Of Mice and Men

Noble Six was a spartan-III supersoldier, bred to campaign against a numerically and technologically superior empire of extraterrestrial religious fanatics striving relentlessly for the indiscriminate eradication of mankind. He'd seen and been part of heinous acts and persecution against his own species, willing and trained to go to any length to complete his mission. He'd nearly killed more targets in his service than days he'd been alive. And only most of them had been alien.

At a young age he'd been beaten, broken, and abused by the harshest instructors in the most unforgiving environments. He had spent countless hours studying military theory and underwent endless and rigorous training exercises designed to hone him and his fellow candidates into living weapons. He'd watched as the weakest amongst their number fell away like grass clippings, killed in brutal exercises or removed by unforgiving instructors that considered them unworthy of the mantle they were to assume.

And of the many, a mere three hundred were left at the end, three hundred who were yet still children, but only in body. And even that was not to last as they were introduced to the next stage of the project. Nine months they had endured changes prior to the final procedure, nurtured on regular injections of human growth hormone and varied supplements intended to prepare them for the process. The augmentations had been, from what little information had been offered to them, refined after the success of the spartan IIs. Once potentially fatal with numerous malignant defects, it no longer carried such a steep price and would, as the doctors explained, make them in fact superior to their predecessors.

This of course was a point of contention between the then current and past heads of the spartan project. But Six had never really given a damn about such triviality. Compared to the war at large, such infighting seemed… petty. Office politics were beyond him, and he had far more important concerns than irreverent debates. He had been trained to kill, and he strived to be an apex killer in a profession populous with consummate professionals. And for his effort he had been, amongst his third generation peers, hailed as an impassive instrument of finely tuned slaughter. It was this that had initially drawn ONI's attention, and what eventually spared him from the disaster that was Operation: TORPEDO. In his work for naval intelligence he had learned to navigate the backroom interoffice espionage, and in that he could attribute his survival to his entrenched impartiality.

It was a bitter irony, then, that he found himself to be inundated by contentious dispute, a fierce debate of his conception. In truth it was not uncommon for him to be his own greatest detractor. He had come to rely on his misgivings to keep his mental acuity sharp and focused. Playing various factors against himself in theoretical considerations was a means usually undertaken to pass the time between deployments or postulate on the enactment of certain organizational strategies in operational theaters.

But this time his criticism was not so much a personal assessment of government policy or strategic positioning, as his disquiet about his newfound tolerance towards alien species, particular the ones responsible for the spirited attempt at humanity's obliteration. Recently he was forced to make that particular distinction, as the proportion of extraterrestrial species seemed to have doubled within the past hours.

All of his training, the hardening of years of brutal warfare, enduring the spite of his fellow humans based merely on the circumstance of his existence, none of that had prepared him for the sheer absurdity that had taken control of his life, and the spartan now struggled to simply keep ahold of the reigns.

"Human!" Barked the very creature that was largely responsible for this newest indignity thrust upon his existence, "this way!"

Noble Six, a spartan-III supersoldier dedicated to a tireless war against a vast alien empire, a resolute bulwark against mankind's extermination, a merchant of death personified for all things inhuman, shouldered his weapon and followed his bitter rival down a small, unassuming corridor aboard this sprawling alien warship.

The sangheili was quite insistent in this alteration in their route, the third such deviation undertaken since they fled from these new creatures scouring the Covenant starship. The fact that the only living creatures they encountered thus far were these new contenders was reason enough for Six to be warry at the concept of a violent altercation. If they could handle Covenant forces in close quarters then they were a threat that could not be underestimated, which was why, as their options continued to dwindle, that his trepidation continued to rise. As a man that had just settled on not dying, he was not entirely enthused about his current prospects. Bleak was a word that could not accurately measure the severity of the situation.

The first hindrance in their journey had been in part to a blockage in the hall, which was in actuality the hall itself. What might have caused the collapse was something the spartan did not know, but stowed the information regardless. Anything that might help explain the where's and why's of his current predicament could not be overlooked.

The second obstacle was not as material, and had answered only one of his many questions, leading also to the existence of the third and most recent impediment.

Whoever these most recent aliens were, they were crawling all over this damn ship.

The spartan grimaced, brushing a thumb across the foregrip of his rifle, a nervous tick he had developed in the program that had yet to be fully purged from his system. He glanced in the opposing direction, towards the collection of lights sweeping across the increasingly narrow and oppressive corridors, and released a low growl that had been slowly gaining traction inside him at the continued onslaught of delays.

Patience was a virtue; one Noble Six had intimately come familiar with. Nevertheless these perturbing circumstances were beyond even everything he had been prepared for. He had been trained to fight exactly one interstellar alien empire, subordinated of course, by various human insurgencies. He was, as it were, unprepared to effectively combat such an expansive and undisclosed threat.

And now it seemed his hand would be forced.

"You said that was our last chance to get to the hanger."

"We will just have to find another way." The zealot marshal assured him in a deafening whisper, though judging from the inflection he was not entirely confident. "Perhaps if we turn back… maybe four intersections ago." The alien looked back uncertainly, only to hear the human scoff.

"What, the one buried under eight tons of metal scrap?" Six interposed hotly, his infuriated retraction ejecting from his pursed lips in a quiet hiss. Motion in his hands transferred, the spartan flicking the pin of the fire selector as he looked back down the path they had taken previous, now illuminated by several gun mounted lights and hushed voices. Backtracking had just become a nonviable option.

