He was falling.

Concerning, but not yet world ending. Noble Six could question the why and waste time, or he could stop himself from becoming an ugly smear across the planet's surface. Weighing his options, the answer was readily apparent. The weightlessness of freefall had ripped him from the console, but his firm grip on the seat barely kept him from spinning and bouncing around in the compartment.

He really should have tried harder to find the Covenant's analog of a flight harness.

Noble Six released a shallow grunt as the ship flipped around him and his head smashed against the display, the impact forming a minute crack down the crystalline screen. The violence of the impact scrabbling his already disjointed thoughts, he tried to claw the last few minutes into some semblance of recognizable memory. Inversely, with his face pressed against the screen he was able to get a clear view of the planet's surface as the powerless seraph hurtled down at escape velocity, which should have been the reverse. If his death, after all these years, was a result of his sudden bleeding heart, shame would not be sufficient a word to describe his opinion on the subject. As he was adamantly averse to dying in such an obdurate way, he'd probably need to get a hold on the seraph, find a means to slow its rapid descent.

If he were to hit the planet at current speed…

Well whatever's left of his armor wouldn't be worth the slag it was made of. He'd suffer a rather sudden and violent demise of twisted shrapnel and charred bone. And Six had come too far to meet an end so ignoble.

Grabbing the headrest of the command seat, he griped hard and pulled, forcing himself down towards the console. The spartan anchored himself, forming a trough with his gauntlet and plunging it deep into the metal next to the display. The seraph lurched, the starship's outline caught in a violent updrift that forced it into a spin, and Six grunted as his shoulder wrenched with a wet pop. But his grasp held true and he was able to force himself downward, clenching his thighs around the chair to keep him from flying about the cabin.

Noble Six grunted in frustration as his eyes strained to make sense of the rolling panorama of images whirling around him.

This was why fighter cockpits should be relegated to the single seat structure. Say what you will about Covenant design aesthetic, it left much to be desired.

His orientation secured for the moment, he used his free hand to work on the console, dredging up his limited understanding of Covenant flight technology as he attempted to coerce power back into the impulse drive. He siphoned everything into the engines, cutting and routing all available power in hopes of kicking off a burn. He knew he'd never be able to get the ship flying before it slammed into the ground with the explosive force of a meteor. But that was acceptable, even a slowed descent velocity would increase his odds of survival.

However, despite his efforts, the system was dark and uncooperative.

Time would soon be a nonfactor.

He glanced at the display, the surface of the planet approaching rapidly, less than thirty seconds before impact, and slammed his fist into the console, crushing the delicate flight controls and punching through the navigational system. The result was expected, but no less painful. The controls sparked and surged as he became a focal point for the current, and energy arced across his armor, injecting raw voltage into his body through the numerous breaches in his suit.

The spartan's jaw clenched and his muscles flexed, spasming under the electrified current even as the fractured display was brought back to life. The system responded to the last input logged, and the body of the seraph jerked violently, ripping the spartan from his grip and sending him hurtling across the cabin into the far wall. He spun wildly, the remnant flicker of electrical discharge locking his limbs in place as he collided with the wall at extreme velocity.

He hit the cabin wall full frontal, his fractured torso plate first striking the metal with a dull gong-like echo, before his chin followed close second. He did not so much feel as hear a crunch in his chest as his neck whipped in retrograde with the force of a jiralhanae haymaker.

The ghostly wail of the seraph's spooling drive flickered across his thoughts, moments before his head snapped backward into the deck and he blacked out.

XX-XX-XX

Mcgoyle slumped tiredly onto an ammunition crate, the plated seat of his HAZOP armor ringing metallically as he parked his ass. It was the first time he had the opportunity to have a second without the anxiety inducing pressure of carrying around enough explosive ordnance to atomize an armored platoon. And he was feeling all of it.

