"You are not kids anymore. You forfeit the privilege to be so erroneously labeled the moment you signed the waiver. Now you are not children, you are investments. As of this moment moving forward you are the property of the United Nations Space Command. And it is my sole purpose to turn you whimpering mass of sniveling puke stains into the greatest warriors' humanity has ever seen."

"You will not be spartans, you will be better."

There was silence in the amphitheater as more than four hundred youthful eyes stared at the small person that shouted and proclaimed atop his pulpit with all the fire and faith of a man possessed. He spoke words they had not yet learned before the schools of their worlds had been reduced to glass. He shouted in a raised voice they'd only heard used by mad parents before they had been shot and cut down by ravening aliens.

Lining the edges of the auditorium, men and women in dark uniforms bearing intimidating rifles supervised the assembled crowd with grim expressions. Up high banners waived, the fluttering shape of a winged bird, talons clutched around a dimpled sphere, loomed above them, none yet old enough to understand what the man, soldiers, or flags meant. All they knew was that after their worlds had been glassed and their parents had been killed by scary monsters, some people had asked if they wanted to do something about it. And now, a few months later, here they were, dropped off in small clusters in front of a towering edifice of metal; the gates to a place the small man had called Camp Currahee.

Now they were being yelled at by an angry man, huddled into a room that was too cold, and anyone that tried to wander off was roughly tossed back by the scary men in black. Fear and unease hung low in the air as they tried to understand what the small, angry man was trying to tell them, hoping maybe to learn why they had been brought here and how this was going to help them get revenge for their families.

Deep in the ranks, several rows down and fifteen kids left from the wall, a young boy, hardly old enough to be able to comprehend small division, picked aimlessly at a loose thread on his shirt. While he played with the strand, he studied the small logo on his chest, noticing that it was just like the one flapping up above. He didn't pay attention to the words of the small man. If he couldn't understand what the small man was saying, well then it just seemed like a big waste of time didn't it? At least he thought so. His older brother would have been able to tell him the meaning behind the small man's, big words.

The boy frowned, and a quiet sniffle was lost in the noise of the small man's speech. He looked up all the same, but no one had heard him. Just like school he was ignored by everybody else, only this time there was no older brother or younger sister to wipe away his tears. Rubbing a knuckle across the wetness under his eye, the young boy tried to bury the sad thoughts. His mom and dad wouldn't want him to be sad. He remembered what they had told him before he was taken away to the giant metal ships. Well… he remembered most of it anyway, something about not giving up, and to be brave. But it was hard to be brave, and he didn't think he could do it. But he wouldn't give up. He would never give up.

He missed home, he missed his family, he missed the stray dog that would always come around their apartment unit to eat the table scraps he saved for it, even though he was pretty sure his dad knew about it. He missed the sunrise over the trees outside their town, he missed the warm summer air and the sound of birds.

Here it was cold and it was always raining and there were no song birds or funny dogs. There was only angry soldiers and the small man, who seemed to always be yelling and shouting.

And the young boy could only blame the monsters. It was the monsters that had burned the trees and made the air hot and dry. It was the monsters that had killed the funny dogs and scared away the song birds. It was the monsters that had… that had… killed… his family, that forced him to run away from his home and leave it to die.

He hated the monsters. He wanted them to suffer, to be sad like he was. The small man said that he would have a chance to punish the monsters, to make them feel like he felt right now. The small man promised him the opportunity to get even. His mom always told him that it was wrong to think that way, that two wrongs didn't make a right, but maybe… if he divided the wrongs, it might be okay then.

Wiping away the last of his tears, the young boy remembered something his father had taught him, something important. Something to help him when he felt sad or mad.

Inhale…

Count to four.

Exhale…

XX-XX-XX

Noble Six released the breath he was holding so fiercely, listened to the rush of air that whistled from the shattered gape in his visor, and focused a baleful glare on the back of his sangheili navigator. He counted, slowly, methodically, and then filled his lungs with the second. He buried his desire deep, suppressed his need, to kill the monster in front of him. The craving was powerful, and he could imagine easily, the many poignant ways he could go about it. But no amount of want would be instigation enough to jeopardize his objective. His duty surpassed his claim of petty desire. It was utterly imperative that he return to allied territory. The UNSC needed to be informed of this development. The ramifications to the war at large could be unprecedented.

