Chapter 35: The Calm Before the Storm

A silence had descended upon the landscape. The echoes of distant weapons fire and cries of battle had, for the moment, died down into nothing. The lack of noise was replaced by a palpable feeling of anticipation.

The seaport was now in the hands of the Swords of Sanghelios. The launching point for the final assault was secure. Everyone knew that, regardless of who won, the war for the future of the sangheili people would end in a matter of days.

Fred sighed as he set down a piece of Forerunner equipment. The huragok next to him twittered inquisitively.

"Just taking a break," the Spartan informed the alien. It had been difficult to get used to working with a non-human, but the creature had been undeniably useful in studying the relics Blue Team had brought with them from Meridian. With its help he had actually managed to access the internal programming of a few. If he was right, they could have a serious asset on their hands.

The Spartan stood and walked around the human side of the encampment. He noticed that, once again, the sangheili academics had moved several of their storage containers just to the edge of the area the Master Chief had marked off as belonging to Blue Team. It seemed they were still intent on socializing with them. He set that thought aside; he'd talk to the Chief about it later.

There was an area of empty ground that the Spartans used to exercise, and it was calling to him. Fred stepped into the ring and activated his energy blade. He artfully swung it through the air, going through several practice stances and maneuvers. This session had been far overdue. Fencing was like playing a musical instrument, requiring frequent practice. Or, as CPO Mendez had always said, 'If you don't use it, you lose it'.

"Impressive," a voice said from the sidelines. Fred turned and saw 'Khebrem staring at him. "I was unaware that humans possessed their own version of swordsmanship. Is it common among your clan?"

By 'clan' Fred took him to mean 'Spartan'. "Not particularly, no," he responded. "There are some who are more skilled in melee combat than others, but our training has always focused on more conventional weaponry. We're kinda boring like that."

"A pity," the academic said, shaking his head sadly, apparently having missed the joke at the end. "Blades have such a long and storied history. They have been symbols of martial valor for millenia, among your people as well as mine. The advent of energy swords made them useful for specialists but the extensive training and equipment required for such warriors has lead to their number dwindling. Fewer and fewer of our leaders are willing to pay their cost." 'Khebrem paused to sigh. "I fear Swordsmen may be a dying breed."

This was a perspective that Fred had never considered. He was a soldier. His skill in melee combat had always been a mission asset, nothing more. The idea that he was part of some kind of broader culture or legacy simply had not occurred to him.

Fred had to admit, it held a certain appeal. He had always been and would always be a Spartan. They were the ultimate human warriors. In a way, he supposed they were the inheritors of thousands of years of warrior traditions. They had certainly studied enough historical armies and civilizations to say that they had a broad background. The idea stirred a kind of personal patriotism in the decades-long veteran.

The positive mood soured as the Spartan remembered that he was among the last of his kind. There were only 4 of them left. The UNSC had abandoned the idea of replicating the original project, citing prohibitive costs; a single Spartan II cost as much to train and field as a small warship. The Spartan IVs, formidable as they may have been, simply did not share the training, upbringing, and augmentations that made up a Spartan II. Once Blue Team was gone, whether killed in battle or from some other method, the Spartan IIs would cease to exist. They would be as much a piece of history as the sangheili Swordsmen would soon be.

"Spartan?" the sangheili academic prompted. Apparently, Fred had drifted off for a moment. He apologized and asked his host to repeat himself. "I asked if you would like to spar with me. I have never been a skilled warrior, but I did study the art of fencing as part of my education. I know that there is simply no substitute for a training partner and you claim your brethren do not share your particular passion."

An invitation to spar. Fred was reminded of a similar offer he had received, several months ago. Back on the now-dead planet Meridian.

Sgt. Ajit Singh. His superior in his cover identity as a security officer. The older man had proved a surprisingly capable sparring partner, and a decent man besides. Now, he was dead. Lost in yet another battle that the Spartans had been powerless to win.

Years ago, when Fred had first entered full service in the Human-Covenant War, the loss of respected colleagues had hit him hard. His fellow Spartans the most, of course, but he did feel a bond with all of the rank-and-file. He had felt grief and loss when they died. He never allowed it to show, of course, but he would always think of them just before he drifted into unconsciousness in a cryo pod.