His legs were sore, his back hurt and there was a crick in his knee that'd probably linger for a few days and he was sure he'd probably get arthritis by the time he quit this job, if he ever had the chance. But he was also still alive and so was his team, and the same could not be said for more than half the other units assigned to their special operation. Tired but alive, he could hardly complain about his middling age. After having heard the after-action report through word of mouth as it trickled through the rank and file, he had decided to embrace the little things.

The canine, exhausted, yawned loudly, his jaw opening wide enough to crack its hinges as he set his heavy helmet down beside him and slicked back his sweat soaked and unruly mane. Ten hours since operations began and they were eight hundred causalities in the hole, mostly KIA. These aliens and their weapons didn't so much as inflict wounds as guarantee fatalities, and those that survived, from what he heard, were hardly better off than the latter. The truth of the matter was rather morbid. Considering the nature of the adversary they were up against and the uniquely tenuous position of the Remnant, eight hundred was not that bad a number. Mcgoyle was honestly terrified at the thought of facing these things on an open, even field. He'd hear tale of a type of creature, massive tank-like things that traveled in pairs, shrugging off anything from small arms fire to concentrated artillery salvos, wielding enormous plasma cannons like squirt guns.

After hearing that he didn't feel so bad about his mission, and he shuddered at the thought of encountering two of those things in the narrow environment of their last mission. Considering the alien ship was now reduced to its constituent atoms, and there was no sign of any survivors, he could at least be grateful for that. But he wondered and worried all the same. He couldn't see a force as advanced as that restricted to only one ship. And he had to ask himself what would happen if more came? If their ground forces were that powerful, just how dangerous was one of their warships? Where had it even come from? How had it been destroyed? He hadn't been able to get a good look at it, and most of the vessel had probably broken up on impact, but its size…

He doubted a patrol fleet could do more than scratch the paint.

More so, the Federation patrol fleet assigned to this sector only visited the system every few weeks, relying mostly on their extensive network of sonar buoys scattered throughout their territories. And they weren't due in for at least a week from the intelligence reports.

He had many questions, but not the rank to have them answered. He was just a squad leader, a grunt, and these were the kinds of things best left to the animals in charge. Bloodmaw, the scary bastard that he was, could at least be counted on as being a rational, capable tactician and leader. Mcgoyle was confident that as long as he as in charge, things would be alright.

All he had to do was keep following orders, and make sure that the people he cared about would make it through their deployment.

The Remnant sergeant watched his team file into the barracks, trudging in lock step, shoulders hunched and weapons sagging. While they hardly looked the part for hardened revolutionaries, at the moment he was more pleased than disappointed. Thirty minutes at a hard run under enemy fire, with the worst injury being a glancing shot that only scorched the paint of Takio's thigh plate, he had chalked up their success to his off-brand luck. Although, he often wondered how long it would last.

All around him the members of his unit sat or dropped where ever space was available, piling down in small clusters like school children as they shed their equipment. Rifles dropped to the floor, followed quickly by segments of armor plate as they stripped down to their vac suits, chattering quietly amongst themselves, snipping jokes and comments that would have his wife clubbing him upside the head for allowing such foul talk as she covered the ears of their children, even though their smirks made it clear her efforts were wasted. Then of course she'd tut at him, her disappointment entirely disingenuous, and threaten him with a night on the couch though she never went through with it. He'd just sneak a conspiratorial smile to the kids and they'd come back later, ready for more mischief.

Thinking of Lena and the kids always brought a smile to his face to his face, a dopey dreamy smile that had his squad making jokes at his expense for hours after. He sighed, lingering on the memories as he tucked his hand under his armpit, feeling for the little nub of the catch release securing his armor. Finding the little series of latches, he flicked the fasteners and the heavy slab of hardened ceramic popped opened. He set his armor down at his feet and took a deep breath, glad to be rid of its cumbersome weight.

"Hey… Sarge."

Mcgoyle, still smiling, looked across his unit.