These aliens were hostile to the Covenant, and very likely, would carry that animosity onto humanity as well. Command had to be informed, if they did not already know. Six was unsure how much time had passed, or how far or close he had come to humanity's territories. If he was still correct in believing that his slipspace bomb had triggered, then there was no way to find an answer to that unless he could obtain a recent star chart. That was a goal far removed from present concerns however. First he would have to get off this ship alive before he could juggle hypotheticals.

To that end, the elite could not yet be killed. Perhaps, after transportation was secured and their agreement expired, he could see about correcting that crime against nature. Noble Six inhaled deeply, counted slow the exercise he had been taught, and suppressed the pervasive beast of murderous intent that prowled dormant within.

"How much farther?" He demanded in a low growl frayed with impatience, his blood still running hot after their most recent skirmish. Another ten aliens of unknown origin had been tacked on as an addendum to his mounting body count, and he was no closer to finding answers to his innumerable questions.

"We approach our destination at swift pace." The sangheili warrior snapped feistily, arm clasped tight against his injured side. "Barring another interruption from these filthy brigands, we are perhaps a few minutes distant at most."

The spartan snarled, flicking the fire selector of his battered assault rifle, his subconscious mind unable to discern what degree of lethality was called for. Yet this was simply the symptom of an increasingly complex irritant. As such, it was nonetheless a potent source of annoyance that could not be properly estimated in words. To show such noticeable emotion was unbecoming of his character, character he had taken great pains to construct from the torn and discarded remnants of his childhood personality. The lengths he had undergone to suppress any form of frivolous thought and personal belief was immense. He had, through great effort and personal detriment, centered himself around a core of meticulously constructed impartiality. And nothing, in all the years of his service to ONI, had been able to wholly shake his resolve.

The events of the last few hours, however, seemed to have become a prominent exception to this rule.

He reasoned, with some difficulty, that this predicament was compelling enough to be classified as extenuating circumstance. The spartan liked to believe that he could be forgiven for such a minute lapse in professionalism given the nature of the disruption. For there was much to think about, and thus far none of his thoughts were optimistic. These new aliens plagued his thoughts incessantly, inserting themselves pointedly into the tiniest cracks in his impassive demeanor, wedging the fractures wide as the canyons of Demeter.

They were so familiar as to be unfamiliar. Nevertheless despite this truth they were, in a way, even more alien than the most obtuse creatures of the Covenant. These… things were molded of conspicuous form, sharing the inimitable morphology of man and that of native fauna of mankind's terrestrial cradle.

The acquainted likeness to human biology, the similarity to earth's many creatures, this could not possibly be coincidence, could it? The Covenant races shared a similarity to mankind only in their bipedal nature; otherwise they came as varied as the stars. But these creatures, these… animals... Their very biology was near reflection of humanity, same organs, same shape, same number, same size, same position. The first creature he had inspected, seemed almost as if someone had skinned a dog and shaped its hide around the body of a man.

Six found the likeness… unsettling.

His only comfort lay in analysis that in this likeness they shared humanity's weaknesses. He did not need put any more or less effort to destroy them. Their bones could be broken, their flesh torn, their armor sundered. They could be surprised, they could be deceived, and they could be killed. These were his only consolations to diminish the austerity of his task. Yet such easements were little more than hollow assurances that did nothing to obscure the truth. These new aliens were not the depth of his problem, as unalike to the Covenant's unassailability; they could be bested with a modicum of effort. The true danger lay in the understanding that he would need to contend with them and the Covenant, perhaps not as allies, but equal partners opposed to his success.

But, as with every great weight there was something to balance the scales. With new aliens came new technology, with new technology came new weapons, with new weapons… well Noble Six could at least take some pleasure in stoking his passing interest in the military sciences. And the blatant observation that they shared his negative opinion of the Covenant at large was more than a passing note. This was valuable information that ONI would undoubtedly very much like to possess. Words like alliance, and treaty, were surely premature and speculative at best prospects, but at this late stage in the war against the Covenant, as humanity's capacity to wage it and the number of inhabited worlds slipped from their bloodied grasp, he figured there at least existed the possibility of certain concessions. His personal opinion on this matter, as always, remained irrelevant. He decided well enough that he would let HIGHCOM sort this mess out.

All he need do was find a way to return alive.

