Her decision, Krystal was coming to realize, was not as forthwith as she had convinced herself it would be. She had started the ascent of the slope with confidence and intrigue, and yet for every foot she put forward, her assuredness put one backward. Images flashed in her thoughts, of brutal dismemberment and red-hot rage, tempering her burning curiosity. The bodies she passed along the slope were just a physical reminder of the tenacity and danger of the being she sought to communicate with. And yet even so her keenness had not faded completely. She was no stranger to violence and had become all too used to death. The threat of either would not be enough to dissuade her.
And so, she kept climbing, her determination affirming with each step.
Even so, she nearly flinched when her radio erupted with a familiar, extremely irate voice.
"Krystal, what the fuck are you doing?!"
Ah, her distraction had run its course. She imagined if she looked back, she would have seen a very angry vulpine. Thus, she didn't. and kept her eyes forward.
In tandem, she felt the presence inside the ship ripple, an undulation of starch emotions rushing up from the being within, likely at the sudden explosion of noise and the realization of her approach.
The vixen sighed and reached across her body to the communicator on her wrist, shutting off the device and cutting Fox off mid-rant. For all his concern, his interference would not make her self-imposed task any easier and in fact may jeopardize her success and safety. The situation she was entering required her utter attention and distractions were ill-afforded. She knew he would have words to say to her on her return, and she'd accept suitable chastisement in turn as was certainly deserved. Krystal was not so blind or naïve to not realize what she was doing was inherently foolish. Her actions could result in any number of things, most of which were likely to be unpleasant. And yet, even with that knowledge she continued on undeterred. It was not often that her interests were so self-serving. It was not her nature. But, when such moments did arise, there was little she let stand in her way.
A familiar gap in the ship's hull appeared before her as she crested the artificial hilltop made in the cataclysmic impact of the massive warship, the same Fox and the others had traversed not hours ago, strange how her brush with her own mortality had in itself become a footnote under something she perceived to be of greater significance. Something pulled at her chest, a calling, for what she yet knew not. Whatever it may be, she had no desire to stop it.
The vixen stopped a few meters from the entrance, her boots digging into the gravel as she shifted in place.
Her side throbbed painfully as she took that moment to rest, a reminder of her brush with death, and just how narrowly she had avoided it. Krystal glanced only briefly at the wound, the gauze wrapping tinted a faint pinkish color, before returning her attention forward.
As she did, her breath caught in her throat in a muted gasp and she felt herself take a half-step back in surprise at the shadow that slowly emerged from within the wreckage. The being loomed imposingly inside the darkness of the fallen warship like a specter torn out of a nightmare. And there it lingered for a time before it stepped out into the light, concealing shadows banished by the sun revealing hard metal edges pressed over a well-built form. Her thoughts trickled from her skull as she stared upon the towering figure revealed fully under the warm glow of Fortuna's central star.
Krystal realized in that moment that the creature was far more imposing now that it was conscious and standing under its own power. Though, that could have been in part to the savage length of twisted hull plating it had repurposed into a makeshift weapon. She recalled its blade having been left behind when it had first fallen, and it seemed the being had little wish to be unarmed. A logic she could not fault.
Even so, as it took a step forward, she instinctively took another back as she found herself suddenly submerged in its overwhelming presence. A sense elevated above the material world. There was a power in the air, as if it was… charged, surging with intent. She swore she could feel the residual static sparking across the hairs of her arm. And for a moment, her body was reminded of the need to breath, stilled by the overbearing nature of merely standing close to such a prominent figure.
The creature was a colossus, seven, maybe eight feet in height and broad. Underneath the heavy armor, the black suit bulged, almost obscenely, with muscles that were undoubtedly not unlike corded iron.
Yet for its size she once more felt her unease recede into the furthest reaches of her mind as her examination of the alien deepened. After all it looked as if it had crawled its way out of the darkest depths of perdition. Its armor, what may have once been proud and regal, was like a tattered cloak draped over its broken form. Whatever pigmentation the suit had once possessed had been scorched from the metal, leaving the plates blackened or scoured by mud and vitae. The outer shell held together by strips of twisted steel and scarred so heavily and so deeply that she could not entirely guess at what its original appearance may have been. The only prominent color she could in fact see, was the dark red of its dried blood.
She wondered for a moment how the alien had even survived, regardless of the intervention of herself and that of its lesser kin, but only for a moment as she cast her second set of "eyes" upon the stranger and was awestruck. The core… the center of this creature. It was… radiant. Colors of deep gold and fiery red swirled across the contours of its body, condensed lines of burning light, surging tides of staunch determination and bitter resolve, shadowed by bright sparks of tenacity that glimmered like veins of molten gold. Krystal took a moment to observe the alien in its wholeness. The conflagration if its emotional spectrum like trying to peer into the corona of a star, blinding in intensity.
The moment she spent to comprehend this realization was… indescribable.
She felt her want, her need to understand this creature, like a fierce pull in her stomach, banishing the preceding remnants of her trepidation. The tug became almost physical as she took a somewhat involuntary step forward.