"RJ?" He prompted the other canine.

"Thanks, for getting us out of there." The plains dog answered quietly, his fur ruffled in embarrassment as the rest pf the squad leered teasingly at him.

Timid as he was, RJ, or Rico Janero, as he hated to be called by his peers, was newest to the unit, a native born Cornerian. RJ never talked about what made him decide to enlist in the Remnant, and Mcgoyle never asked. Personally though, he felt the young dog didn't have the right personality for the job, but he'd learned never to operate on assumptions. He worked on facts, and if those weren't available, then he made his decisions based on the most accurate information available.

Lanus shrugged. "It's my job."

"Technically…" Takio leaned to the side, wrapping an arm around the timid canine as she whispered loudly into his ear. "His job is to complete the mission. But don't ever tell him that."

"My mission…" Mcgoyle muttered grumpily, tossing a nearby blaster canister that bounced lightly of the side of her head. "…is to make sure that everyone comes back alive.

A susurrating peel of laughter sputtered from munitions crate across the barracks from a lizard cleaning the barrel of his service weapon. "You are such a dad, Sarge."

"I am not!" He barked indignantly.

"I'm just saying. You're the only squad sergeant I see who thinks water breaks in a combat zone are mandatory."

"Dehydration is not a laughing matter." He mumbled defensively, sinking inwards under the wild chuckling of his unit.

"Remember that time he crawled eighty meters through a live fire zone because RJ here dropped his favorite rifle."

"What… I liked that gun." RJ mumbled, glaring at Reddings as he was roped back into being the butt of the squad's jokes.

"Total dad moment." The sole feline of their unit nodded sagely as he lounged on the floor by a stack of foldable chairs they hadn't bothered to unload.

"Just accept it sarge." The lizard put down his rifle and eyed Mcgoyle sympathetically.

"You're a total dad."

Takio smirked, giving Mcgoyle a smoky stare and a coy wink. "Don't worry, Sarge. You can be my daddy anytime."

The mongoose squeaked as a mess tray flew across the room and rebounded of her forehead. The rest of the room erupted into laughter as she fell backwards melodramatically.

"Alright, that's enough of that." Mcgoyle yelled loudly over their laughter, his fur ruffled as he tried to ignore the mongoose moaning on the ground. "Does nobody care that we fought aliens today?" He was honestly surprised that they thought their old gag was more important than talking about the massive alien ship that crashed on their doorstep. Although, given the quirky band of rejects he somehow managed to amass, he supposed he shouldn't have been all that baffled.

"Well… we didn't really fight them. The other units did."

"Yeah, we just kind of snooped around their shit and ran away. I don't think we even saw one."

"After hearing about what the frontline units went through, I'm certainly not going to complain about it."

The general consensus was mild interest, to Mcgoyle's bemusement. He thought it was a pretty big deal. First alien contact in their history, and these kids couldn't be bothered by the existential dread. He was almost jealous.

Almost.

XX-XX-XX

Fox inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of plastic and upholstery calming his nerves in a way that the hardest drinks never could. He smiled as he ran a hand across the instrument panel, his padded finger tips roving over the board of switches and buttons fondly as he eased into his seat with a contemplative sigh. There were a lot of memories associated with this ship, moments of victory and bitter losses, the unreplaceable rush of life and death in a dogfight, teetering on the threat of hard vacuum and fiery death at any moment. Most people wouldn't crave such things, but he'd learned a long while ago that pilots weren't like most people.

He worked the console quickly, the satisfying click of analogue controls and buttons bringing a blast of emotions, excitement and trepidation balancing narrowly in his mind as the arwing's engine stuttered into life. The cockpit shuddered, the console lighting up like little stars in a small galaxy, and he could hear the gentle hum of perfectly kept machinery under the gentle purr of the G-drive.