Jogging alongside the zealot down another seemingly endless corridor, the spartan tapped an armored knuckle against the barrel of the alien rifle slung over his shoulderplate. He listened to the hollow peel of metal and gave thought to the most recently included implement to his diverse arsenal. While the arms of this new faction did not share the power and mysticism of Covenant munitions, he found their similarity to human manufacture to be an equalizing element. He appreciated the rugged, no-nonsense functionality of their appearance. This weapon in particular he had lifted off a somewhat apish creature with a set of chevrons that he assumed donated a form of leadership position. It was different from the others, its shape denoting perhaps some marksmanship application, and was what initially attracted his attention.

The spartan had performed a quick check, noting the positions of the fire selector, safety, magazine catch, and he assumed what was an underbarrel launcher. Given the battered MA37 and its limited ammunition, he was close to benching the firearm in favor of his enemy's. After all, its ammunition would be plentiful and he had severe doubts that they would arm themselves with weapons they were unable to turn upon each other. Such was the nature of sapient life.

This musing allowed him to come to a decision as the elite stepped into a corridor that opened into a massive antechamber with a set of equally immense doors. He swapped his human made rifle for the new alien contraption, attaching his rifle to the mag strip on his back and slinging the strap of the alien weapon till the barrel faced forward. Taking a moment to judge its heft and balance he approached the elite who seemed occupied with the small holographic interface beside the door.

Under the assumption that the sangheili was attempting to input the code to unlock hangar access, Six eased himself against a nearby wall and pressed his body as close to the curved architecture as was possible. He suspected an ambush. It is what he would have done if their situation had been reversed. Not that he would stoop so low as to consort with an alien had this been a human vessel filled with human crew. If his suspicions proved correct he'd need as narrow a profile as possible to minimize incoming fire.

The elite, to his credit, paid no attention to the massive human supersoldier behind him as he entered in the final set of glyphs.

And as the small symbol on the door control lock flashed from red to white, the spartan readied himself to face what might lie ahead.

XX-XX-XX

"Right this way, come come!"

Lumi allowed herself to be ushered and herded by the eccentric little unggoy that apparently was a minder tasked by Ju'das Rasumai himself. She could have asserted her position and authority as a sangheili; she could have ordered around the small and effusive creature like a servant.

But…

"Come mistress, no need to worry. Nipnup have the makings of great biggest plan. Perhaps even bestest plan in history of unggoy, if not to be sounding arrow-gaunt."

She sighed.

This was not how she pictured her death.

Standing like a giant amidst the clustered gaggle of dwarfish creatures as they herded her to the nearby gravity lift, Lumi spared a brief moment to contemplate the various life choices that had led her to this moment of indignity, this slow descent into madness. Here she was, stranded on some gods forsaken planet filled with hostile aliens. And her best chance at survival was to listen to an unggoy… an unggoy!

She was just glad there was no one important to see her in such an unseemly state of affairs. Hopefully they could take the Type-44 and return to the fleet in due time, she'd much prefer to let the warriors handle this new aggressive species.

The sound of doors shifting took her away from thoughts of mortification. And then, very suddenly, she had much more to worry about.

XX-XX-XX

Noble Six was… nonplussed, once the double doors to the hanger peeled open and did not disgorge a veritable tide of angry aliens hounding for his blood. It was not often when his battlefield predications failed to bear fruit. Though, if there was ever to be a time, in this instance he could not find reason to complain.

Moving away from the wall and stepping forward, the spartan placed a palm against the zealot marshal's shoulder and pushed him forward, but not too far ahead. If there was an ambush lying in wait deeper within, he'd want the alien close to put in front of the brunt of enemy ammunition.

He watched as the marshal entered first without complaint, and after a moment, he followed. Looking over the elite's shoulder he was given an extensive assessment of the devastation. In his idle observation of the tapestry of scattered wreckage, he examined the chaotic scramble of displaced aircraft, most crushed or shattered by some extreme force that ripped them from their moors. Six noted curiously the pattern of dislocation, was not unlike the overturned contents of a cabinet after a quake.

He dwelled on this, compiling it with the other fact he had been accumulating since his awakening, on the very precipice of what he felt was a dawning realization, and grunted in suitable surprised when a piercing shriek broke through his musing. He didn't issue such a rough proclamation at the sound of course; he'd heard worse in the heated pitch of war. Rather, his breathy rasp was a response elicited by the burning globule of plasma that slammed into the center of his shield-less breastplate.

The spartan-III staggered slightly, unconsciously following the roll and ebb of the kinetic force inferred by the sudden impact. Instinct drove his movements, honed by endless hours on the most dangerous battlefields known to human kind.

After all, this was more the par for what he expected.