Now, there was only a kind of numb discomfort. It was the only reaction he seemed to have to loss, once he got past the initial shock and turmoil. Even the death of Dr. Halsey hadn't really produced an extreme response; simply a quiet lament that was over within minutes and then swept away. It was like being stabbed in a limb that had gone numb. He knew that he should feel pain, and on some level he even did, but it was...faded. Faded enough to ignore. An echo of what it would have been in his younger years.

Fred had just seen too much, lost too much, to feel much else.

Maybe that was what Dr. Halsey meant when she said that what she did to them was 'wrong'. Fred wondered if it was unnatural to be able to keep going as long as he had. Maybe the human psyche just wasn't designed to endure so much. Maybe he should've died years ago...

The Spartan shook himself from his ruminations. They would only lead him to despair, and he would be damned if he had survived so much only to be defeated by his own emotions. He had sacrificed too much to let that happen. His family had sacrificed too much.

'Khebrem was still waiting for a response. "I'd appreciate the company," Fred said, gesturing to the open ground in front of him. It was bizarre that he genuinely meant those words, considering he was saying them to a sangheili, but at the moment he needed the distraction.

The duel was quick but, paradoxically, also slow. The sangheili academic seemed to realize that he had no hope of overwhelming the Spartan's defenses and had decided to play an almost entirely defensive game. Dodges, parries, and the occasional block were what greeted Fred's lunges, stabs, and slashes. At no point did his opponent take an aggressive posture.

Not that 'Khebrem was entirely passive. The sangheili managed to take several opportunities to counter-strike at his opponent over the course of their practice duels. It seemed his school of swordplay favored waiting for the ideal moment to strike, trusting in the adversary's aggression and impatience to create an opening rather than making one himself.

Fred had to admit, the alien scholar made an impressive show of himself. He moved with a fluidity and grace he would not have expected from a bookworm. The extensive patience he showed in remaining on the defensive, despite Fred's repeated attempts to bait him into a trap, was commendable. The Spartan could easily imagine him becoming quite the skilled tactician if he had ever joined the military.

All of that said, there was never really any question as to who was going to win. Fred's augmentations and decades of experience were more than a match for whatever recreational practice 'Khebrem had indulged in. They engaged in several duels, Fred winning each, before deciding that enough practice had been had.

"Yours is an exceptional talent," 'Khebrem said, breathing heavily. His upper mandibles were spread in what Fred recognized as a smile. The academic took a drink out of a water container before gesturing to Fred's energy blade. "What is the name of your sword, if I may ask?"

The Spartan tilted his head quizzically. "...I call it Wuffles the Wonder Knife," he answered. The sangheili stared at him in confusion. "I'm joking. It doesn't have a name."

"It has no name?" 'Khebrem replied, seeming shocked. Fred guessed he had just stumbled upon some aspect of sangheili culture that he was unfamiliar with.

"It's not an heirloom or anything," Fred explained. "I only got it a few years ago. The technology's brand new for us, so I actually had to have a hand in the design myself."

"That makes it all the more important!" the academic replied insistently. "This is among the first blades of a new age. It is unique, and carried by a warrior whose clan is renowned across light-years. If you have heirs, it is this weapon that will become a treasured relic. It needs a name." Fred stared at him blankly. 'Khebrem grew exasperated, saying, "All great blades deserve a name. Have you never heard a war ballad?"

A chuckle rose from the sidelines. One of the sangheili guards had apparently been eavesdropping on the conversation. "Our illustrious leader," he said with barely concealed sarcasm, "has always been a close follower of songs and legends. He prefers them to real combat." The condescension in his words was obvious, although not enough to warrant discipline.

'Khebrem simply snorted quietly in response. This must have been a perspective he was used to encountering in his own kind. Fred heard him mutter about there being 'less horror and bloodshed in my interests' as he walked off to resume his duties, nodding in respect to the Spartan before leaving him standing alone in the open area.

The energy blade continued to hum and glow in Fred's hand. He brought it up, examining it closely with a new eye. He struggled to come up with a name before one rose, fully formed, from his subconscious. One that would serve as a reminder of all the things that he had lost over the long decades, from family to simple emotions.

The Doctor's Memory

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The Master Chief was staring at the crack in his visor.

Blue Team lacked the resources to replace the complex 'visor' that covered the majority of the front of his MJOLNIR helmet. A square sealant patch covered the break, preventing any loss of internal environmental control, but it couldn't conceal the mark. Thus, the Master Chief had found himself with a constant reminder of the man who had taken so much from him.