"Greetings, s-stranger." The solitary survivor of a broken world inclined her head ceremoniously, her words slipping past her lips a moment too quickly, and her exhale just shy of breathless, hoping beyond hope that her efforts would not prove to be futile. That very moment she prayed to her ancestors that this meeting would not descend into violence for more than the sake of her physical wellness. Her interests had always been muted; she'd lacked the drive for extraneous affairs outside her profession. Passion was a cold, distant word, like the far-off fragments of her past manifested. But this, this was so very… interesting.
Yet, in the moment the words left her mouth she felt the air shift, the subtlest displacement of pressure noticed only because of her otherworldly nature and her keen eyes. The creature's reaction was subtle, a nearly imperceivable tremor reverberating across its armor plates. Its emotions nevertheless, were far more telling, a surge of frustration and anger boiled past its determination, although to her curiosity its bubbling rage seemed… introspective.
Something inside her warned that this encounter would not be swayed easily with halfhearted diplomacy.
As she wondered how to proceed, where to even begin to establish an effective means of communication with an outwardly hostile being, she unconsciously carried her gaze onwards, passed its decrepit condition and towards its shattered helmet. Past the fractured lens of its golden visor were piercing blue eyes that burned with a lifeless ferocity. A strange, oxymoronic description, but she could define it no other way. There was an animus behind their frigid dullness, a fierce intelligence and predatory cunning that belayed the barbarity she had witnessed in its actions. She beheld, in the depth of its helmet, pale furless skin, before common sense brushed her wayward thoughts aside.
The vixen felt heat rush under her cheeks as she wondered at her idle distraction.
A curious creature indeed.
She was reminded of the swift and furious way in which the Remnant Force Recon had been… dispatched, and took a moment to crush this nascent sensation within her. Interest was healthy, but she felt an excess could be dangerous in this moment.
The creature moved, dragging her attention towards its arms, watching curiously as it set down the twisted blade it carried, the action followed with another spike of emotion, a faint bitterness and sullen resignation that lingered for the breadth of a moment. It took one step backwards and tapped the center of its broken cuirass. It then extended its limb outward and she watched curiously as its armored digits began posing. It took her a few moments to realize the action as a repeating sequence and she was surprised, and elated, to realize she was witnessing hand form communication. The scholar inside her from her days in the monastery was fascinated at the prospect of learning, and she was greatly impressed. Clearly the alien was far more intelligent than its savagery in battle indicated. And if her theory was correct, it had just offered her its name, or perhaps that of its species. Regardless this was a major step forward, and an unexpected one.
Smiling, she slowly raised a hand and pointed at the creature, repeating the sequence at the being and replicating its movements. Of course, she had no way of understanding this quite literally alien sign language, but she could recognize and associate patterns at the least. And in deciding to believe that it had been offering a name, she attributed one for it, an old, familiar name that even now so long after left a warm feeling in her heart at pleasant, painful memories.
Randorn, as the alien now had been named, offered a slight nod, seeming to come to an understanding with her, however minute. Krystal's grin deepened as she felt the faintest spark of satisfaction emanate from deep inside his emotional cortex. The aura the alien gave was very much masculine, and she had no desire to call an intelligent being an it. Nevertheless, the fleeting notion of positivity within him was invariably subsumed by his ever-present anger and suspicion. Randorn pointed at her in turn, and signed a new sequence, her analytical mind memorizing the repetition quickly even as she guessed at the intent, an interrogative.
Name?
Or at least she hoped he was asking for a name. The sequence he used had been quick and succinct, lacking what she might have speculated for more intricate inquiries. Taking a moment to remember what Fay had taught her regarding SSL, she touched her own chest and passed on the series of signs that indicated her name.
Krystal.
Randorn took less than a moment to perfectly repeat her name back at her and she had to resist the urge to release a giddy laugh. When she had woken up to the team's mission alarm, she could have never guessed she'd find herself in such a position.
Suddenly, in an action that brushed her whimsy aside, Randorn lowered himself on a knee.
Curious, she mimicked his posture, watching as he took a finger and began to etch something into the dirt. The image took form quickly under his surprisingly artful talent, some form of winged bird clutching an angular shield, the alien scratching unfamiliar lettering, long lines and hard angles, inside the shield's outline. With the same hand he gestured to the emblem, to himself, and then to the looming wreckage behind him, finishing by flashing a new sequence.
She took a moment to study the symbol, as Randorn seemed patient enough at least to allow her the freedom to do so. The representation was undeniably the illustration of whatever organization he belonged to, she just could not tell if it was the sovereign flag of their people or the emblem of their military, or a million other things it could possibly signify. She could only begin to speculate.
Coming to a decision, she took a steady breath and leaned closer. It was almost amusing to see him bristle, his armor shifting like a ruffled coat of fur as a flash of surprise and indignation seeped from his compacted emotions. It was less so amusing as she watched him reach for the weapon beside him. Nevertheless, she did not stop, and the rising murderous desire in the alien abated as she slowly etched a concurrent image beside his own, a planet within a shield, the organizational logo of the Cornerian Defense Force.