Semi

Auto

Semi

Auto

Semi

Auto

Auto…

"Unlikely…" The spartan muttered, a low but expressive sigh of irritated resignation escaping through the frayed cracks in his tattered patience. Tilting his weapon at an angle, he pulled back on the charging handle to examine the receiver and the metallic brass casing within, ensuring for the thousandth time that it was free from any biological… debris. Humanity's arsenal may have boasted universal reliability, but given the abuse his equipment had suffered through for months of relentless warfare on Reach, he would not be surprised if a little alien blood resulted in a sudden misfire. The MA37 was a rifleman's workhorse, mass produced and personally vetted by every soldier who ever held it. You could drag the rifle through blood, mud, and gore and it would still come out spitting fire at anything not dressed in olive drab.

This particular weapon, however, looked much like he imagined himself to appear, burnt, bloodied, and battered. Its titanium composite frame was warped and bent, the ammo counter flickered through a cracked screen, and its barrel was worn by repeated use. In the hands of a spartan it had been pushed to its factory limitations and he reckoned it still had some mileage on it.

The sound it made as he snapped the charging handle closed drew the sangheili's attention, and the lumbering bulk of the alien shifted as the marshal looked towards the source of the noise, then its cause. The saurian's mandibles twitched in facsimile of a grimace, although he did not appear all together troubled by the idea of confrontation, only perhaps, that it had taken this long to arrive.

Noble Six might not have given a damn if these new aliens killed the elite's comrades; in fact he was rather enjoying the satirical irony of this turnabout. Yet, it seemed, that his was an unpopular opinion and unworthy of likeminded consideration.

The spartan might have shrugged, if he cared to.

"Through then?" He asked tonelessly, knowing that given the option, his current meat shield had little desire to preclude hostilities. And for this one instance, he tended to agree, if only as a result that he could see no other feasible alternative. They had an arrangement of sorts, undoubtedly an atypical agreement, given their respective allegiances, but one born of necessity nonetheless.

Noble Six would refrain from wanton slaughter, provided he was given access to a suitable craft capable of navigation in hard vacuum. He doubted at the moment that there was anything left capable of slipspace travel. Theirs was an uneasy alliance, held together not by trust, but the unassuming reality of their situation. And he doubted its verity would hold if they encountered any living Covenant forces, or so at least another of its kind. Sangheili were remarkably stubborn, and it did not bode well on his chances that the first somewhat agreeable elite he came across had already attempted to end his life on several separate occasions. As luck would have it, and much to his satisfaction, they had not chanced upon any other survivors.

The elite nodded in agreement after a moment of silent calculation, and hefted the slim, abstract form of his plasma rifle. "We shall cleave through the heart of these beasts!" The marshal warbled to itself and pressed forward towards the unfortunate creatures blocking them from their destination, unawares as to the impending vehicle of fanatical rage that was soon to fall upon them. "Let these creatures not stand in our way, abomination!"

Noble Six stepped aside as nearly a half ton of pissed off saurian thundered gracelessly down the corridor, foregoing all sense of established sensible discretion he had strived so hard to cultivate. Damn sangheili were always a pain in the ass, even as allies it seemed. They had no propriety, no nuance. And now instead of a well-executed ambush, they were literally running into a firefight, with no Intel and no cover.

"Prick…" The spartan grumbled unenthusiastically to himself as he turned to follow with no small measure of reluctance.

Well he might die… Six mused optimistically as he set his rifle stock against his shoulder, ready to enter combat with more poise than his antagonistic companion. He contemplated, briefly, on the significance of the impeding conflict, of the possible repercussions of engaging a previously unknown faction, at least until his inherent bigotry asserted itself and bolted down any concerns on the legality of his predicament. In his experience there was no such thing as a decent alien, and he certainly had no interest in being proved wrong.

Sticking to the shadows, a task made easier by the muted color tones of his armor, the spartan approached at a sedate pace, utilizing the split lip's impropriety to gain some kind of intelligence about his adversaries.

Truthfully it was, to some extent, humorous to see these aliens experience firsthand what it was like to suddenly come across a rampaging sangheili zealot. It was, also, somewhat interesting to be on the opposite end of the spectrum.

Just this once he'd allow himself to enjoy it.

XX-XX-XX

Sergeant Lanus "Average" Mcgoyle was, as his nickname implied, utterly average, had been all his life. Average grades, average job, average military career, average wife. He prided himself on being wholly mediocre. And, on the poison choked world of Venom, mediocre was nothing to scoff at. He endured the friendly teasing of his subordinates good-naturedly, and was proud of the moniker they'd bestowed upon him.

Sure nothing amazing had ever happened to him, but nothing horrible either. All of his kids were cancer free and his wife, while plain to the eyes of most, was the only female he'd ever want.

Sergeant Mcgoyle didn't ask for anything, and always followed orders to the letter, to the betterment of his military career and for his own survival. He never took risks, never gave a brash order and was not above considering retreat or surrender as viable options. Unlike most of his glory hunting peers, while ready and willing to give his life for a better future for his children, he would also prefer to be alive to see it.

This was why, as he led his unit through the dark corridors of a crashed alien ship, he wondered just how he had arrived at this point.

"Takio…" The short statured canid hissed the name of his corporal across SquadComm; fist clenched and raised high for his fireteam to see as he took a knee. Eight soldiers under his command replicated his movement as he waited for the ninth to make her way up the line.