Noble Six lunged an arm out, grasping the startled sangheili by the shoulder and dragging it close to his chest, the other arm snapped toward the direction of the shot, alien rifle raised, and trigger already squeezed.

A burst of four energy bolts erupted from the barrel of the weapon before he even had visual acuity of the offending target. This sequence of events occurred in the time it took for the elite to recoil in shock.

He heard the yelp of surprise, and honed in on the squealing chatter of a grunt, helmet half twisted and an unseen sneer darkening his expression. The creature was alive, though by no merit of its own intelligence. Rather the alien dangled rather comically off the open ramp of a phantom troop transport, its stubby claws clutched tight around the saving grace that prevented it from plummeting to the ground a full twenty-five feet below.

The spartan could only assume the dwarfish animal had tripped over its clumsy appendages, incidentally avoiding the cadre of piercing shards of energy that burned through the air it had been occupying not seconds previous.

Time, traveling at three tenths of its normal speed, rushed back to present, his mind mechanically recognizing that there was no more genuine threat to his wellbeing. Instead, his brain devoted a significant portion of its resources into understanding the presence of this unggoy's savior.

Such a weighty distribution of resources was understandable, given that the creature that had spared the unggoy its deserved fate was an inexplicably familiar character. The spartan-III stared blankly at the female sangheili clutching onto the swinging grunt, matching the wide-eyed stare of the lumbering alien as his knee buckled.

With his sense of time reverted to normal there was nothing distracting him now from the burning pain in his chest, the fiery agony so potent that it was hard even for him to think. And that was… peculiar.

Spartan's were naturally accustomed to pain, able to ignore injuries that would kill most soldiers through shock alone. Noble Six considered his pain tolerance threshold to be above even that of the standard spartan super soldier, it was a point of personal pride for him. In his career he had endured horrible, grievous wounds, time and time again without complaint.

But something this time around was different. Perhaps it was the compounded nature of his current injuries, heightened now by this newest grievance upon his body. Maybe it was a matter of running for days on a handful of hastily scarfed down scraps of rations and the occasional sip of water. Maybe it was the bizarre and abject sight of a female sangheili clutching onto an unggoy that swayed side to side like some form of grotesque pendulum. Whatever it was, his body finally seemed ready to call it quits.

Noble Six fell hard, crashing to his knees with the thunderous clatter of an overturned scorpion main battle tank. His arm, still clutched tight around the sangheili field marshal, brought the alien down with him.

He glanced down to his breastplate, his offhand securing the barrel of his rifle against the back of the elite's neck, and released a gasping exhalation. He had expected bad, what he saw was worse.

Molten rivulets of titanium trickled down the glowing gape in the center of his torso plate, the heated edges of the crater cooling to a dull orange. He could feel the heat on his chest but he could still breathe without restriction, not counting of course the cracked ribs, those had been present earlier. This meant that the shot had gone through, but not far enough to boil his lungs. Most likely dermal damage, whatever of the irradiated heat of the plasma that could not be entirely mitigated by his body suit.

Either way it burned like the forges of hell.

Despite the pain and the numerous injuries, the spartan still refused to submit.

It took considerable effort, and a noticeable amount of time, before he could gather the resolve to stand on his feet. In that time, his sangheili captive remained silent and cooperative, and the female of its species had finally been able to pull the grunt from its perilous position. Both were dead silent, staring disbelievingly at the creature that had just taken a charged plasma shot to the chest and clawed back to its feet.

In turn the spartan eyed the aliens up in their phantom, studying the hovering vessel and its anti-infantry armaments that could be swiveled to face him at any moment. With reluctance, he turned his gaze away, eyes slightly widened as he scanned the overturned debris strewn about the covenant hanger.

"Demon…?" The sangheili field marshal uttered questioningly, its inflection lighter with the barrel of a weapon pressed against its neck. Its concern was reasonable, no action had taken place in several minutes, and he was very much at the mercy of his captor.

Six did not feel the need to offer any form of answer, his attention focused more acutely on the teardrop shape of the object that was to be his ticket out of this madness. The seraph seemed remarkably intact, at least from this distance. Given the general scene of mayhem it was likely his best chance and so he withheld what would have been his usual reservations. If it was still flight capable it'd be his best chance at surviving whatever insanity was lying in wait outside this ship.