The Chief shook his head. Obsessing over this was what had led to the catastrophe at the slaver fortress. He needed to focus on more productive activities. He glanced around the sangheili compound, looking for something to occupy his attention as they waited for the preparations for the assault on Sunaion to be finalized.

A group of mismatched equipment crates caught his eye. The square, dark gray containers that were ubiquitous across human space were side-by-side with the burgundy, more rounded containers favored by the Arbiter's sangheili. A wave of frustration passed through the Chief. 'Khebrem's people were at it again.

The Chief was already dealing with enough emotional turmoil due to the fact that he had allowed the huragok to work with Fred in studying the Forerunner relics. He had been second-guessing his decision almost since the moment he made it. The exact reasons for doing what he did still eluded him, producing a palpable sense of frustration.

Enough was enough. It was time for the Spartan non-com to have a little chat with the civilian academic leader.

Scholar Cham 'Khebrem was, as usual, overseeing the study of ancient sangheili civilization. His assistants/students were cataloging and translating various texts and artifacts that they had found over the course of their expedition. It was likely their findings would keep the university busy for quite a while.

Seeing them at work, the Chief considered delaying his conversation with 'Khebrem. He remembered how much Dr. Halsey had hated being interrupted at work. The reminder of his mother sparked a deep pang of loss in the Spartan; that pain was still too fresh, too vivid.

John decided he didn't much care what the sangheili felt.

"Scholar 'Khebrem. We need to talk," the Chief said. The sangheili in question looked up from his work. A look of mild annoyance, or what the Master Chief perceived to be such, passed over his alien features for a moment. The academic quickly rallied, gestured to his subordinates to continue working, and rose to accompany the human to a more private area.

"How may I assist you, Spartan?" 'Khebrem asked.

"We need to talk about the behavior of your subordinates," the Master Chief said, cutting straight to the point. "Despite my requests to the contrary, they continue to attempt to engage my teammates and me in unnecessary interactions. Their efforts at needless conversation are becoming unacceptably disruptive. I would appreciate your rectifying this situation at the earliest possible time, Scholar."

'Khebrem simply stared at the human for a moment. The Chief wished he was more familiar with sangheili facial expressions and body language. His experiences in the War made every movement seem filled with hostile intent. The translation software in his armor could only communicate so much. Finally, the sangheili spoke, his contemplation apparently complete.

"My apprentices have been inquiring primarily about human customs and culture, if I am not mistaken," he explained. "They wish to come to a greater understanding of humanity. They also hope that you, in turn, will come to a greater understanding of the sangheili. Do you truly believe that such conversation is 'needless'?"

"That's beside the point," the Master Chief replied, annoyed. "We aren't scholars. Nor are we ambassadors. We are soldiers. Our objective on this planet is to accomplish a military objective, not further diplomatic relations between our species."

"I am afraid neither of us has much choice in the matter," 'Khebrem replied, gently but firmly. "The sangheili people have not had much contact with humans outside of the Great War. Those who live upon Sanghelios are even further removed from your kind. Whether you like it or not, you are the representatives of your people as long as you are with us. Your actions will inform the opinions of all you come into contact with. Considering the high status of the individuals you tend to interact with, your actions could have a reaching and lasting impact."

"What's wrong with just keeping to ourselves?" the Chief asked, frustrated. "Why can't we just stay separate? There's enough space for both of us. We can stay in our area, you can stay in yours, and we'll all be out of each others' way."

"Mutual isolation leads to mutual ignorance," 'Khebrem replied in what seemed suspiciously like a lecturing tone. "Why do you believe the Prophets' lies were able to convince so many in the time of the Old Covenant? Human beings are clearly not vermin, yet nearly all of my people accepted it as so. We accepted the War as valid when, if we were not so ignorant and blind, we would have seen it for the farce it was long before the Great Schism. Surely you have seen in this journey the similarities between our peoples. You and I are not as different as you may think." He turned and gestured to several points around the camp. Fred was sparring with a sangheili warrior with energy blades, their enjoyment of physical competition clear in their movements. Kelly was pouring over the sangheili medical texts with one of 'Khebrem's apprentices, their thirst for knowledge driving them. Linda was customizing her new beam rifle with the expedition's quartermaster, the pair working with quiet professionalism. "If we are so similar, is peace not possible? Should we not pursue mutual understanding?" The Chief didn't reply. The academic pressed on. "Segregation has only ever lead to xenophobia and conflict. Why should this present situation be any different?"