Likewise, she directed his attention to herself and the others down the slope, catching for a moment, the intense stares from her friends and the Federation marines. She nearly sighed. Regardless of the outcome today, she'd be taking some serious heat.
Krystal shifted her position, ignoring the sharp prickle of gravel pressing into her knees and the incessant throbbing of her abdominal injury as she kneeled across from the armored figure, having gained several inches of proximity as she did. This interaction, she had come to realize, was little different from earning the trust of a wild animal. After all, Randorn's base emotions, what little differentiated from the overriding aura of concentration, were not too dissimilar to the predatory animals she had trained with in the mountains hiding the old hermitage. Wariness, distrust, she had worked with this before. Proximity fostered familiarity, and the more familiar she was to this being, the less likely he was to become confrontational. This time however, it was something of a crash course.
He stared at her, his gaze unflinching, and she endured the following silence with a calm, pleasant smile. He was a strange, curious subject in her mind's eye, at moments seemingly inanimate and others virtually charged with energy. It very much seemed as if he was desperate to thunder forward, but did not quite seem to grasp where he was heading. Regardless, for the moment he was still in body if not in mind.
She waited, minutes blending into what seemed like hours until eventually something… flickered, his eyes, pale blue irises shifted with a muted glimmer. Curiosity? Amusement? She couldn't tell. The emotion had whispered across her senses too quickly, the ghost of a ghost. Whatever it had been, he gradually shifted to imitate her posture. His gaze unmoving, adopting a rather eerie figure. Randorn was so perfectly still she could not even see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, though she could faintly hear his exhalation through the broken faceplate.
It looked to her then, that he was content to remain in silence, and she was more than willing to accommodate his passivity. She took his stoicism as an opportunity to think. and she suspected Randorn was as well. Her goal in this moment was communication. The first step to finding answers lied in forming a communicable understanding. Fortunately, Randorn had already extended the first olive branch. Not so fortunately, he seemed in no rush to further that advancement.
She supposed then, that it was up to her to reciprocate.
Krystal broke eye contact, feeling the cool heat of his gaze as she scanned the ground, finding within a moment, a small chunk of granite that had likely been ripped from the dirt when the warship impacted the surface. She picked up the still warm bedrock and held it outward with a friendly smile. Emotions teased at the edges of his concrete focus as he locked eyes with her, and he remained unmoving.
Patience. She counseled herself as a full minute passed with no reaction on Randorn's side. She remained as she was, offering it forward with a relaxed smile. Time passed, and she was starting to wonder whether or not he would ever move, when she noticed a brief flicker of activity, a slight curling of fingers, before he reached out, slow and hesitant, taking the chunk of granite from her outstretched hand. In that action the armored digits of his gauntlet brushed across her palm for all of a moment sending an arc of lightning down her spine. Her shoulders stiffened in that passing moment as his tightened, and he hesitated for half a second before he pulled away, now holding the granite and eyeing her with a heightened sense of curiosity. Taking inspiration from her guest she squashed the sudden turmoil of her emotions, not sure what it was she felt in that instant of contact but unwilling to think of it while still engaged.
She nodded, still smiling and trying to ignore the flutter of her tail, and gestured to her gift, flashing a new sequence.
The realization he came to was visible, a momentary flicker of the eyes and a nod of his own as he pointed at the chunk he held and replicated her movements.
Rock.
Krystal nodded, a rush of elation rising in her chest.
Now they could begin in earnest.
XX-XX-XX
Noble Six was a creature of habit.
To say, that is, that his habit was violence. Onyx had taught him, beaten, burned, and bruised, that violence was the answer. Whether through cunning strategy or visceral, direct confrontation, he had been trained to endure, enact, and propagate violence upon mankind, and its enemies.
So it was that he found himself rather confused…
Conflicted.
Tree. He slowly signed the new permutation of hand signals in response to the strange creature gesturing towards the distant jungle, beyond the crash crater. And he did not know whether to be repulsed, or intrigued by what he suspected was its pleased countenance. It was strange to see an anthropomorphic expression on a vulpine muzzle. The animals he had observed in the past did not possess such fine-tuned articulation. Though perhaps the term "animal" was an egregious misnomer. Regardless, he was uncertain if the expression indicated if it was smiling, or scowling at him. However, judging from the twinkle in its unnervingly human eyes, he suspected it was the former.
Yes! Good! The foxlike creature signed at him excitedly, its scowl/smile widening ever so slightly as it displayed recently taught sequences. It pointed towards itself expectantly, and with a sigh, he signed an increasingly familiar combination.
Cerulean.
Of course, he could tell the sequence was likely the alien's name, but while he could recognize and attribute words to objects, he could not begin to, nor have the patience for, figuring out the creature's name. Although, even he would admit the appellation he had come up with was rather… uninspired.