The vulpine looked out the canopy, the transparent Plas-TECH cover etched with display readouts and technical data. His eyes sifted naturally through the streaming log of software updates and system checks, his hands flicking switches and teasing the throttle with the flight shafts as the rail system loaded his arwing onto the mag-rail. He could hear the drive initiate startup, the rhythmic pulse of its grav-unit cycling to match the building charge of the rail system and the steady beating of his heart. Fox's snout split into a grin as the sound dropped and the arwing lurched, locked onto the rail, engine primed.

He pulled back on the controls, feeling the arwing shudder as the drive discharged, and thrust forward, sinking into the cushioning of his seat as the ship catapulted out of the Great Fox's hanger. Fox let out a whoop of excitement as he surged forwards, gliding on the boost, coasting through space, fast and free.

In the distance he could see Fortuna, a swirling backdrop of murky green and pearlescent blues framing a flight of arwings in the distance.

"Hey boss, glad you could join us." A familiar voice warbled from the speaker, distorted by interference but mostly comprehensible.

Fox fiddled with the radio, adjusting for the heavy electromagnetic charge. "Glad to be back on the wing, Miyu, though circumstances could be better." Outside the canopy he could see Miyu's arwing as it spun lazily, pulling into formation around him with the others.

"A-firm on that, Remnant seems to be pulling shit more often lately."

"Yeah, who knows what they're planning." Fay interjected, her voice coming across with more clarity as he turned the dial to the best setting.

"I hope the people of the planet are unharmed."

"I'm sure they're okay, Krys. ROB says the fireworks were far away from any cities or towns." Fox gave her his assurances, though he knew she would not be answering with a reply. For as long as he'd known her, she had been a pleasant, if somewhat distant, person. A comfortable recluse with a soft heart and strong will. Always pleasant, and always distant. Ever since he found her in that shimmering gemstone on Sauria she'd been like this. And he often wondered, if the cause was the troubles of her past, or simply a facet of her personality. Whatever the reason, she was a loyal friend and an expert pilot.

"Whatever, I just hope these bastards put up a better fight than last time." Falco grumbled; his irritable demeanor quite clear even over the erratic communications equipment. "I could use a challenge."

Fox sighed, shifting his controls towards the planet and punching the G-drive's boost system, launching himself at the front of their formation and towards whatever new danger awaited them.

"You know, Falco, one day you're going to find exactly what you're looking for. And I don't think you'll like it."

XX-XX-XX

Six woke up to the pain. It was, customarily, the first thing he recognized, before his eyes opened, before he thought to move. It was an ache, deeper, but no less familiar. He ignored the throbbing, buried it even further until it was nothing but a memory, and opened his eyes.

He looked outwards, through the shattered screen of his faceplate, darkened, like a blood tinged holo unit.

The spartan shifted slightly, and memory became reality. He felt his mouth open, whether to groan in pain or to scream, he'd never know, because he couldn't find the air to breathe. Instead he gasped, inaudibly, and shifted onto his side. He could feel a pressure rising and he fumbled with his helmet, able to disengage the seals and throw it aside moments before he vomited something dark red and smelling heavily of copper.

He could taste it on his tongue.

Blood…

But that wasn't anything new.

Noble Six moved again, this time with more success, dredging up the wherewithal to get on his knees, if not to stand. His weight was propped on an arm, balancing and teetering in place as the layered plates quivered, his strained muscles struggling to hold up his immense bulk, which was, in truth, a minor symptom to an increasingly complex problem. The crash clearly had not done his constitution, nor his endurance any favors. His other hand reached to his head sinking into the unruly mane of sweat soaked locks, the glove coming away wet with sweat and blood visible at a glance.

He dug his fingers back in, probing, his teeth clenched at the pain, parting hairs until his index brushed against something that burned. He jammed a finger down and made note. Small laceration, no fractured bone. Prognosis… survivable.A quick pat down revealed that, other than the worsening nature of the wounds prior to the impact, he could have been in a far less favorable position. Any crash you could walk away from was a good one, a step in the right direction, in all consideration.