"Yes Sergeant?" The lithe mongoose asked as she took position beside him, her usually twitchy expression shielded underneath the bulky HAZOP helmet they had all been issued for their mission.

Mcgoyle did not answer quickly, attempting again to pierce the darkness with his helmet's night vision filter. But as always, Remnant support equipment left much to be desired. As it was, he considered himself lucky enough to be able to see more than a few meters in front of him. He could have of course used the flashlights mounted to the side of his helmet and under the barrel of his blaster, they did exist for a reason, but he had not lived this long by being foolhardy. Caution was the word of the day, and these aliens would be more liable to see them by the flashlight beams long before he himself might take notice.

"Sir?" Takio whispered aside him, still waiting to learn why she had been brought up from the rear of the line.

"Take Reddings and Finhard and post up in the corridor behind us, keep watch for any sign of Unit Three, or any of these aliens." He jutted his head forward indicatively. "I'll continue up to the next intersection. If everything's all clear I'll pass the word for you to join us."

He hadn't volunteered for this operation, and he'd be damned if he got killed on a mission he didn't at least sign up for. Of the fifteen fireteams picked for this task, he was the only one that had not requested it. As it turned out, having a record for completing difficult missions with zero fatalities gave command the impression that he was not average, but actually above average at his job.

Now here he was, deep in the bowels of ship potentially bursting with hostile aliens. He'd seen the footage prior to their insertion, he knew how dangerous the larger creatures could be. Sure these corridors were surprisingly commodious for a space fairing vessel, but that did not mean he wanted to stumble across one of those lumbering mantis jawed reptiles in close quarters. They seemed rather… fond, of melee. As it so happened he was rather fond of his limbs, himself. And just as rather have them stay attached to his body like they belonged.

He remained motionless, even as Takio grabbed her pair of sentries and withdrew. Mcgoyle glanced at the tactical computer on his forearm, intently studying the deep scan of the ship's layout, given so courteously from a hijacked Federation satellite. He reviewed his objective, an unassuming section of corridor roughly a kilometer's distance from his current holdup, and pat down his armor for the uncomfortable bulk of the demolition charge strapped to his side just under his ribs.

The idea of carrying a weaponized G-diffusion core was… unpleasant. Considering G tech was temperamental at the best of times, the fact he was transporting a device that had been purposefully jury-rigged into a warhead with the equivalent yield of twenty nova bombs… Well he wasn't exactly sitting pretty. Understandably, he did his best to ignore the knowledge that he was just one of ten other bomb carriers, and that any minute he might be reduced into his constituent atoms.

It was the job of the other five fireteams to, in theory, keep any lingering alien forces distracted and make off with anything that seemed technologically valuable.

"Sergeant, orders?"

A whispered voice over the squad's net shook him from his troubled thoughts, and he looked to his mission clock, realizing that they only had a half hour to complete their objective and make it to the rendezvous, or else they'd be left behind with plenty of time to have front row seats to the greatest pyrotechnic lightshow in decades.

"Move out." Sergeant Mcgoyle signaled his team to resume their previous pace, hoping that his uncertainty hadn't been heard in his voice. Right now all he had to do was cross a kilometer of tight corridors, deal with any aliens that might intercede, plant the device, and make the trip back to the LZ, within the next thirty minutes.

No pressure.

XX-XX-XX

Nipnup shuffled his claws nervously. The fight outside the ship was not turning in their favor. These not-humans seemed determined to win the battle. And even to the eyes of an unggoy it was clear that it would not be long till the not-humans had their way. The shipmaster had called in all the reserves, what sorry few they were, mostly the wounded or the more cowardly of his brothers.

Not that it made much of a difference.

The not-humans had every advantage, better positioning, precise and deadly artillery support, more soldiers than his poor education could count, and access to armored vehicles with clear lanes of fire. Not that a humble unggoy such as himself could ever hope to match the tactical superiority of his masters. The shipmaster must know what he was doing, even if Nipnup might have disagreed with his current strategies.

It seemed that the shipmaster was still handling this battle as if they were the superior force. He refused to give ground and gave no forethought to the terrain. While the wraiths were powerful siege weapons they suffered on the front lines, where the uneven topography slowed their hover treads and allowed the deadly accurate anti-vehicle weapons of the not-humans to focus down their targets with concentrated volleys. Nipnup would have kept them to the rear, where kig-yar sharpshooters could have relayed coordinates for coordinated bombardments.

Not that it was his place to suggest such a thing. Clearly the shipmaster had a plan that was far too complex for his primitive mind.

The front line was the greatest example. The shipmaster must have had a reason to direct his brothers in fierce counter assaults against securely fortified positions. There was magnificence to their struggle, though Nipnup could not see the purpose as they were cut down by focused attacks, and blasted by explosives. Surely they would have made better use as leaders, to bolster the morale of their lesser kin.

Not that he had the right to question his betters.

Nipnup twiddled his foreclaws anxiously.

The unggoy glanced at the young female behind him and his small group of gathered brothers he had brought together to help him on his quest. If things continued as they were, he wouldn't be able to keep his ward safe once the not-humans broke through the lines. And judging from the movement beyond the tree line, they were sure to be making their final push shortly.

He hummed thoughtfully, fretfully, as he glanced towards the fierce battle, and the battered hanger filled with wreckage and bodies.