Still, the alien did not have the context to be offended, just as he could not know what label it had applied to him. In the end he cared little. This little… project, no matter its outcome, would not be wasted time. A delaying action the very least. By entertaining this creature's inane curiosity, he was giving the sergeant more opportunity to gather crucial supplies and materials. He could only hope the ODST was still on task. The lack of radio communication was glaring, and while he was used to operating with little oversight, there was almost always a means of reaching up the chain of command, whether through dead drops or staggered burst transmissions.
The fact he could not even rely on something so simple as a two-way radio had carried a unique impression of powerlessness. Hopefully, the man had not collapsed under his own injuries, or fallen through a hole in the deck, or passed out from exhaustion, or any number of things beyond his control. Six was unused to relying on anyone but himself, the situation was novel, but by no means comfortable.
Noble Six brushed aside his paranoia, as it served no purpose other than a needless distraction. There was a time and place for such things. As is, such a consideration was the least of his apprehensions. Presently he could feel the gaze of the foxlike alien, an ever-present reminder of his continued failure as a spartan and as a human, though he never could quite feel to care for the latter. Since the burning of New Alexandria, the spartan-III had become all too used to making concessions throughout the fall, of justifying excuses under shallow claims of mitigating circumstance, that his survival superseded his reservations. At that time, he believed himself to still be needed. In a way that was true, though he had not yet found probable reason to dismiss his actions after delivering the package.
Now however, in this moment, as he … treated, with this strange creature, so unlike the Covenant and yet fundamentally representing everything he had come to hate, he could not find voice to any excuses. What would Noble say if they could see him now?
Was this not a betrayal of every sacrifice they had made? That humanity as a species had given to hold extinction at bay for just one more day, one more hour?
Where was his righteous anger? His indignation?
When he should have been feeling anything, he felt nothing. He was hollow, all used up, a shell of a man that had never existed. In that moment as he kneeled amidst the wreckage, once more the survivor of better men and women, of another world turned to glass, of another loss, of another failure, he could not find reason to care, to feel. It was fortunate, he reasoned then, that emotion was not essential to survival.
A flicker of movement caught his eye, muscles tightened on instinct, ready to move, to press forward, to attack.
His paranoia remained unrewarded… to his increasing frustration.
Expecting treachery, he was met with peace. Anticipating conflict, he found serenity. Looking for anger and hate, he could only see a persistent smile. This creature seemed enamored with the expression, as twisted and foreign as it appeared on the alien's pronounced snout. Such a countenance was nearly as strange in appearance as the creature wearing it. There was little in his memory to suggest otherwise.
Noble Six was unaccustomed to the act of smiling.
Nevertheless, the strange foxlike creature with deep blue fur and startingly viridian eyes seemed content to familiarize him with the concept, much to his vexation. Every shift of its body, every flick of its tail, he expected to devolve into violence, a hidden blade, a grenade, the crack of a shot from a distant shooter. His mind was in a strange flux of bubbling adrenaline that was at war with his sense of calm. He should have been fighting, instead of peacemaking. Diplomacy was not in the nature of a spartan.
In a way, he supposed, Six was looking for a war he had already been fated to lose.
Noble Six's thoughts wanted to wander to the future. To dwell on the implications of the past few hours, of everything he had seen and all that transpired since he had awoken in the blood and mire aboard the Covenant warship. But he could not afford the interruption, or rather did not want to face it. The present, as always, was far easier to face than the past or the future.
His index finger twitched as the alien shifted its posture, crossing its legs as it sat before him and started signing.
Strangely, he was nearly grateful for the distraction, and there was a small part of him that found all of this rather fascinating, buried of course under the multitudinous layers of his innate mistrust and aimless anger. He was unsure how long he'd been out here with the fox, the majority of which had been spent trying to kit bash some bastard form of sign language. Naming objects had been simple enough, and he dreaded the thought of trying to bridge even fundamental concepts. The time it had taken to mutually understand the simple notion of good and bad was, frankly, embarrassing.
Bring good Six… The creature signed.
The spartan's expression twisted in consternation, bringing a sharp pain to the muscle groups that had been damaged by the caving of his visor. He was not looking forward to extracting fragments of shattered graphene and titanium from his face. In the end it was just another scar.
Confused, he signed a blanket interrogative, a broad question without words.
The fox huffed, though not seemingly in anger, and took a moment to think, before signing again.
Goods Six Delivery. The motions were sharp, pointed, and individual, the alien then making a gesture as if handing over a box. Offer. She pointed to his arm and made the motion of wrapping a gauze, shifting a pawlike hand to her mouth as she opened and closed it repeatedly. He did not need high level thinking to understand the context of that.
He did, however, struggle to understand the intent behind this action.
Assistance. He realized was the word her new signs indicated, or so at least a close approximation. It was an offer, of supplies, food, and medicine. The gesture was uncomplicated, but he found himself struggling on the context. He suppressed the sudden desire to scrub his air, so great was his confusion. The spartan, at that moment, received what felt like his hundredth conundrum that day, each hitting faster and harder than the next.
The expected rush of anger and indignation died stillborn.
