Epilogue

Ever since the Covenant had appeared above Earth, there had been widespread pandemonium. Lieutenant Mohamed Wiley tugged at his uniform as he rode the elevator downward, reflecting on the last few weeks. The public hadn't expected it, thanks to Section Two's damn "The Covenant is light-years away" propaganda, and what resulted was thousands of suicides, looting, and riots in the streets. With the Covenant's operations spreading across the planet the human race needed to be united, not trying to kill itself; there were plenty of aliens out there willing to do it for them.

The elevator halted but the doors didn't part. Wiley growled. "Tiberius."

"Standard security scan," the voice of the prison level artificial intelligence said through a speaker. "You've been through it before."

"We've got a hot prisoner sitting in an interrogation room, and I need to be there now." He didn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice; Tiberius could pick it up and compare it to his vocal patterns in order to speed up the process.

"He's not going anywhere," the AI assured him. "Besides, you're clear." The doors slid apart, and with a courteous, if sarcastic, nod Wiley exited the elevator car and walked down the long grey hallway. Unlike some of the other levels of the facility, there was no decoration whatsoever; it was supposed to depress the prisoners being kept there. They already had plenty of reasons to be depressed, Wiley always thought: they were three kilometers below the surface of Earth in HighCom Facility Bravo-6, also known as "the Hive," with over ten thousand staff members between them and the exits, including a five-hundred strong Marine garrison. Counter-intrusion methods were set up throughout the base, several checkpoints, and most importantly a full lockdown capability in case something did happen.

Something was happening, however, and Wiley's superiors wanted to know what direction it was going in. While the Covenant was certainly moving to take the entire planet, none of their ships were attempting to move into glassing position. Obviously there was something here they wanted; otherwise they could just throw wave after wave of ships at the Overlord defense grid in space and gradually run them down. Besides that, the prowlers that were moving around in Luna's shadow were picking up some disturbing radio traffic; though Wiley wasn't privy to it, he heard rumors that there were reports of small-arms fire throughout the Covenant fleet.

Finally he arrived at the appropriate room. After flashing his identity badge at the two Marine guards he opened the door and stepped inside. Bright lighting awaited him, as well as two mirrors on either side of the room; only one was two-way, in order to reduce the chances of the prisoner guessing which the real thing was. His charge, as the brass had termed him, sat across a table, handcuffed to a very uncomfortable-looking chair. Wiley doubted aliens were supposed to fit in chairs like that anyway.

"Well," Wiley began, glancing over his charge's physical state: he was bruised and bloodied, with one eye almost completely swollen shut. "It looks like the interrogators did a number on you, eh?" The Geneva Accords extended only to human beings; the UNSC had quickly taken advantage of that loophole, and nobody really cared to contradict them.

The alien didn't respond. "Tell you what," Wiley continued, taking his seat, "we'll start simple. I'm Lieutenant Wiley, ONI Section One. What's your name?" He knew his name already, of course, but he didn't want to let it slip. If he could get this one to talk... well, that was a big if. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Once again, the alien refused to speak or even move: he gave no sign that he was alive other than the steady rise and fall of his chest. "For ease of conversation, then, I'm going to call you Bob. You cool with that, Bob?" Usually that technique elicited some reaction, since for these guys names were important. This one, though, didn't even flinch. He just kept up his stony glare at the surface of the table.

Wiley decided to cut right to the chase. "All right, Bob, you know why I'm here. You've managed to sit through two of my predecessors, but I'm not going to let you stonewall me. You got that?" No response. Once again, his behavior was uncharacteristic and completely against his species' dossier.

"What did the Prophet of Regret want with Earth?" No answer. "What was your role in the invasion?" No answer. "Do you hold any responsibility for troop movements? Equipment requisitions? Rationing? Anything like that?" No answer.

The lieutenant started to drum his fingers on the table but quickly stopped himself. That would reveal his personal agitation. Truth be told, he didn't understand why they were wasting time questioning this one. There were other, more important battles to be won, not trying to beat an alien into submission. Besides, one of the others had already spilled his guts and told them everything...

A light went on in Wiley's head. That was the angle to break him.