The Spartan ground his teeth in frustration. "Peace is one thing," he said insistently, "but co-existence? Do you really think that's possible, after all that's happened?"

'Khebrem stared the Master Chief straight in the eye. "I do. I refuse to believe it is not."

The Chief tilted his head. The sheer, stubborn determination in the sangheili's words made him pause. This was an individual who absolutely, positively, refused to even consider giving up. He would pursue his objective until the bitter end. The fact that others insisted his goal was impossible seemed to only motivate him further. This was what he was going to do, probability and professional consensus be damned.

For the first time in his life, John felt like he actually got a sangheili.

It was...rather disorienting.

"...I'll think about it," the Chief replied. 'Khebrem spread his upper mandibles in a grin.

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"And with this, I am done," Vale said, using a small brush to apply a tiny amount of what she called 'mascara' to her own face.

Mahkee watched with curiosity. The human Vale had been showing her the intricacies of what their kind called 'makeup'. While not as overtly visible as her own people's war paint, it seemed every bit as laborious and time consuming. "Your females put on such markings daily?" she asked.

"Some do, but mostly civilians," Vale replied. "There's no regulation demanding or forbidding it for warriors, so long as it's nothing too flashy." She grinned cheerfully. "Those of us in the military that use it tend to restrict ourselves to just some foundation. There's never enough time for the more complicated designs in day-to-day operations."

That made a bit of sense to Mahkee. Vale seemed like the sort who would enjoy customizing her appearance to fit her personality. "Does Spartan Tanaka ever use 'makeup'?"

The Spartan in question snorted from the rear of Osiris' quarters. She and Buck were playing some sort of game involving small rectangles of rigid paper with complex designs on one side. A gambling activity, probably. It seemed such games were another thing human and sangheili warriors had in common.

"Afraid our SAW gunner's a bit too butch for that sorta thing," Buck said. Tanaka attempted to strike her comrade at this, the male warrior dodging with a chuckle. The fact that she didn't follow up with further assaults indicated to Mahkee that this was part of their camaraderie. The sangheili warrior reflected that the Spartans must share a close bond indeed for such jests to be considered acceptable amongst themselves.

"While I wouldn't have put it in quite those terms," Vale said, using her facial features to give Buck what Mahkee interpreted as a look, "Tanaka is indeed the sort to eschew makeup in general." She turned back to Mahkee. "Really, even I tend to avoid it. I usually only pull out all the stops when I attend formal events.

Mahkee blinked. "I have a hard time picturing human formal events," she admitted without thinking.

Given the way Vale looked at her, Mahkee guessed she had stuck her hoof in her mouth once again. The perceptive human had no doubt discerned the residual bigotry that had plagued her even after the Great Schism.

"Forgive me," the sangheili said, bowing her head slightly in apology. "I meant no offense."

"It's all right," Vale said, moving her lower facial features in what Mahkee had come to recognize as a smile. "I understand." Mahkee got the impression that the human genuinely did understand her. It was...odd. Vale continued, "my experience with formal events comes mostly from my father. He was a diplomat and brought me along on many of his journeys. This sort of thing runs in the family, I guess."

Family.

The word reminded Mahkee of her own loss. It reminded her of her legacy. It reminded her of her cousin.

The emotions must have shown on her face, because Vale turned to her, a look Mahkee interpreted as concern on her features. "Is something wrong, Mahkee?" she asked.

For a moment, the sangheili pilot felt conflicted. She had not confided this part of her life with anyone. Not even what few female sangheili warriors she had met in the last 5 stellar cycles. Making herself vulnerable like this was something she had consciously avoided ever since her family had died.

Then again, she thought, she had entered battle beside the Spartans. They had bled and shed blood together. In a way, they had earned her trust as battle siblings. Besides, they were outsiders and would be leaving Sanghelios soon enough, so there was little danger of Mahkee's reputation being spoiled if they let what she said be known.

Mahkee decided it would be nice to confide in someone again.

"My family is a...complicated subject," she explained. She took a seat on one of the bunks. Vale sat across from her, giving the pilot her undivided attention; she glanced at her fellow Spartans briefly. Mahkee waved away her concern. "Do not worry. They may hear if they wish." Buck and Tanaka abandoned their game.