He was surprised he felt little from the offer, perhaps other than a sense of bemusement, supposing that perhaps he'd finally reached a point where things no longer astonished him. Rather it was something of a reality check. He couldn't maintain the lie, the thin veneer of normalcy he'd been struggling to justify had finally torn, exposing the insanity of his current existence. He nearly laughed, if not for the fact the sound would have come out dry and hollow, and he'd never been one for humor unlike some of the others.
Truly, he was very far from home, where the aliens offered the olive branch, rather than the sword. What a terrible joke, and at his expense no less.
Unsurprising in the end.
Northing insofar had met expectations.
The spartan felt himself shake his head, an action that was seemingly universal amongst all species. The fox became rather perplexed, clearly surprised at the denial. After all, it was certainly illogical. Even so, receiving what was essentially a disaster relief package from aliens, seemed to be the line he could not cross. Working for mutual survival against a common foe, he could spin favorably to himself. Such blatant humanitarianism however, seemed fundamentally offensive to his very existence.
For the first time the alien frowned, twisted lips and a flash of pearly canines. It gave him a look, and there was something in its gaze that unnerved him. He'd been trained since near birth in reading body language, a necessity when your social circle was composed entirely of power armor and reflective visors. By proxy he had become adept at reading between the lines, of understanding the unspoken. Though he'd found more use for it the skill in, rather than out of battle.
The eyes of this alien were so bewilderingly… expressive, so alive, so human, unlike the reptilian nature of the varied Covenant species and his spartan brethren. He saw empathy, understanding.
And it only fueled his rage.
Six bristled at the very notion that this creature felt it could understand his existence at a passing glance, and a flash of something analogous to anger flared inside him. It would be a cold day in hell before he accepted the pity of an alien, let alone a handout.
The spartan paused, anger receding under his rising disbelief. Anger… indecision… repugnance… when had his thoughts become so expressive? When had he started to care? Emotions rarely given outlet were now rushing to the fore, slipping through the cracks, leaking from his mind like a sieve. Exhaustion was bringing out the worst in him, parts of himself he had long forgone. He thought himself hollow, a husk without a soul. He still hoped that true.
He was not sure he'd survive otherwise.
Revulsion, now aimed inwards, forced a disgusted sigh from his lungs as he crushed the rising sentiments under an avalanche of discipline. Misplaced irritation was as much unbecoming of man as a spartan. He buried them as he did all his emotions and turned his focus on a more profitable avenue of thought, the spartan-III returning to his sketch of the UNSC logo and starting on a new subject.
He would not accept a handout, but he would debase what little pride he possessed for information. They'd find what they need to survive without tangible alien assistance. A fragile and frankly immature ambiguity, but he was becoming used to justifying the irrational. There were things he could not acquire through any other means, at least not in a way that did not threaten his existence. The spartan glanced to his work, a somewhat complete pictogram of a vague star chart. He'd learned to read them in Currahee and mimed the gesture he'd learned as to give or want. A subtext to the sign language he was gradually creating, an abominable consolidation of human and alien cryptograms that was only barely remembered in the worn-out scape of his weary subconscious. Just another sacrifice, and by far the least painful.
They would need to learn where they were if they had any hope of getting to human space alive, even as the idea seemed to become more and more unattainable.
The alien seemed to consider his efforts, likely struggling to parse his intent with what little rapport existed. Thankfully, recognition seemed to cross its features and the creature nodded, almost excitedly. It reached for the device on its arm, and he had to stifle the instinct to reach out and kill it. He was unused to acting so passively near anything not human. He watched its eyes, soft and kind, look away from him and down to the device, before it winced, as a loud voice buzzed from the comm unit.
The thought of striking the fox down did not at once fill him with exhilaration.
Unusual, as killing aliens was one of the few things he could still feel with some consistency.
Words were exchanged, and he found his gaze floating past to the wreckage below, to the platoon of armored soldiers sitting in their little defilade. They looked little different from the other force, though their armor pigmentation appeared indicative of a more traditionally moralist organization as opposed to the dark coloration of those he had struck down in his haze. It occurred to him then that he had likely made himself out as an enemy to the other faction, a rather amusing notion as he knew so little about them.
An enemy of an alien military…
He nearly smiled.
The more things changed, the more they seemed to stay the same. In a way it was almost comforting. At the least he understood hostility, practically welcomed it.
By that rather precipitous metric, this new variety of alien somehow felt even stranger than the Covenant.
His eyes shifted to his guest as it seemed deep in discussion with the other. He caught only brief notes of the language, not quite as guttural as he expected, mostly hard consonants and lilting tones. Different from what he had observed on the Covenant wreck, perhaps indication of a greater cultural divide? Had he the time and inclination he might have given the thought more credence. As one might expect, he didn't.
In any case the alien's voice was not all together… unpleasant.