They certainly couldn't head towards the danger. That would just be plain stupid. Nor could they just wait here. He doubted the not-humans would treat them well should they surrender. That was a risk he could not afford to take.

And as his eyes wandered, he came upon his solution.

If they could not go forwards or backwards, there was another option.

Upwards.

XX-XX-XX

The Last Psalm had once been a noble engine of war, participant to more than a hundred decisive battles through its lustrous service in the Fleet of Particular Justice. Yet war had not been its sole purpose. The battlecruiser had played host to San'Shyuum dignitaries and prestigious sangheili luminaries traveling through dangerous space on missions of peace and goodwill to the often conflicting species of their vast empire. The Great Journey had unified their peoples, but even with such a divine goal, there was room enough for internal strife.

The minds of the Covenant's many member races were as divergent as their biology, and each often had their own interpretation of the faith. Councilors were often needed to correct any presumption and ensure a lasting peace. This task was frequently helmed by lesser prophets from the Ministry of Kindly Subjugation. And The Last Psalm had been their favored means of transportation.

Ju'das had forged many fond memories aboard this vessel spanned across many pleasant solar cycles. Although his writ of service had been secured by the shipmaster of the Journey's End more recently, he yet favored his work for the ministry. And, in perhaps the greatest irony of his long life, it was this that had been what first opened his eyes to the… inconsistences of their faith.

Regardless of his persuasions in concern to his religion, this ship remained a high point in his long memory, a time he could reflect upon and not feel the dread harbinger of shame whisper across his mind, before the unspoken questions and doubt that could not be shaken.

So it was, that he decided the abomination could forgive him if he seemed somewhat overzealous in enacting his righteous purgation of the foul creatures that dared fleece his old home like a craven flock of filthy kig-yar pirates. If they so desired to pillage the dead and scavenge from the once mighty warship of stalwart faith, then he deemed it only fitting that they suffer the consequence of their heinous acts.

Despite the century of zealousy he had cast aside to create this tenuous alliance with the human demon, and all the conflicted thoughts such an action had been weighed upon his conscious, Ju'das was still well enough in mind to know that his encroaching action would be a detriment to the long term success of their ill begotten plans. Despite what the abomination might believe, discretion was a word that held familiarity. He had not lived as long as he had and ascended through the rank and file on pure fanaticism alone. Unlike most of his kind, he had a sense for the covert, to know when to play ones hand and when to fold, as far as the human saying went.

He had been a ranger long before he became a marshal, and in that field he had found a calling of sorts. His best work, if he were to be so bold as to claim. Nevertheless, in spite of all this, of all his experience and intelligence, the beating hearts of a warrior still thundered in his chest, and his pride, what little was left, could not stand this injustice, could not abide for a moment longer these filthy heathens that thought they could rummage through the carcass of this once mighty starship and not face violent and immediate repercussion.

Ju'das felt his blood sing and his hearts thunder as he charged down the corridor, a fierce cry for retribution pumping through his lungs as he thrust his plasma rifle towards the startled pack of alien creatures and clenched the haptic mechanism that controlled the violent function of the device.

At his command a flurry of semi-spherical blobs of plasmatic matter spewed from the containment nozzle, falling upon the panicked beings with merciless fury. To their credit they acted swiftly, if uncoordinated, and the vaguely humanlike weapons they held in their appendages snapped off a halfhearted counterattack.

The sangheili marshal let the blows land, confident in his armor's ability to protect him from harm. The munition, primitive at least to his eye, was nonetheless surprising, as his shield's absorbed several bolts of directed energy, much like the nascent devices the humans had most recently attempted to employ, yet not nearly as effective.

He let out a boisterous bellow at their folly as the once vast distance between him and his prey shrunk into less than a few feet.

And then he was upon them.

Ju'das reached out, snatching one of the creatures by the collar of its combat harness, and thrust it bodily into the nearest nanolaminate wall. Several short range impacts trailed up his side, but he ignored this as he watched, satisfied, as his quarry's helmet and then skull shattered under the immense force, spraying blood, bone, and brains against his shields.

He hoisted the headless corpse, loosening his grip before thrusting it to the fore, sending the lifeless husk to slam into one of its compatriots as another flurry of shots connected with his shields that chose that moment to expire.

Uttering a quick bark in surprise, taken aback by how quickly the primitive energy weaponry had overcome the highly advanced shields issued to officers of his ranking, Ju'das took a half step back as his rifle hissed and spat. Another creature fell over, an inarticulate scream carried over its helm's external speaker as it clutched its molten torso plate, the merciless heat of the plasma weapon devouring its internals. The aliens demise was quickly shadowed by another, although bereft of the previous' theatrics as the body merely slumped to the ground, its helmet a dissolved crater of twisted flesh and metal.

Yet despite the rapid casualties inflicted upon the creatures their counter assault remained startlingly effective and Ju'das grunted as a series of burning hotspots struck his rightmost side. And though mildly discomforting, his armor held and he was quick to return the favor, cutting down another pair with deadly accurate plasma fire, receiving in turn a fusillade of combined fire that nearly pushed him back with its fury.

The battle was brutal in the coverless corridor and at such short range there was no maneuvering out of the way. Ju'das could feel the reactive plates harden as his armor tried its best to absorb the fierce lashing of directed energy. Crafted with nanolaminate and rare forerunner alloys, it had been meant to endure incredible punishment. Even so overbearing onslaught of coordinated fire from these aliens was pushing his armor systems to the limit.