He cast his gaze circumspectly, taking in the state of his surroundings as he retrieved his helmet, the casted slab of titanium dimpled and dented, but still functional, if no longer vacuum rated. And seeing as his shields were unlikely to come back without some significant repair, he'd take whatever protection afforded. The interior of the seraph was smaller than remembered, buckled by the impact undoubtedly. From a glance it was clear the ship's serviceability had run its course, even from the darkness of its inoperable lighting. A setback, a rather large setback, but he could manage.

He had no choice.

The spartan risked another breath, this time shallower, and was met with some moderate success. He looked to the blood on the floor, darker than arterial. Bleeding from the mouth, likely a result of internal trauma. He felt around his side, adding pressure until he felt his pain spike. Indeed, not a crack, but a fracture.

Curious. The bone structure of spartan candidates were universally reinforced by an ossified ceramic composite, supposedly unbreakable, or at least nearly so, as he discovered. Six found the capacity to shrug his sore shoulders as he climbed to his feet, taking shallow breaths as he searched the compartment, securing what little supplies he had that had not been ruined or crushed by the crash. There was little to speak of in worth, his weapons had not survived, warped out of shape or flattened, yet equally unserviceable and his last can of biofoam had been flattened under his chest, likely shortly after impact. He left the useless items where they lay, unusable and forgotten as he moved instead to study the hull, searching for a way out, thoughts of the future buried under his more immediate priorities as he felt numbly along the crumpled surface of alien metal and cleaned the hardened foam from his torso plates.

In his search he noticed a ray of light seeping from a crack in the hull. Stepping over shards of shattered debris, he lurched closer, eyeing the small breakage with some reluctance. He had found his exit vector, but it would not do his injuries any favor. Steeling himself, he placed his gauntlets back to back and slipped them through the crease, and then he pushed out. The last vestiges of his breath were forced out in a pained grunt as he exerted himself, the piercing pain in his side and strange twinge in his abdominal muscles a distracting sensation as he struggled.

Metal groaned and creaked in twisted tandem under the pressure of his augmented strength, a piercing, tortured squeal reverberating inside his broken helmet as he pushed forward. The process was slow, weakened as he was by his accumulative injuries, and he could feel his body scream at the injustice it suffered. He ignored its wails, working at the crease until it had become a gape, wide enough for him to shimmy through. And as soon as he was able, he forced himself forwards, the corners of his shoulderplates trailing sparks as they scrapped against the sides.

Then he was free, out from the confines of the ruined starship and left standing in a shallow crater rimmed by torn trees, flaming debris and smoking ruin. He stood there amid the destruction, an arm held against his side, more a sympathetic gesture on reflex than of any effort of real worth, and contemplated his unique ability to skirt the precipice of death.

It seemed his cursed luck had not yet seen itself through.

Despite what might seem his best efforts, he was firmly in the realm of the living, even though there were many such others that were not. He discarded the coming thoughts that tried to from, unable to afford even the luxury of laconic reflection. He was yet alive, and that meant he could still fight, and something deep inside him, an instinct molded by more than a decade of constant combat, told him his fighting was far from over.

Gathering himself, physically and mentally, he took stock of his situation. His HUD? Fried. Shields? Unresponsive. His weapons? Destroyed. His health? Pitched on a tight rope somewhere between a man and a ghost. This was, in all probability, the worst tactical position he had ever found himself in, and that was an impressive, if twisted, accomplishment. But it was yet still salvageable. His war was far from over.

He had to believe that.

And, with that in mind, there was really only one thing to do.

Noble Six looked up to the lip of the crater, and he began to climb.

XX-XX-XX

The darkened bulbs of the command room's light fixtures flickered, sporadically washing Bloodmaw's immense figure in a pale red hue. The detonation, while planned, had nonetheless tampered with the base's power array, an anticipated outcome, but no less an irritation. The reptilian's mouth parted slightly as a heavy exhale eased through the cragged teeth of his immense jaws, and his back rippled, the spiny scutes along his hide trembling with his distaste.