How to begin? "I lost my family in the Great Schism," she explained. "The jiralhanae carried out their masters' will and butchered everyone I loved. Only a single cousin avoided the slaughter, but he is not a 'Chava and has since joined the Storm. I was the only one of my name to survive." She was worried that one of the Spartans might interrupt with some sort of condolences. To her relief, they simply listened, allowing her to retain her dignity. She felt deeply grateful for that. Mahkee continued, steeling herself for this next revelation. "When we first met, Vale, you asked me about my heritage. You were correct: I am indeed descended from the Arbiter Fal 'Chavamee. The disgraced one, whose rebellion was made an example among my people. His shame was legend. I have made it my purpose to redeem my family's honor in the eyes of my people. That is why I fight." Mahkee let out a sigh. The relief she felt from finally confiding in others was immeasurable.

"I don't get it," Buck said, confused. "The Arbiter's folks know that the Prophets were manipulatin' them from the beginning, right? Shouldn't your ancestor's reputation be the opposite, now? Why ain't he a hero or somethin'?"

Mahkee chuckled cynically. "I have asked myself that very same question countless times over the last several stellar cycles. It seems some are determined to cling to their view of my ancestor, and his descendants, regardless of the shift in their view of the Prophets."

"It's probably a type of projected guilt," Vale said. Mahkee looked at her, cocking her head in confusion. The human explained, "Your people have broken from generations of cultural traditions. Regardless of their understanding of the Prophets' true agenda, there is most likely a part of them that feels guilty about abandoning the customs and ideologies that their ancestors followed for thousands of years. Clinging to the villainous perception of Fal 'Chavamee may be a subconscious push-back against the fall of the Old Ways. A kind of repressed cultural guilt."

There was a silence as the assembled warriors attempted to process what the highly educated diplomat's daughter had just told them. The explanation seemed to make a kind of sense, when they thought about it. It was a complicated subject.

"So what you're sayin' is," Buck offered, "Morons be morons. Right?"

They all burst into laughter. Vale glared playfully at her squadmate. For the first time in a long time, Mahkee felt like she was home.

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Fireteam Osiris was socializing with an alien. Agent Locke watched, glowering, through the security feed he had tapped into. The room he was in was called a 'meditation hall'. It had several one-way windows lining the ceiling to provide a view of the sky, some local flora, and was soundproofed. It was supposed to provide a sense of peace and calm. Locke could find neither, even after locking the door to ensure privacy. He was away from his squad. He normally was, when they weren't on a mission. They tended not to get along with their commanding officer.

The current situation in Osiris' quarters was a good example of why.

Locke never thought he would see humans willingly spending time with a sangheili in a friendly environment. Let alone human soldiers. How could anyone tasked with defending the human race willingly chat with one of those...those animals?

Wait...were they laughing?!

Disgust and revulsion threatened to make Locke vomit. His subordinates were clearly growing far too close with their sangheili hosts. He could see it in their eyes: the growing empathy. The camaraderie.

Locke could feel it growing. In them.

He, by contrast, was keeping things together. He was staying in perspective. They could get lost in their own sentimentality all they wanted. Locke knew the truth. He knew the natural order of things. He knew that all of life was conflict and that if humanity wanted to survive, they would have to dominate all challengers to their supremacy.

The compad continued to shine in his lap. The light made his eyes water as he examined his latest intel and the covert orders from ONI Command. They had been quite a shock, even considering the utter insanity of the last several months.

First, he had discovered that the UNSC had declared the Master Chief Killed in Action. All of human space had been stunned by the loss of its greatest hero. Vigils and ceremonies had been popping up on planets throughout the Inner and Outer colonies. Locke struggled to understand the move.

ONI Command knew that the Master Chief was, in all likelihood, still alive and active. Why would they declare him dead before the mission was actually accomplished? Were they so desperate to mitigate the damage that Blue Team's rebellion might cause that they hoped to pass off the Spartan IIs as impostors if they ever surfaced into the public eye?

It was a question that Locke's superiors clearly felt no obligation to answer. They hadn't even mentioned the move in their latest batch of covert orders for him. They probably hoped to keep him in the dark about it until the mission was complete. He certainly hadn't mentioned to them that he had continued gathering intel about the state of human affairs following his arrival on Sanghelios.

Secrets.

Locke was starting to get tired of secrets.

Surprising as that revelation may have been, it paled in comparison to his latest order. ONI Command had told him to do something even he would never have considered. Something that, if it went wrong, could spark a new war with the former Covenant races. Something that might prove disastrous even if it didn't go wrong.

ONI had ordered Locke to kill the Arbiter.