At that moment, as Ju'das stumbled backwards his combat harness scorched and perforated with cracks, he finally realized that he was alone. The abomination had not joined in his assault, perhaps hoping for his demise, or using his brashness as an opportune distraction to slip away and find his own way out.

Ju'das was… surprised. Not at the betrayal, but at how much it stung. He had thought the abomination, despite all of its detractions, to be honorable. He had thought it noble enough to uphold their bargain. But now it seemed he had been played the fool. Considering the depravity it had willing resorted to, this should have been all but expected.

Now he was going to die a most ignoble death.

The sangheili marshal growled in pain, his cheek burned by a passing burst of energy. Gathering his thoughts and shielding his head with a raised arm, he brought down another of the creatures with a burst of fire, avowing to at least sell his life as was proper for his standing.

And then one of the aliens screamed as a massive figured leaped forward out of the shadow, as if manifested by the sheer bitterness of his rage. A glint of metal flashed briefly before it vanished into the back of the alien's helmet, its exclamation of pained surprise silenced harshly as its visor splintered, the tip of a blade erupting out the front. The spartan, now fully revealed in the full glory of his blood soaked and battered armor, grasped the back of the dead thing's head and pressed forward, disentangling it from his knife. As the body collapsed he snatched its weapon out of the air and held it one-handed, hosing the corridor in bright red blasts of energy. The attack was much like the character of its designer, swift, brutal, and unrelenting. The remaining three creatures had no chance to escape, and fell quickly under the surprise assault.

Then there was silence.

Ju'das watched the abomination, hesitant, conflicted.

The human warrior glanced at the alien rifle, barrel still smoldering, and let it fall. Not a moment passed before he sprung into motion, crouching beside the closest corpse and roughly hoisting the body by the crater punched into its chestplate. The sangheili could see no empathy, no regard for the dead as he slammed the carcass against the wall and stripped its equipment with ruthless apathy. Disturbed by the human's abject indifference and furious single-minded drive, yet nonetheless intrigued as to the enigmatic nature of the spartan's mind, he continued to observe.

And he would be remiss to not admit that he was fascinated by the abomination's efficiency, reducing the alien's armor into its component parts within the span of a minute, stacking the plates to the side before lastly removing the corpse's helmet. Finally, at this juncture, he gave pause, and for a moment Ju'das almost thought he saw recognition in the spartan's otherwise unreadable body language. But he was certain he was just assuming, as these creatures were clearly alien not only to himself but to the human.

The sangheili marshal, gathering his bearing and tending the dull throb in his side with a tender hand, stepped over the bodies littering the corridor to stand in position to look over the abomination's shoulder, interested in seeing what manner of foe they now faced. It was telling then, how affected the human warrior was that he did not immediately threaten or otherwise acknowledge his presence so close to his unguarded back. Thus he followed the abomination's attention to the rather bizarre nature of these creatures.

The shape of its skull was not entirely unlike a kig-yar, elongated with a narrow, protruding jaw like the pack hunting animals that roved the forests of his family's keep, though disparate in that it was not covered in hardened scales but a fine coat of greyish fur like a doarmir. A pair of eyes, once sharp and keen, but now dull with death, stared past its long snout, and the structure of its jaws and teeth gave credence to the supposition that it was a predatory species, and therefore likely an aggressive, warlike race, unsurprising of course considering the past few hours.

The gleam of metal flashed once more, and Ju'das took an instinctive step back, startled as the abomination drew his knife across the corpse's throat in a swift, concise action that wasted no movement. Not a second passed before he plunged it into the pit of its arm and turned the body over to make another sudden incision on the back of its leg, just above the knee. Ju'das, jaws twitching in bewilderment, looked to the abomination as he stared at the corpse, now hemorrhaging blood. After a brief time, he nodded slowly to himself before rising to his feet and sheathing his blade in his harness.

The next few minutes became a lesson for Ju'das, one that taught him more about the abomination's true nature then he had ever thought to know. He saw no wonder, no curiosity in the human as he went through each of the corpses, examining the armor and weapons, then the bodies, before running a serious of prompt experimentations. The sangheili realized then, as the human propped a body up and fired a brief burst from his weapon into its torso where the armor was thickest, that he was attempting to learn the most effective means of murder.

Ju'das might have been impressed by his dedication to warfare, if he was not so utterly disgusted by his staggering lack of empathy. But then… Ju'das did not think he was in any position to render judgment. Was not this young human's apathy a result of his faith's desire for extermination? Were not the demons created as a desperate gambit to fight back against his people? Was he not himself responsible for innumerable atrocities against a species that's offenses were not but the simple crime of existence?

"Center mass effective, three-to-five round bursts, tight cluster, optimal for penetration…" The abomination mused conclusively to himself as he stowed his rifle on a mag rail in his spinal plate, his tone ponderous, and taciturnly calculative. "Arterial pathways identical to human biology… familiar vulnerability." He shifted back, turning his head to the elite, expression partially visible through the fracture in his helmet's visor. A single eye, piercing blue with flecks of deep red, studied Ju'das with a fierce intensity, and the sangheili found it difficult to match his gaze.

It was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he realized that the human was sharing his analysis of their common foe, perhaps in some token gesture of cooperation.