He had made his report and submitted it to the command elements outside their cluster, detailing his actions and findings, expecting a favorable return.

The dim glow of the sputtering holo unit in his claws instead reflected something far less… galvanizing. His yellow eyes scanned the digital text for the thousandth time, studying the words with furious intensity that had long since sent his staff to other areas of the complex. This was fortunate, as he was uncertain if he could have maintained his composure in the presence of his subordinates

He had been summoned to speak with the Tribunal.

A snakelike hiss passed his jaws, and he felt his spine shiver at the insult to his intelligence. They stated they wanted to discuss the report, but he knew better. It was neither pride nor arrogance when he admitted that their cleverness was far lower than they perceived. He had long since been able to pick apart their maneuverings.

They were preparing to remove him from his position, likely to supplant the credit for his achievements. It was his decisive action that led to the capture of technologies, his planning that assured the victory against a more advanced adversary.

His pace quickened, claws long since marking a trail of his steps as he circled the chamber around the massive holo unit. His brooding deepened, and he mused on his discoveries. He knew, deep in his mind, that he could not tolerate the fallings of the Tribunal any longer. Ten years and two wars, lives lost in pointless battles and skirmishes with no tactical gain, often for either party. True, his hatred for the elites of Cornerian society was unabated, but he had little quarrel with the common people once he finally exacted his blood price. He was not without reason. Victory might not be possible, but he'd take reparations, better conditions for their people, executive power in their own affairs, and criminal sentencing for the corrupt officials in Federation office.

Years of war had long since honed his relentless hatred into a more refined beast. He still had plans to kill, but he had no desire to become more of a butcher than he already was.

If he continued to follow the Tribunal, he'd fall farther than he could ever hope to recover. Action need be taken, he just did not know yet what action was needed. Bloodmaw grunted and flicked the holo device closed, standing in the flickering emergency lights silent and unmoving.

A low rush of sound brushed his hearing and he glanced to the opening door, watching as his second in command entered slowly. The simian seemed reluctant to approach, understandable given his temperament, and Bloodmaw made no move to correct this.

"Arkwright…" He hissed his greeting in a low voice, turning his full stature towards the ape who suddenly froze in place. Bloodmaw watched, his crocodilian maw curling slightly in amusement as the primate's throat bobbed noticeably.

"General…" The ape greeted in kind, his voice low and deferential. In his paw he held a slate that he extended in offering and his inflection hardly quavered as he continued. "A report from the scouts sir, freshly arrived. I thought the information pertinent enough to disturb your planning, Sir."

"Hmm…" Bloodmaw growled musingly as he plucked the data device from his subordinate's grip, uncaring of the simian's flinch as he scanned the information that had been complied for his attention.

And his attention it did indeed garner.

"Another vessel…" The Remnant General spoke softly to himself, contemplatively. The report and corroborative images detailed the findings articulately and professionally. He glanced up, ignoring the fact Arkwright was unable to meet his gaze. "Which unit submitted this report, Colonel?"

"Leo's unit, the 5th, Sir."

Bloodmaw nodded sagely. "See that they receive a commendation and prepare…" He paused, thinking for a moment. "A probing force should be sufficient."

Arkwright hesitated.

"Something the matter, Colonel?"

The simian looked up, seemingly conflicted. 'It's… just that… Sir… Do you not want to secure the site of this ship as well?"

Bloodmaw only glanced briefly once more at the report. The ship was far more damaged and visibly technologically inferior to the first. And what's more, he was done doing the Tribunal's work for them. "No need, colonel. Send the 3rd regiment and have them return after a brief probing skirmish, let the Federation think we were unable to acquire anything from either site. They may do what they will with the dregs. I care not."

