his was a hollow victory.

And then his consciousness vanished in a flash of screaming light.

AN: This is a little shorter than I might have liked, but I wanted to wrap up the Reach story arc without making a huge affair out of it. There was about maybe three thousand more words of content I might have been able to pad it up with, but I felt that's all it would have been good for. Nor did I want to linger too much on the penultimate confrontation between Ju'das and Six. I figured it best to keep short and sweet and felt that to drag it along would ultimately be an unrealistic expectation. After all Six is a spartan and I doubt he'd be particularly chatty to an elite, even at death's door. I also wondered what a sangheili warrior might have thought, upon learning that the demons were actually just children press-ganged into military service. Six is roughly canonically 20, maybe 22, which is quite young for a mass murdering supersoldier.

Also as you might have noticed his arrival into Lylat will be drastically different than the original concept. And much of the original plot has been scrapped and or overhauled, as you can probably already tell. Rest assured, this is not the last you'll see of Ju'das and Lumi, after all it'd be a shame to build up two characters just to dump them so early.

Anyways, the next chapter will be where the story really starts. And hopefully I can get it out before too long. I still have to finish the current chapter of Until it is Done, and polish out the rest of the chapter for At Duty's end. If all is well I'll be able to release either update within a reasonable length of time.

PS: The support from the reader base so far has been overwhelming. Your input on my works and genuine interest goes a long way in pushing me onward and I am as always utterly humbled by your attentions.

Till next time.

Drake