Knowing that the human was fully capable of emulating the most austere of statuaries in his keep's temple, Ju'das inclined his head in the expected indication of gratitude, though he was uncertain whether or not he felt anything but loathing for this emotionless organic construct. He could see now, how a human could not only overpower him in combat, but prove to be such a singlehanded threat to the Covenant. He had interacted with associated intelligences that possessed more life than this spartan. His was an inexorable, ruthless and machine-like methodology, willing to go to any length to win. The human's force of will and sheer adaptability was terrifying to witness, shrugging off mortal wounds as if they were simply minor inconveniences, and accepting the arrival of new alien life with pragmatic stoicism.

Ju'das had not stopped worrying about what all of this would mean for the Covenant, a new contender for galactic domination? Or perhaps another client state that could be brought to bear with force of arms? Considering the present, he was not entirely confident in the latter, and legitimately concerned with the former.

Yet the human, this spartan, appeared to hold no counsel about this unexpected revelation, pursing his secretive objective with a dogged determination that was undeniably impressive.

A glint of metal flashed in the dark, strobing atmosphere of the corridor, and his muscles reflexively tightened. Ju'das nearly jumped backwards and drew his weapon, suspecting foul play from the abomination. But he suppressed the desire, crushing it to dust as he looked upon the human's extended hand. In his palm rested a short metal blade, the armored curl of his fingers cupping the length of serrated steel as he offered it forward, hilt first.

Ju'das looked up from the offered weapon, into the impassive, unwavering eye of the human warrior, and then, briefly, to the hilt of the energy sword magnetically attached to his hip. And, with a heavy sigh of defeat the zealot accepted the primitive human tool. Pride was only suited to those without shame. Even in his current condition, Ju'das held no illusion that the human could not overpower him, at least at such a close distance. And the idea of killing the human after he had stepped in to save his life seemed repugnant.

This fact reminded him of why they had initially formed this uneasy alliance. If he was to survive this he would need the help of the abomination, for the moment. Now that the path had been cleared, it would not be much longer before they arrived at their destination and he would at last be free of this indignity.

This consideration passed in the minute it took for the human to step away and gesture for him to lead the way.

With a sigh of stayed sufferance, he obeyed.

XX-XX-XX

The notification came, as they always tended to, at the most inopportune of moments. The soft tone of his communicator seemed more like a deafening cacophony in the once silent air of his quarters, four piercing notes that to his ears were near identical to what might occur if you scrapped a cheese grater across a bulkhead. An emphatic groan, the swelled frustration of a bitter hangover compounded on too little sleep, seeped from his lungs as he, with not inconsiderable effort, twisted his shoulders in such a way that spilled him onto his side.

He reached out sightlessly, eyes still clenched tight to ward off the throbbing lights flashing from the device sitting on the bolted table across his bed, and searched about in a semi-coherent fugue. His paw brushed across the tabletop, scattering empty pill bottles and knocking over a half finished pouch of water that spilled across the surface.

The vulpine's groan quickly devolved into a hiss of displeasure as the cool liquid splashed against his palm. Although, it was soon to shift into a sigh of relief as he felt his fingers brush against an open band of cool metal.

"Ugh…" He mumbled, smacking his lips and running his tongue across their dryness in disgust. With another groan, this one of effort, he forced himself into a seated posture, and winced as his worldly perception seemed to spin. "Mehg…" He spluttered as he blindly searched for the overturned water pouch. Upon its discovery, he grasped the malleable beverage container and tilted his head up, jaws splayed open to obtain the much desired hydration.

This time the coolness was welcomed, as was the alleviation of his parched throat. He gave the bag a squeeze; guzzling most of its contents in a way that would have been viewed impolite were he in the presence of anyone else but the silent solitude of his quarters. The very last dregs of water he swirled around his muzzle and gargled, before spitting back into the container.

Tossing it to a bin across the room, where it bounced on the rim before falling inside, he rummaged through the mess of empty pill bottles until he found one that rattled. Working quickly he emptied it into his palm and tossed them into his mouth and swallowed dry. The painkillers worked quickly, and within minutes it dialed his agonizing migraine into a minor ache.

Now that he was in some sort of reasonable shape, he focused on the matter at hand.

The vulpine turned his attention to his comms bracer, still beeping that horribly annoying racket, and grabbed it with his left paw, slipping it over the wrist of his right. And then at last, he peeled his eyes open. Peering through a blurred squint, he waited till the hazy and distorted shapes around him coalesced into the organized chaos that was his bedroom, its compact volume proliferated with the random odds and ends he had collected over the years.

Blinking hard in an effort to brush away the last of the cobwebs, he took a glance at his comms unit. With an irritable grumble, he slapped his palm down on the big red button that pulsed angrily at him. And as he his paw hit the haptic interface, the display darkened to a much less annoying intensity and the earsplitting shrill of the alarm shut off.

"Finally…" The vulpine grunted as he tinkered with the device secured to his arm. Working with deft ease born of frequent use, he flicked his fingers up as he modified the projector to enlarge the image into a more eye-friendly size. The holographic interface now inhabiting a moderate portion of the space above his arm, allowed him to read the alert with bold clarity in a professional blue backdrop familiar with all high band Federation communications. And what he saw was not a welcomed sight, though it was familiar.

PRIORITY ONE MESSAGE

FEDERATION HIGH COMMAND

PLEASE INPUT SECURITY KEY AND DISENGAGE BIOMETRICS

As he finished reading the last line a floating number pad popped up in front of him.