He turned away, and the lights in the room cut leaving it in pitch darkness for only a moment before they returned bright and yellow, banishing the glower of the emergency bulbs. The table holo unit sputtered into life and he focused on the display. "While the 3rd engages recall all exterior units and make preparations for mothball."

"Sir?" Arkwright's voice bubbled in confusion.

"We have finished here, Arkwright." Bloodmaw grunted in answer, his eyes intent now on the unit in his palm. He closed his fist, and the machine crumpled quietly in his grip.

"I believe it is time is time I return to face the Tribunal."

XX-XX-XX

Fox jumped, his boots landing wetly on the muddy forest floor. He looked down and lifted one, groaning in disgust at the sickening squelch as the mud tried to suck his foot down. He looked almost longingly to his arwing parked next to him, remembering why he usually hated taking to the ground on missions. Such assignments usually were not as… distinguished.

"You know…" Falco's voice carried over from across the glade, the avian standing on the wing of his ship and staring quite unimpressed at the boggy floor below. "You always seem to take me to the most… interesting places, McCloud."

"I've seen your room, Beakbutt." Miyu called facetiously from a little farther ahead, at the start of the path.

"It ain't much better."

Fay giggled beside her, before blushing apologetically at Falco's dark glare.

Fox watched as the bird dropped down with a huff, and a groan as he sunk a layer into the ground. "Why can't these things ever happen at the beaches." The bird lamented, brushing leaves off his coat as he shuffled through the mud, bumping purposefully into Fox as he passed, mumbling under his breath.

"I don't know… maybe some nice beach babes, a little sun. Not too much to ask."

The vulpine let it go with a roll of his eyes as he joined the party up ahead, finding Krystal at the front, her staff extended and planted firmly into the wet dirt. Ironically enough, the aristocratic vixen seemed quite at home in the marshland and there was a soft smile on her snout as she watched the leaves dance on their branches. Fox seemed to recall, dredging up a blurred memory of a night out on the streets of Corneria, that her home was not all that different from places such as this, certainly a takeaway from what he had expected, given her often blue-blooded bearing.

As always, she seemed to know when he was thinking about her, and she turned to look his way, nodding regally in greeting, a small smile still centered on her stately countenance.

Fox returned the gesture as he activated his wrist mounted tac-unit and went to business. "Alright, we know from our flyby that the wreckage of some sort of ship is about two kilometers southeast of our position, and given that huge crater eight kilometers northwest, that seems to be our only real lead. Contact with the local garrison is still fucked by the EM distortion, but hopefully Slip can get a clear connection before we might need their assistance, and he's prepared to offer some aerial support if things take a turn."

"Great." Falco muttered sourly; his dissent a constant, familiar presence that was like this time often overlooked.

Fox might have been upset if he thought there was any real malignance between the two, but like always, it was just Falco being Falco. The bird always liked to complain, until he needed a quick patch on his ship or his guns weren't shooting straight. And then it was all buddy this and friend that. Something that was always good for a laugh, but not really all that important at the moment.

"We know from the drone footage that there was Remnant activity near the crash site command designated Alpha, and considering its now a crater roughly the size of a Federation Fleet command cruiser, it's clear that they didn't want us finding whatever landed there. So, if we want to get paid, we're going to have to make sure this particular ship is still sitting around when the fleet arrives."

Fox swiped up on his device and the projector expanded, a square cut of the terrain around their objective hovering in the air above him, and the team stepped closer as he detailed his plan. "So, we can safely assume that Remnant forces will be at or approaching crash site beta when we arrive. By then Slip will have made it to the garrison and spoken with the commander, so we can at least expect heavy cover on his return. Until then, we'll have to hold ground."

He pulled his paw in, narrowing the image until it was focused around the immediate area surrounding the strange ship. "Now, considering the terrain, Miyu will be coordinating the frontal approach. Fay, Falco, you'll be her support."