"You know," he said, casually running his finger in a circle on the tabletop, "your little friend told us everything. About who you were, what you've done, what your responsibilities were..." He paused for effect and regarded his charge; for the first time since he walked in, the alien stirred in his seat, raising his eyes to meet the human's. "Yeah. You were apparently the Field Commander for the forces that destroyed both the Athens and the Malta, and the forces that conducted the ground invasion of New Mombasa. That's an awful lot of responsibility right there; surely your leadership trusted you with a few secrets?"

No reaction, he just maintained eye contact. For once, this was what Wiley was gunning for. "You mean," he faked surprise, "they didn't trust you at all? Not with one bit of tactical information?" Once again, the charge's lack of response was troubling. He apparently could not be goaded into giving information, but perhaps he could be guilted.

"Do you have a family, Bob?" he asked next. "A wife? Or is it a husband? Do you have children, little ones that scamper around your feet and laugh, and cry when they get hurt? We know that your species mates for life; have you found that mate yet?

"Well, do you know how many people you've deprived of finding theirs? How many men and women your sacred Covenant has killed to get their hands on their precious little artifacts? Or what about all those big, happy families, Bob, the ones with lots of little kids and a happy couple watching after them? Because of you, nine-hundred seventy-eight billion people won't be happy! How many of your happy families have died? Huh? I'll bet it's zero! You've killed entire worlds, but as far as we can tell you fuckers all wear armor and all kill innocent people!"

Before he realized what he was doing, he had his sidearm reversed in his hand and he was on the other side of the room, viciously clubbing his charge. He got in two fierce blows before he regained control of himself. Interrogators were supposed to leave their emotions by the door, but the macabre silence this one maintained was so unnerving it had forced him to lash out. And still, despite the savage beating, the alien did not even whimper.

Disgusted with both himself and the prisoner, Wiley took a handkerchief out of his pocket and began cleaning the butt of his pistol, wiping off the blood. He was sweating and breathing hard; it was time for him to get out of there. With a near-silent grunt he threw the purple-stained cloth down in front of the alien and turned to walk out of the room. Just as he got to the door, however, the prisoner's baseline voice broke through the silence.

"We do as we are instructed by the Prophets," he said calmly, as if he had not just suffered from hours of torture and questioning, "and they in turn do as they are instructed by the Gods. We do our holy work as it is assigned to us."

The alien's eyes were filled with unbridled hatred as Wiley turned back to face him. "My assignment is to kill humans, as many as I can before I die," he continued, purple blood running down his face and over his mandibles. "I will start my holy quest anew with all the humans in this facility, and work my way from there."

At this, Wiley could only grin mirthlessly and shake his head. "I'm sure you will, Bob. I'm sure you will."

He turned off the lights as he left, leaving Oriné 'Fulsamee alone in the dark.

Credits

Special Thanks to:

Jillybean — for allowing me to use a lot of the work she did with Elite/Sangheili culture.

An REG Omega — for allowing me to use a great deal of his technology and concepts.

Khellendros — for allowing me the use of his character, Balask 'Zakamee.

Rendezvoushero — for helping me so much through all my writing funks.

Tortuga — for kicking ass and taking names at the human side of things, and for being my brother.

Legal Musings:

I do not own Halo: Combat Evolved, Halo 2, Halo 3, the Halo novels, or the continuity therein; that honor belongs to © Bungie and © Microsoft. My ownership extends only to the characters that I have created with this story in mind, and even then Bungie is welcome to seize them in case they believe I have gone over the line.

Final Message:

Well, folks, that's a wrap on another one. I hate cliffhangers, don't you? Bungie left me little choice, though, but don't worry, there'll be more. Lots more, in fact: expect a sort of prequel to come out between now and the release of Halo 3, and keep an eye out for my work from other games. Also, you can look forward to the completion of Metroid Renegade; that bastard's been collecting dust for the longest time.

Negative Halo 3 will come out some time after Halo 3 is released; once again, I have to be able to stop playing long enough to write it and I have to be comfortable enough with the material. All we know about a release date right now, though, is sometime later this year.

I hope you enjoyed reading, because I enjoyed writing this. I'll see you all next time around.

NOTE: I have gone back and revised much of the story to read better.