And while he very much would have liked to gouge the unggoy's eyes out of its sockets with his fingers, he was not in a position to fulfill his desires. Right now, he'd settle for the simple matter of survival. Vengeance, while placatory, would not see him returned to the UNSC. As it was, the foolish creature had jeopardized not only his chance at escape, but his already undesirable alliance with the elite. Weakness invited opportunity, and at the moment he was not exactly at the epitome of his ability.

He could not afford to be stopped now.

The spartan leaned low, the shattered faceplate of his helmet resting alongside the sangheili's head.

"Will you… honor our arrangement?" The question, though difficult to articulate given the damage to his lungs and the wear of his numerous outstanding wounds, was short, concise, and its tone brooked no middle ground. At the first sign of hesitancy he'd blow the elite's spine out of its throat.

The alien, with not a second of indecision, nodded his assent. "My word is my bond, human. If you release me, we shall separate on neutral term."

There was silence after the alien spoke, as the spartan deliberated on the worth of the creature's word. He reflected on the course of past actions, and even though his instinct screamed and raved to the contrary, he let his most hated enemy slip through his fingers.

He'd made far more difficult sacrifices in his career, or so he reasoned with himself.

The zealot fell forward at the sudden unreleased tension around his shoulder, breathing a nearly inaudible sigh of relief at the disappearance of the weighted barrel at the back of his neck. Yet even with this new freedom he did not move. The balance in place was fragile, liable to devolve into violence at the slightest hint of provocation. And while any other sangheili would have gladly given their life simply to ensure the death of a demon, Ju'das did not feel as he once did.

Instead he looked to the phantom and its small crew of bumbling unggoy, or more so one particular amongst them. His gaze found Nipnup and the elite curled his mandibles into a thin smile.

The devote creature seemed confused, but his trust in Ju'das kept him from doing anything rash. And while they very well possibly could have turned the phantom's guns on the retreating figure of the human demon. Ju'das was no liar and certainly no oath breaker. He knew that if the hierarchs were ever to discover what transpired, that he would be branded a heretic, his name to be spoken in hateful whispers and defamed throughout recorded history.

Even so, he could do no less.

His word was all that he had left to believe in.

XX-XX-XX

To Noble Six, the seraph was a sign of divine providence, or at least in so far as he cared to measure the duplicity of the divine. In his examination of the craft he concluded it to be capable of prolonged flight and given the meteoric descent of his current extent of luck, that in itself was as much a sign of providence as if the God Himself had come down from the heavens.

Other than a few dents and scratches on the exterior hull and some misplaced items scattered about the interior, there was no sign of noteworthy damage, certainly nothing that would prevent it from taking him from A to B. Which, considering that to be the objective, he considered himself unusually fortunate. He felt doubly so, since the ship was still vacuum rated. His armor had ceased to fit that description quite some time ago.

The spartan placed a hand against the hull and leaned heavily into it, the other tenderly examining the deep cavity in his breastplate. Without his HUD at full functionality there was no real way to know the extent of his injuries without removing his Mjolnir. Bearing in mind that such an endeavor was a lengthy and time-consuming process that left him markedly vulnerable, it was unlikely that he would have a chance at that any time soon.

Instead, he sealed the breach with his last can of biofoam and elected to ignore it as he did with all his grievous injuries. Either there would come a time to tend his wounds, or there would not. As far as bottom lines went, it was a fairly simple one to follow.

Tossing the spent can of medical reagent outside the seraph to bounce down to the hanger deck, he turned at the ghostly whine of nearby engines, the artificial wind whistling through his broken faceplate. Noble Six watched the sloped profile of the phantom as it turned toward the yawning chasm that the Covenant seemed to designate as their hanger doors. He followed the ships departure with his eyes, not believing till the very last moment it disappeared outside, that their alliance would actually come to fruition.

So, he was surprised, not pleasantly, more so bemused.

The zealot field marshal had stood by his word, an unexpected outcome, and slightly underwhelming. He had expected different, perhaps even wanted to be wrong, despite the fact that would have meant his death. Now proven otherwise, the spartan found the elite's unpredictably rational behavior to be… disconcerting.

Noble Six allowed only a few moments to process his conflicted thoughts before turning his focus on to preparing the seraph for launch. In his career he'd flown a mixed variety of human and Covenant aircraft, though this was the first instance where he had the chance to fly a seraph that was not in a simulated environment.

Fortunately, the interior did not look all that different from the uncertain speculation of UNSC scientists. It was somewhat spacious, more so than what they had predicted, with enough room to walk about the cabin with roughly thirty feet of open compartment in any given direction. Unlike the banshee model, the pilot did not lie upon a surface, but instead sat in a command console not entirely unlike the captain's seat on a larger vessel.