He was rather accustomed to harsh sounds, the chatter of rifles and the deep thunder of explosions. Or the raw scream of dying men. By comparison her speech was nearly lyrical. He felt his gaze idle lower, running along its figure with a casual observation. Even sitting he could tell the female fox was tall. Not so much as a sangheili but easily more than the average for a human. He roamed over the tight suit. Hard, lean muscles for agility and precision, not unlike the CQC instructor at Currahee who had been a proficient martial artist. He was certain she was in possession of equal skill. His focus landed then on the gauze wrap around her waist, a colored patch indicating a not so superficial injury.
In all she had the appearance of a warrior. That, at the least, he respected.
If needed, her death would be clean.
The absence of voices pulled his attention and he tilted his wandering eye up to find himself similarly observed, pinned under shimmering veridian. He was surprised, yet stared openly, taking in her features, a long snout, familiar, and yet alien, with thin black lips and sharp canines. He'd agree it was certainly less repulsive than mandibles, though he'd never been close enough to anyone that he might have shared such a realization with. He was briefly reminded in that moment, of the stray dog he had once hoped to keep as a child, before he subdued the memory.
The thoughts that came afterward were never pleasant.
Even so his attention returned to her eyes, unsure why but unable to turn away. There seemed to be a shimmering luminosity, like a lantern behind a curtain, piercing in a way that made him feel as if they could perceive the deepest parts of him.
He was unprepared for the sudden and penetrating feeling of vulnerability.
The spartan, unsure how to break free from their locked gaze, was grateful that she was the one to turn away, and he took a breath he had not realized he was holding, and tried not to think of its shortness or the sluggishness of his body. He was no longer skirting the edge of death. Through means he still had yet to process, he had survived, in defiance of the impossible. Not without cost however.
He certainly wouldn't be participating in comprehensive field tactics, or even rudimentary athletics in the near future. He could ignore the aches and the harsh breathing, but his body would not keep up, regardless of his dogged disposition. His future was balanced on a knife's edge, and he was exceedingly unused to being so reliant on outside factors.
The fox, unawares to his internal discourse, offered only a nod of her head and sign of agreement and he felt the beginnings of relief.
The first bit of good news he'd had in several weeks, and the first step in a meaningful direction. Of course, he still had no idea how he was supposed to submit this encounter to HIGHCOM or The Office. New alien life, new technology, and no means of gauging the depth of this new threat.
That'd certainly be his most interesting debrief.
He paused.
Optimism? The spartan considered his thoughts with some perplexity, realizing what he had been assuming. Where had that come from?
It was as if he had forgotten he was going to die.
That, elicited a rather dry chuckle out of him.
Unawares of his gallows humor, the alien across seemed to perk up at the sound, and Six realized he had unwittingly garnered her attention. She shifted, leaning almost imperceptibly in his direction, its smile somehow not as bright as before, Strange, as he knew not why that might have changed. Her head tilted acutely as she studied him, and he could see one of her ears twitching, once more the dog surfaced in his thoughts and he buried the notion deeper.
She signed.
Six… good? For the first time throughout this entire "dialogue", she hesitated.
The spartan needed only a moment to perceive the intent, and a humorlessly bark of laughter ripped out of him unexpectedly, scratching at the dryness of his throat. Every moment it seemed this alien had a new way to surprise him. He was still unused to the strange sentiments of this creature, and perhaps in a way that made her even more alien. Empathy, what a… treat.
No. He signed negatively, smirking sardonically.
He was rather far away from good.
The alien's head shifted even further as her expression finally broke from that damned smile as it frowned heavily. A part of him had thought he'd feel some satisfaction at shattering that guileful mask, of finally casting aside that looming fallacy to peer into the cruelty he knew must exist under the façade. Yet, the emptiness inside him only deepened.
He sighed.
Lately even victory was laced with defeat.
Before either of them could dwell deeper into their thoughts, movement came from downhill.
And in an instant his musing shattered.
The spartan's muscles spasmed, partly in pain, mostly reactionary. Violence scraped at his skin as visions danced across his mind, swift decapitation, forward roll, thrust into abdomen, police weapons and advance. An effective strategy for the Covenant. The method churned in his thoughts, one amidst countless calculations that he processed at superhuman speed. The want to press forward, to kill, to fulfill his purpose, flushed under his flesh like fire, the burning intensity impossible to ignore. And yet something compelled his attention away, a sideways glance at his observer who watched him sedately, eyes burning bright viridian, brighter and more distracting than the haze in his mind, and yet where his thoughts seared like flame.
Her eyes were… warm.
A strange calmness draped over him as he was unfocussed by pools of iridescent jade, sparkling with emotions he'd likely never understand. He felt his hand shift nearly half a centimeter in that moment, as if he could somehow reach out and touch it, feel… it. The sensation lasted for only an instant, but felt an eternity, before reality snapped back into place and he nearly lurched back in shock.
Noble Six exhaled heavily, a slight shudder wracking his body as the sensation of building energy dissipated, like lightning jumping down a rod and plunging into the earth. Hollowness followed, a gaping maw of oblivion in the center of his self. The ache was cavernous, a gnawing desolation that pulled at something at the deepest part of him, a place he'd never fully explored. And yet, when he recalled what his thoughts had suggested, and he matched her demure regard, he was for once, welcoming of the misery.