Scowling, he tapped in the twenty-six digit combination, raised the bracer up to his eye for a retinal scan, and placed his thumb on the small scanning card that popped out of his communicator, accomplishing all of this with a lingering grimace. He wasn't in the particular mood for government paranoia, even if it was well reasoned.

IDENT ACCEPTED

FOX MCCLOUD 486-69-27

CMND/0-6

STARFOX MERCENARY COMPANY

DOWNLOAD DATA PACKET Y/N?

The vulpine read the information as it slowly scrolled across the center of his vision, entering the Y key when prompted. The display changed immediately, the extensive security measures replaced by a wall of scrolling text and images from what appeared to be spy satellites and garrison drones. He recognized the planet in the background and the environment from the groundside pictures. What he did not recognize, was the content. He looked back to the documents for explanation, and as the information unraveled, his irritation was replaced with curiosity, followed shortly after by an unusual sense of uncertainty.

With a frown, he swiped down, shutting off the projector, leaving him in the dark of his bedroom where his mind began to wander. He dwelled for a while on the information he had been given, and the offered contract he invariably knew he would accept, not only because it meant more credits, but it was, as always, in the interest of protecting his home.

There really wasn't any room to decline. Their reputation was fostered on their reliability and efficiency at handling whatever fuckups command invariably made. And while it was not exactly his favorite type of contract, it helped that these usually guaranteed the longevity of the government that protected his interests, namely family and the ability to indulge in a little R&R.

Realizing that time was of the essence, and that he didn't have time to procrastinate as he might have liked, Fox, with not inconsiderable effort, tore himself from his bed and stumbled towards the bathroom, navigating the clutter of his sleep quarters as he stifled a prodigious yawn and with quick a flurry of keystrokes, sent a message across the team's emergency alert system.

Bumbling into the lavatory with the grace of a Fischinian ice beast, he quickly strung up his briefs and threw himself into the shower unit for a quick decon after last night's festivities. The scalding blast of hot water was just the remedy he needed to kickstart his numbed brain, and after a thorough scrub down and liberal use of the dryers he was damp, but satisfied.

Stepping out, and after a brief admiration of his physique, he gargled some mouthwash and attacked his puffed coat with a brush. Leaving the bathroom in the buff, he smoothed out his fur as he crossed the minefield of his bedroom and opened his closet, rustling out a clean uniform and a cap with the Starfox logo plastered across the front.

As he finished dressing, he glanced at the clock on his comms unit and nodded.

Ten minutes, not bad. The vulpine hummed as he fiddled with the unit, projecting a screen that reflected his appearance. Hitting it with his best roguish smile and a wink, he deemed himself socially acceptable and after straightening out his clothes he slipped out of his bedroom and into the hall. The corridor outside the captain's cabin was as immaculate as always, gleaming walls of untouched silver and a deck that was clean enough to eat off of. And after a bad bet with Falco, he could attest to that.

Huffing good-naturedly at the memory, and with a somewhat amiable scowl, he jogged down the empty hallway to the lift that'd take him to the lower decks.

He wasn't all that taken up by how isolated the captain's quarters were on the Great Fox, but he understood that it was for the sake of appearances. The captain of a ship could not be seen slumming with his subordinates, even if he did not care personally about propriety. Starfox has been and always would be an irregular outfit, more dysfunctional family than military unit. It was a system that worked, and he had no intention of upsetting the balance.

In the life, he flicked a thumb over the icon labeled OPS, and leaned against the side wall to wait out the trip. He used that time to think back on the mission packet he'd received, particularity, its peculiarity. His team had flown quite a few missions for Federation command and they'd all been more or less the same. Knock out this target, take out this group, run off these pirates, it'd been steady, but bland enough for him to consider tearing out his fur. But this time, something about this assignment was… different.

As he mused, the elevator icon stopped a few floors above operations. He glanced at the display and noticed that it had paused over the crew deck. Fox took that moment as the door opened, to ponder on the lottery of who his first face of the day would be. And as the lift doors parted, he felt a smirk curl his lips.

"Morning beakbutt."

"Fuck off, fuckhead."

Fox chuckled as Falco's bedraggled person trudged inside, looking considerably more worse for wear than himself. Blood shot eyes and an outfit that still faintly smelled of alcohol masked by an overbearing application of cologne. At least he showered. The vulpine mussed as the avian slumped against the opposite wall.

"So… shitty recon mission or shitty pirate sweep." The bird wondered, shuffling his arms across his chest as he peered angrily across the way.

"Neither, thankfully." He answered. "Something new today."

"Thank the gods." Falco muttered darkly, beak twitching with relief. "Been tired of this easy street shit. Ain't no way for a bird like me to be flying. So, what's the gig?" He asked as the lift stopped on OPS and the doors opened, unveiling yet another corridor, though this one had several offshoots and a large door at the far end.

"Not yet." Leaning off the wall and entering the corridor, he gestured for Falco to follow. "If I tell you now you'll just hear me spew the same shit during the brief. Let's save us both the trouble, yeah?"

While the bird's answer came in the form of a huff, he seemed to agree as he went silent as they crossed the hall and stopped briefly at the bulkhead sealing off the operations room. A quick swipe of his bracer across the scanner sent his access codes to the unit, and after verification, the bulkhead split along the center as the magnetic locks were disengaged. The edifice of steel pulled apart with a low churn of hidden motors, and they walked inside.