The arrangement took adaptation, some minutes spent familiarizing partway familiar controls as he tried to keep the last few liters of blood in his body from seeping out of the multitudinous lacerations in his flesh and out the gaping rents in his armor. In a rare turn of good luck, the control scheme was at the least understandable between his personal experience with Covenant machinery and what training he had received in boot and took only him those few minutes of study before he was able to deduce the process necessary to activate power and switch on the engines.

The low, melodic hum of the Covenant impulse drive was not quite like the fierce roar of human turbines, but as long as it airworthy he wouldn't bother to protest. Instead the spartan's gaze was focused on the wafer-thin, crystalline screen in front of his chair, roughly encompassing the entire front facing wall of the compartment. Similar in form to how most of their technology operated, the screen depicted the outside of the ship in real-time, as opposed to the titanium infused windows and canopies of human construction.

He could see the broken and mangled detritus cast about the hanger, and the cavernous bay doors looming just beyond, the warm glow of sunlight beckoning him with a way out of this maddened hellscape he had drudged through since he had awakened all the hours before.

The revelation the rays of sunlight provided was an unexpected one, but in the grand scheme of the peculiarity he had been experiencing thus far, he found the prospect of the battlecruiser crashing on the surface of a world to be something easily believed, and gave credence to his most promising theory.

Giving a gentle push to the controls, the spartan coaxed the Covenant starfighter out of the hanger and into the light. The vehicle offered no protest, and seemed to be in decent condition notwithstanding the disservice it had endured after having been bounced about the inside of the battlecruiser's gut. His next step was to bring its full sensor suite online, a secondary display snapping into existence beside the first, a smaller more rectangular screen that split into five sectioned partitions, giving him nearly omnidirectional vision around the perimeter of the vehicle.

Seeing all of this first hand, Six was able to get a feeling for how Covenant pilots had been able to so easily outmaneuver them. The thought was merely reactionary however, as the spartan was already sending out passive scans and memorizing the various and frankly bizarrely designed layout of the seraph's controls.

In his work, he diverted a considerable portion of his thought process to the lower left viewing slot that offered him a bird's eye view of the battlecruiser's crash site. The effort was not insubstantial.

Noble Six, despite his remarkable ability to absorb and disseminate information, conceded that the sudden intake was very nearly overloading his senses. Given that he was piloting the seraph, studying its controls, watching all seven displays, and attempting to gather information about the planet, while continuously applying all of his expansive medical knowledge on keeping his body from going into hypovolemic shock, he could hardly be blamed for only now noticing the fierce combat being waged around the broken skeleton of the Covenant warship.

This planet, or so at least this continent, was lush with vegetation, a sprawling rainforest that stretched out in the distance far beyond what his eyes or the seraph's sensors could detect. The terrain, was also unlike anything he had seen on Reach, which was only the second disqualifying factor, as humanity's last bastion had not been proliferate with a race of anthropomorphic animals

Those very same animals were doing an excellent job of using the forest to their advantage, and appeared to be making significant headway in a relentless push to the Covenant's desperate front line. The sight of the arrogant alien empire on such a frantic back leg was a view that offered the spartan not inconsiderable satisfaction

The flurry of energy weapons that fired at his craft from behind the line of aggressing aliens was not as much. Now the spartan was forced to master the seraph's controls in a very short span of time. Taking the teardrop craft into a whirling descent, the alien drive core howled as it cut through the air like a blade, hurtling towards the ground with incredible velocity. Moments before the seraph impacted the ground in a massive explosion of scrap and slag, he pulled hard on the yoke.

The entire vehicle shuddered and creaked as it ripped itself skyward, skirting across the battlefield on a knife's edge. Pulling left on the flight stick, Six persuaded the seraph into a whirling spin that was cushioned by the fighter's inertial dampeners. Hopefully the maneuver would throw any form of guidance technology the aliens might have been using, because he wasn't sure he could keep his blood where it was supposed to be if he had to pull another move like that. The maneuver was simple enough, and smoother than what would have been possible with even a saber, but the Gs still hit hard, and he was sure it played hell with his internal injuries.