A figure approached at a cautious pace, and the spartan, consumed by his fluctuant musing, barely gave notice to the creature, something he'd undoubtedly admonish himself for later when he was able to harness the temerity of his thoughts. In the end he had to pull himself away from the object of his fascination, giving some suspicious credence to this new creature.
It was a feline in some form, orange cream fur rife with black spots visible at the hem of its jacket and along its muzzle and neck, like a bobcat, or a lynx. Huge ears like radar dishes flickered at the smallest sound. To his consternation, this individual was also wearing a facsimile of a smile, though twisted into a multifarious smirk that warned him of latent mischief. The feline appeared rather… impish, even to him, and he wondered if this was the beginning of some nefarious plot against him, even if common sense made that seem a far impossibility. Truly, considering the effort these creatures, particularly the blue fox, had and continued to make towards ensuring his survival, made even his taciturn and naturally distrustful mind find the notion nonsensical.
The cat looked his way and flashed its teeth, the spartan forcing himself to recognize the expression as a smile and not a scowl, crushing the sudden surge of murderous intent that started to bubble forth. He usually did not suffer the presence of aliens, certainly not ones so intrepid. In response, in an action that surprised him the fox grabbed a rock and whipped the pebble at the feline like a shot from a sling, the small stone bouncing off the side of its head with a respectable velocity. The creature yelped and stumbled back, glancing at its companion aghast, as she stood up and began to belt out a slurry of unfamiliar words, finger darted forward accusatorily like a dagger. Even he did not need a comprehensive understanding of the language to know they were scathing.
The spartan rather quickly found himself playing bemused spectator to the whole sordid affair, the two now engaged in a heated diatribe as if a half dead spartan was not kneeling across from them. The situation he now found himself in was simply… surreal.
Something tore across his lips near unnoticed, a twisted, gnarled thing that tugged painfully at his wounds. The spartan brushed a hand across the chin of his helmet, confused, until he realized what had taken form.
A smile.
Strange… Noble Six hummed thoughtfully to himself. He knew what it was, intrinsically, and yet he did not know why. In that moment he could not fathom the reason for its brief existence, the mystifying expression passing as quickly as it formed, leaving him feeling undeniably perplexed. It was something he decided to dwell on at a separate time, as the alien's ceased their bickering and the new arrival began casting dubious looks in his direction.
The blue fox - Azure as he'd poorly named it - jabbed the cat in the ribs, who let out an airless gasp of exasperation as she dropped the object she'd been carrying. Azure deftly snatched it from the air and after looking his way, offered to pass it over.
Six accepted the item carefully, still instinctively wary of foul play, only half leveraging his attention towards the electronic slate in his hand. When no first strike occurred from the other party, he transferred most of his focus to the device. He was as of yet still unsure whether or not he should be disappointed.
At first glance he could tell it was a portable computer of the likes that was currently strapped to his bracer, though different in that it was still functional and very much not broken. More than that it was strange in its familiarity. Covenant technology was, by association, esoteric. Whether through ostentatious design or some unknowable alien purpose, their technology was usually senselessly convoluted and seemingly pointlessly complicated, as if they derived some satisfaction at unnecessary pomposity.
This handheld computer was sleek, silver, and in all sense, practical. Rectangular, with a transparent screen and ridged buttons for manual input. Though it was practically swallowed by his hand. He could have mistaken it for an ONI TACPAD, if not for the bright silver sheen. The Office always catered to black.
The backlighting of the screen glowed in the orange hue of the setting sun, and the spartan briefly wondered if he would still be alive when night fell. It was an interesting thing to consider, if rather oblique, though his attention was soon occupied by the image on the screen.
It appeared his efforts at communication had not been fruitless and the spartan nearly felt the beginnings of hope as he took a careful look at the star chart on the screen. He studied the stellar constellations and searched for memorable stars as he recalled his studies at Currahee. He matched the chart with what he membered, cross-referencing like constellations and running silent calculations to account for stellar drift. As numbers scrawled across his mind the spartan felt something inside him shift.
Noble Six paused.
Strange.
His mathematic comprehension was at collegiate level. He was accustomed to high level arithmetic as a pilot and as sniper, and he was never wrong. But this time… something must have been off with his formula. Considering his extreme exhaustion and loss of blood, this could be a first. The III looked to the pad with the chart and began again, running the same formula at a much slower, attentive pace.
And as he again calculated the variables, arriving at the same numbers…
Six hunched forwards, feeling as if he'd taken a 90mm tungsten shell to the torso at point blank. The pressure squeezing his lungs and slamming into his shoulders. He looked up the sky, at the stars only now peering through the fading light. He'd thought the slispace detonation had sent him spiraling across the cosmos. But the stars… Their placement…
The spartan felt his head shaking, as if his obstinance could somehow alter causality. As if the stars were not familiar, as if he had not seen them what seemed like mere hours ago.
Epsilon Eridani…
He wasn't lost.
Tribute…
He was home.