Fox went deeper into the ops center while Falco leisurely wandered straight to the beverage machine along the left wall, ready to help himself with an early injection of caffeine. The vulpine, awake enough for the moment, spent his time setting up for the briefing. Popping out the data chip in his comms unit, he plugged it into the massive center console dominating the heart of the room and let his eye wander as the machine downloaded the coded information that had been sent across the tight beam.

The operations room was large, but tight on corners. Space was at a premium on most vessels, especially warships. And while the Great Fox might have been designed to be a little more commodious than was standard, it was only partly an exception. Most available acreage in this particular compartment was occupied with various machines and devices that helped them plan their various tasks and assignments, whether it was gathering sensor and radar data, or processing communications between allied and hostile ships. Its shape was only slightly ovular, and with the varied backups and redundancies coded in the emergency systems, could be used as a secondary bridge should the main be damaged or destroyed. Unlike the area round it, its walls were double layered composite alloy and its only entrance was a bulkhead three feet thick, nigh impervious to breaching charges and even a direct blast from a shipborne energy lance.

He'd not yet been forced to test its limits, and he did his damned best to ensure he never had to. The Great Fox was not only a carrier, but probably one of the most powerful dreadnoughts in federation space, a project that had taken his father his entire life to create and finance. And Fox was still working to pay off the debt. This ship was not only his home, but his family's legacy. He only hoped that he could live up to the standard.

Fox stared at the loading bar floating above the conference console as he heard the bulkhead begin startup, paying it only half a mind as he dwelled on his memories, of the many times his team had been gathered inside this room planning for the odds no matter how bleak. They were good memories, most of them anyways.

He was taken away from his reflection by the sound of the doors cycling open, the deep thunk of machines reverberating through the deck. The vulpine cast his gaze towards the entrance to watch as the rest of his crew shuffled in.

"So anyways I told him he could either step off or suck on the egg he came out of."

As ever at the vanguard of any occasion, was Miyu, the verbose feline regaling her ubiquitous companion with another one of her stories. Fay, much to her credit, managed to appear interested in a story she'd no doubt already heard more than a dozen times since its occurrence.

"Yes, I do remember that." The canine assured her friend with an expression of mild tedium that spoke of a conversation that had started earlier and continued till present. "He became rather miffed."

"Yeah, until she popped him across the jaw." A voice muttered behind the pair.

"Hehe, yeah, I sure did." The lynx chuckled smugly.

"Knocking my drink all over my new jumpsuit." The voice finished much to Miyu's condemnation, and Fay's amusement.

"Yeah, she sure did."

"Look Slip," the feline began with a wry, semi-apologetic grin. "I said I was sorry, and I got you another one, didn't I…" She paused, a contemplative look crossing her muzzle. "I did right? I was rather drunk at that point."

"You did." The toad agreed as he stepped out from behind them and made an effort to circumnavigate around the cat and dog as he made his way to the ops console.

"But you knocked that onto him too, when that angry croc made a run at you… you know, after you put a fist across his jaw." Fay explained with a smile that had continued to grow wider.

"And they wonder why I do not dain to accompany them." Krystal spoke from the rear, the vixen following after the group at conscientious distance and at a reserved pace. Her voice, soft, and cultured, with a distinctly foreign accent that refused to dissipate, carried over the loud discussion.

"No small wonder, I say." Peppy agreed beside her, the weary hare having long foregone any attempt at joining certain members of the team on their extracurricular exploits.

The hardly masked, slightly malicious chuckle from Falco across the room carried even farther.

The tips of Miyu's tufted ears flushed red.

Fox, having long noticed the pattern, stepped in at that moment before the conversation could follow its usual path and devolve into a spirited, but amusing argument.

"Alright, put a hold on playtime children." The vulpine forestalled the storm with an upraised paw and a stern inflection. And like always, the gravity in his tone turned the rampant hovercar of conversation back into more reasonable territory. "It's mission time folks, and I'd like everyone to pay attention, cause this is going to be a little more complicated than what we've grown used to over the past few months."

"What, we're not flushing pirates out of the Meteo asteroid fields? Miyu inquired, eager to shift topic and somewhat surprised at the eagerness she heard in his voice. It's been quite a while since she last heard any sense of interest when he spoke about their missions.

Fox shook his head in the negative, and with a swipe of his paw he finished uploading the Federation data packet and sent it through the ops table's holo projector. The team remained quiet as the stream of information and recon photos filled the room.

"Not today, Miyu." The vulpine answered, an eager grin splitting across his maw as he gestured to the picture of Fortuna's surface, taken by a Federation navy drone, and the flurry of activity in the jungle of Animus, close to the planet's equator.

"Today, we're going hunting."

AN:Alright boys and girls, next chapter is when shit really starts to hit the fan. I hope you're all excited, because it' gonna be a wild ride. I hope you lot enjoy this chapter, cause I stayed up way later then I should have to get it done. And I know work is totally gonna kill me tomorrow. But I did this for you guys... and me too I guess. I'm trying to crunch the time between updates, but my work schedule leaves much to be desired when it comes to availability. In any case, as always I look forward to reviews, comments, and suggestions. That shit really helps push me along, its kinda like a drug, like caffeine for my inspiration. Anyways, have fun and stay safe!

Till next time

Drake