But it was just something he had to deal with, because he was far too close to actually surviving this, much to his continued bafflement. The inertia of his trajectory sent him rocketing towards the atmosphere and away from the battle. Hurtling towards orbit, he allowed himself the barest leeway to relax, sinking into an unexpectedly comfortable seat, the cushioning improbably supportive of his armored bulk. Overall the spartan was feeling rather content. His plan had worked and he acquired a slispace capable ship. And what's more he had, unexpectedly, not died.

The spartan ruminated in silence, processing recent events and appreciating the momentary respite that was often so fleeting. He also planned for his return. After a few random slispace jumps, and a thorough examination of the seraph for any form of tracking technology, he'd examine the star chart and plot a course to the nearest UNSC held system or so at least one adjacent. From there he could contact ONI and arrange for retrieval. From there all he need do was take the information he had acquired to his superiors, make his report, and prepare for the next fight. The war was far from over, and perhaps just maybe the information he had fallen upon would be the push needed to tip the scales, finally turn this war into one they could actually win. In truth he was feeling rather optimistic.

And that is, of course, when the sensors pinged. A low hiss of air seeped from his mouth in half formed mimicry of a sigh as he glanced at the notification and what little remained of his blood chilled.

The Covenant glyph utilized to signal human technology rested in the center of his gaze and the spartan felt sense of irritation vanish along with the lethargy brought upon by heavy blood loss. Sitting up swiftly, he placed a palm on the small sensor display and opened the window to take up the full breadth of the secondary screen. He stared at the enlarged icon, and noted its position… down on the surface… with the Covenant and the other alien race.

The spartan obviously considered ignoring the notification. Given the already sheer impossibility of his escape there was no clear reason to throw his chances in jeopardy. Yet, as his mind brushed upon his comprehension course in Covenant military communications, he recalled that specific glyph being used to denote active human IFF markers. And that was enough to get him to doubletake.

There was somebody down there.

He didn't know how or why they were there, but he considered it worth the risk to find out. It had the potential to be valuable intelligence, something else to add to the considerable cache he'd already attained, and that was the only excuse he needed to viably consider the hypothetical rescue operation.

Noble Six had been unable to save the lives of his team on Reach, and he had failed to prevent its fall to the Covenant, but perhaps with this he could make an effort to balance the slate.

The spartan, tenderly feeling the warped material of his bodysuit through the breach in his breastplate, pulled on the seraph's flight stick and turned the Covenant fighter's nose rearwards toward the planet below, the curling tines of its twin tails brushing against the atmosphere as it careened to the surface.

Somehow, he had a feeling this would backfire tremendously.

And of course, that's when the surface of the planet exploded.

XX-XX-XX

With a flare of viridian light, the Great Fox jumped in to the Fortuna sector, the massive dreadnought trailing wisps of glittering energy that sputtered in the wake of its reentry into real space. The planet giving this sector of space its name was far distant, little more than a colorful blip on the unending horizon. Such distance was a precautionary measure, giving the crew of the vessel ample enough time to scan for possible threats.

The Remnant was mostly inactive in this area of space, but the Starfox mercenary company was not known for their lackluster performance, quite the opposite in fact.

Inside the ship, on the bridge, was the captain, as to be expected of a vulpine of his position, though the way he lounged in his chair could be taken as unprofessional, and that was alright. The Starfox mercenary company was an informal institution, and adhering to the rigor of military conduct was another thing they certainly were not known for.

"NO HOSTILE FORCES DETECTED."

"Thanks ROB." The captain, one Fox McCloud, looked to his mechanical adjutant with a grin that had gotten him into trouble in many places throughout the Federation.

"You know, you don't have to thank the robot." Falco groused irritably from his seat at the weapons console, the avian looking decidedly unhappy as he loomed over a warm squeeze pack of dehydrated, and tastelessly rehydrated coffee.

"CORRECT." The machine buzzed unhelpfully.

"What a killjoy," Fox muttered lazily as he scratched his chin and looked to his faithful helm officer, who smiled as the vulpine gestured towards the simulated window of space. In all reality the bridge of the ship was protected by several belts of armor and a secondary shield matrix. The protruding bow was more a design choice, and nowhere near the actual bridge of the ship. He didn't try to think about it much, made the whole thing less exciting. "Alright Pep, take us in."

The hare, old but gold, complied with his order with faithful diligence Fox wished other members of his team would display.

He cut Falco a dirty look.

And the avian raised a particular insulting digit in return.