Math did not lie, and he was sure his numbers were right. The explosion had not sent them through space, or so at least not unilaterally. The tenuous goal that had been stringing along his will, pushing him forward in the face of relentless adversity, had been pulled out from under him.
The spartan, in that moment, perceived a sudden and profound sense of weightlessness.
The realization struck him like a grave hammer to the back of the head. He jilted forward, lurching to his feet, the makeshift blade at his side finding a home in his gauntlet, the metal groaning as it was warped and contorted until eventually it snapped.
The aliens gave start at his sudden movement, his boot crushing the electronic slat he had so carelessly discarded as he stepped back on it. The one who came second reached for the rifle on its sling, but the spartans thoughts were distracted, spinning, and he hardly noticed the hostile reaction. The first jumped quickly to its feet, its expression nauseatingly sympathetic, as if it somehow comprehended the vortex cleaving the sanctity of his headspace and tearing at his sanity.
The desire flushed under his skin with renewed vigor, the thought to lash out, to bury his confliction through vicious conflict, a vehement nagging desire to be carried away by the sentiment. Yet… a glance at those eyes turned his hate into gorge.
He couldn't see!
The world was spinning and he could not tell the sky from the earth. Another step backward sent him hurtling, his breathing rapid and heavy as the shallow patter of his breath bounced wildly in his helmet. Deafening. It was all he could hear, devouring his perception with abandon.
Everything was rushing and blending together, colors swirling into putrid eddies, the scent of blood and meat filled his nose alongside the char of ionized flesh. He turned to the wreck, but found himself dropping to a knee as a gut tearing sensation rose from his stomach like fire. Something hot and thick erupted from his throat, steaming in his helmet as it splattered across and spewed out of his fractured visor.
Blood, hot and viscous, drippled from his lips and he could feel the tickle of his salivary glands as bile and spit pooled under his tongue.
He heaved, and crimson filled his vision and his vision darkened. Adrenaline tore through his ravaged body, spiking his heart rate further and he felt it skip a beat as the battered muscle threatened to enter cardiac arrest. His lungs were tight and he was choking on nothing. He grappled at his helmet, subconsciously attempting to smother his mouth to stop himself from retching. But his bloodied gauntlet slipped on the smooth metal, smearing a red tint through his already obscured faceplate.
He just needed to breathe.
His fingers dug into the hem of his helmet, searching frantically for the release, slick with blood and scrabbling at the metal feverishly. He felt it as it happened, as his composure, cultured over nearly two decades, began to crack.
A shadow rushed at the edge of his obscured vision, a weight leaning into the earth beside him, and he felt several light points of pressure on his neck, trailing up to meet his grasping gauntlet at his throat. There was a soft click and the coffin around his skull was lifted away. His first intake of free, clean air was godly, the evening wind cooling his heated skin. And even though his eyes were open he still could not see, the world was blurry, out of focus.
And then he felt it.
As his head sagged, as the realities of his life crashed against him, he was caught, supported. His cheeks cushioned in soft warmth that tickled at his heated flesh. The pressure was tight, but not uncomfortable and as he looked forward the raging storm of the world was brushed aside, ushered away in a tide of chipped jade.
He focused on the singular note of color, centering his existence around the unwavering green shade that swallowed his vision so completely. His thoughts began to return, driven, focused… clear. The cracks in his founding aspects were sutured. His emotions centered. Slowly, other colors returned, soft blue and mellow cream, whirling into focus.
The visage of an alien stared back at him, hair as blue as the sea backlit by the orange halo of a setting sun, expression split into a calming smile, eyes alight with an enigmatic twinkle that bored to the heart of him. Something inside the spartan twinged.
And Noble Six found, in that moment, that he did not hate that smile.
AN: Hello and surprise readers! I bet you all did not expect an update till 2022 ha! However, I was utterly inspired by the overwhelmingly positive response and delightful feedback for the last chapter that I was able to wrangle my muse and put it to work! I am very glad you guys are enjoying this rewrite. Though in truth it was probably also in part to the upcoming release for Halo Infinite that kicked my muse in the pants. This chapter is a little slower than you might expect and really heavy on the character interaction. Let met tell you having a language barrier is a real son of a bitch and I hope I am being convincing in the handling of the situation. Expect the next chapter to be as equally intense. If things go according to plan the next chapter will tie up the first contact situation and begin to lean into the story proper. Other characters will return to the stage and the cogs under the floor will begin turning. This is the beginnings of the second Lylat war, roughly canonically a year or so after the events of Star Fox Adventures and leading into Assault. Unlike before this will be the start of the war, and there are shadows in the dark, and a dark Legacy that will be unveiled.
Also, after some thought I decided to go against the discord idea, instead I am thinking of making a blog, so I can drop occasional updates and status confirmations. I figure it is more suited for the role of communication and less of a hassle. So a big thanks to Sabrefox for the suggestion! Also, if we're lucky. I am going to try and get the next chapter out before the new year.
As always, your support, through favorites, follows, and those luscious reviews, are the lifeblood of my inspiration.
Drake