He was to continue his current path until the Storm Covenant had been defeated and Fireteam Osiris was in a position to take possession of the Guardian. Once that had happened, Locke was to take the earliest opportunity to assassinate the Head of State of the Swords of Sanghelios.

It made sense. Once the Storm Covenant was destroyed, there would be no enemy keeping the sangheili occupied. ONI predictive models had always held that future hostilities with the sangheili were inevitable. War would come. It was a strategically sound to remove unifying military and political figures in advance.

The Swords of Sanghelios was simply too ambitious a movement. Its reforms and cultural changes were too extensive. The very idea of a unified sangheili people following the Great Schism had been ludicrous to begin with. Too much of the old power structure had been destroyed, leading to a sort of institutional anarchy. To say nothing of the rock-bottom national morale that had led a sizable portion of the population to become druggies and shiftless thugs.

The Arbiter had founded the Swords and kept it going through his own reputation and sheer force of will. He made himself the symbol and rallying point of sangheili unification and societal development. It was a remarkable achievement, Locke had to admit, but the sangheili leader had failed to effectively delegate or set up an effective line of succession. He was involved in every aspect of his nation, meaning that they would all be devastated and left drifting without his direction.

Without the Arbiter, the sangheili people would descend into chaos. Various leaders would claim the right to the throne and would wage a brutal civil war over it. The conservatives would fight to restore the theocratic and racist ways of the Old Covenant. The more progressive forces would push for the equality and liberty that the Arbiter seemed to favor. The next war of ideologies would be even more brutal due to its lack of unity. The sangheili would be pushed over the brink into total anarchy.

ONI would then be able to spin a UNSC military intervention as an act of charity and necessity. Humanity only wanted to stabilize the situation, they would say. It was only a temporary occupation, they would assure the critics. The ultimate goal would be to establish a stable democracy that could co-exist peacefully with humanity, they would insist through their talk show puppets and political stooges. All the while they would systematically set up the utter subjugation of the sangheili and the permanent conquest of all of their territories. From Locke's point of view, it should have been an ideal scenario. He should have felt triumphant about the plan.

Instead, all Locke felt was exhaustion.

The thought of dominating the aliens that had taken so much from him, from humanity, no longer brought him pleasure. Maybe it was the mounting exhaustion from his lack of sleep. Maybe it was disorientation from spending so much time fighting alongside supposedly 'friendly' sangheili. Maybe the years upon years of combat had finally driven him insane.

Whatever the cause, Locke was left staring up at the night sky, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable to figure out what the hell he was actually feeling.

Note: We're moving into the home stretch, people. Next chapter begins the siege of Sunaion. The dominoes start to fall once again...

Note: The main growth that the characters of Blue Team undergo in this part of the story involves their relation to the sangheili. Most important are their evolving views on peace vs. co-existence. I tried to have each of the members of Blue Team have their own bonding moments with the sangheili over the course of the story, since that's more emotionally powerful than if I had just included the intellectual arguments 'Khebrem makes in this chapter.

Note: I hope Fred's self-reflection didn't come across as too angsty or out of nowhere. I want to depict the tragedy of the Spartans' lives and how that has affected each of them differently. John retreated into professionalism and letting others make the big choices for him. We see Halsey's death impact him more here because it broke through the shell he'd built up around himself. Linda developed a somewhat cold, stoic personality. Kelly focused on her surviving family and developed a bit of a hatred for the sangheili. Fred, on the other hand, developed a sense of humor to mask how emotionally numb he was becoming. This is pretty complex stuff to pull off. I'd greatly appreciate any feedback into how I'm doing with it.

Note: Mahkee has become more of a window into my version of sangheili post-War culture than I imagined when I started this story. What do you guys think of it?

Note: In Halo canon, ONI has continued to meddle in the affairs of the sangheili post-War. This is a point of frustration among many fans who believe that keeping the Arbiter from establishing a stable society is counter-productive. My explanation has always been the one Locke describes here: ONI believes that future war with the sangheili is inevitable. They want the sangheili to be divided and fighting amongst themselves. That way, humanity would have a much better position when the peace ends. I disagree with this mindset strongly, as I am an idealist more in the line of 'Khebrem here, but it makes sense from ONI's warped and limited perspective. The fact that it keeps coming back to bite humanity in the ass is another reason I think they're full of crap.

Note: Yes, the title of this chapter is a pun. I couldn't resist :)

Thanks for reading. Love you guys.

Slipspace Anomaly