In the distance, the planet on question began to grow, from miniscule pinprick of color to multi-hued marble. In that time Fox mused. The rest of the team was down by the hanger deck, waiting to launch at the first sign of trouble. While tactically sound, it also happened to leave him lacking in meaningful conversation. Pepe was great, a solid bastion of reliability, but not much of a talker, and when he did, he droned on about things that Fox frankly struggled to hold interest in.

And Falco, well.

He glanced passingly at the bird, who was sucking his lukewarm coffee through a bendy straw with murderous intent.

The guy was anything but a conversationalist.

It just looked like he would have to have outsource. At this time the marble had developed into a blue and green beachball and Fox fiddled with the small rectangular keypad recessed into the left armrest of his chair, dialing up the conference code of the garrison commander that had been forwarded to him by General Pepper. His paw hovered over the enter key, but did not hit the final stroke.

He caught it in the corner of his eye, little more than a pinprick of light, a brief flash on the planet's surface. And within a second his head snapped towards the screen. He was not the only one to react

Peppy gasped quietly and Falco leaned forward in his seat with a loud swear.

"ROB." He muttered apprehensively.

The automaton droned loudly and its visor flashed in chaotic rhythm.

"WARNING! MULTIPLE HIGH YIELD DETONATIONS DETECTED!"

"RAISING SHIELDS!"

Fox lurched up in his seat and smashed his finger against the enter key. He turned to Falco, his voice controlled but unable to fully mask his concern, which was quite self-evident. His mind raced, already forming his next command in moments. There was no time to speculate. "Tell the team to launch, screening pattern."

The bird did not argue, and was already speaking into his communicator by the time Fox looked to Peppy.

"Pep take us in closer, two-thirds speed, and warm up the guns."

"Aye, already on it." The rabbit replied dutifully, his face drawn tight into a frown as he worked over the controls.

Fox nodded sternly, all business now, and listened to the bridge's loudspeaker as it chimed. It rang twice, before cutting harshly to static.

"HIGH LEVELS OF ELECTROMAGNETIC INTERFERENCE DETECTED."

ROB interjected unhelpfully.

Fox cursed, swiveling his chair to face the machine as the screen behind him was populated with several arwings flying in a holding pattern outside the ship. The silver ships weaved together gracefully, their blue wingtips leaving cerulean trails as they glided in formation. The pilots were no doubt communicating among themselves in their separate line, formulating their own speculations and conclusions.

For a moment, Fox wished he could trade places.

"ROB, were those explosions artificial" The vulpine hesitated, his voice dropping in volume as he brushed a paw through his dampening mane.

"Were they nuclear?"

"NEGATIVE. SENSOR READINGS OF THE EXPLOSIONS WERE CONSISTENT WITH HIGH YIELD CHARGES MODIFIED BY UNSTABLE G-DIFFUSION DRIVES. RECORDS INDICATE THIS IS A WELL-KNOWN TACTIC OF REMNANT TERROR CELLS. CAUTION, HIGH DENSITY OF ELECTRON DISCHARGE WILL RENDER LONG RANGE COMMUNICATION IMPOSSIBLE."

Fox sighed in relief. The news, while undeniably horrible, could have been much worse. And at the moment there were few things to be grateful of, and he was willing to take whatever he could get.

"Guess that means we're on our own." Falco snorted.

"Again."

While Fox agreed with Falco's sentiment, rare as it did happen, that was not really his concern at the moment. "Were the detonations near population centers?" His question was hedged carefully, and he dreaded the answer forthcoming.

"NEGATIVE."

ROB replied, to his great relief once more.

"THE BLAST WAS SEVERAL HUNDRED KILOMETERS FROM THE NEAREST POPULATION CENTER. RISK TO CIVILIAN LIFE..."

The machine hummed as it computed, coming to an answer with a chirp of, "NEGLIGIBLE."

While satisfied that whatever might have happened had not resulted in the deaths of untold numbers of innocent civilians, Fox was still left with many questions unanswered. And with communication to the planet's surface blocked by what was in all probability, a committed use of electromagnetism, it was an answer he would have to find personally.

Fox hopped to his feet, his boots landing hard and loud upon the silvery surface of the bridge's deck. He turned to Falco, the avian looking to him expectantly. "Come on," he flicked his muzzle toward the door.

There was only one thing left to do really.

"Let's fly."

The bird grinned.

Yep still alive boys and girls. The story marches on, dragging though the mud and muck of writer's block and procrastination. Hope the new chapter was a good one, and I look forward to your collective input. Anyways, like always, it is way passed my bedtime.

Drake out.