"Sure."

"Of course!"

He nodded to the pair. "Krystal and I will pull rearguard, planting motion sensors and IFF trip mines on the approach in case we make it to the site first. In that case, Miyu, I'll need you to secure an entrance and wait for us to rendezvous. And remember to be careful, this vessel is easily the size of a battleship, and that means a lot of crew. We don't know who this ship belongs to or if any of them are still alive, but I don't want any incidents. ID your targets before firing."

"Always boss." The feline grinned. "When have I ever let ya down huh?"

"There's always a first, Miyu." He trusted her implicitly of course, and with her background in special forces he could confidently admit that she was probably the better of them all when it came to groundside missions, but he was the captain for a reason, and sometimes he couldn't play around.

Thankfully, she understood, and offered a thoughtful nod.

Fox ran everything through his head one last time, making sure that he had hit all the marks he wanted to hit and that there was nothing he had forgot. Satisfied, he placed the waypoint on the squad tactical network and shut down the emitter for his comm bracer. "But remember, above all, be careful. I'd rather not have to go talent scouting."

"Tch… like you'd ever find anyone that could replace me." Falco scoffed, before gesturing for Miyu to get moving. "Well come on then pussycat, we're burning daylight. And there's no way in nine hells I'll walk around this shit in the dark"

They walked into the brush ahead, a confident lynx, her faithful canine friend, and one surly pheasant. Their rapport, as churlish as it was comforting, dampened under the leaves and vines of the dense undergrowth as they went ahead, until he was left with silence. The quiet, however, was not soothing, bringing with it thoughts that always lingered, concerns about the involvedness of his planning and gnawing worry for his crew. They'd been through thick and thin, hell and water, and while they always came out on top, that didn't stop him from fretting. He was a worrier, just like his dad. He liked to think it was a part of the McCloud brand, right beside their penchant for excellence.

So, running the plan one last time through his head… again, he shifted some of his mental processing power to his own task, noticing as well, something that had just occurred to him. It was odd, usually Krystal had something to say, however minute and enigmatic. She was good at reading people, and often made comments that could be reassuring or disparaging dependent on wherever her mood left her and her current opinion of the person question. Her silence, while a frequent state for her disposition, was in this instance unusual.

Fox thumbed open a small case on his utility belt, popping out half a dozen IFF mines, the miniaturized, circular anti-personnel devices fitting comfortably in the palm of his hand as he shifted attention curiously. Krystal had not moved, her stance alert and her ears swiveling like radar dishes as her eyes drifted, sifting carefully through the trees. The vulpine paused, his heart thumping a little louder, and took a deep breath through his nose. He sifted through the scents, his other paw lowering to sit on the grip of his sidearm.

"Do you sense anything?" While he was in no means inept at sniffing out trouble, owed more to his species than of any refined skill, Krystal's abilities were of a more… mystical disposition. While not quite a mind reader, she was not all that far off, and she had outed ambushes and looming threats on numerous occasions. So, when she was concerned by something he didn't notice, he damn well paid attention.

The cerulean vixen did not answer quickly, her expression distracted and her posture defensive, clawed fingers curling tighter around the haft of her staff, the others idly teasing the hem of her leather coat. "I… am not sure." Her voice carried softly over the still air, stiff and cultured. Her left ear flicked, and she stopped moving entirely, so still that she seemed to slip out of phase with the world around her, before the fur visible around the collar of her jacket ruffled slightly. "I had thought…" She shook her head slowly, the unease in her voice lessening but not disappearing. "No. It must have been nothing."

Fox, his paw tight around his holstered blaster, eased off only slightly, dropping a sigh as he sagged with loosened muscles. He had not fancied the idea of being ambushed while his team was split. "Alright, if you say so." He sniffed again, if only for his own comfort, and like before, could only make out the dark tones of wet soil and the trace of rain that must have fallen the day before. The smell of dirt was powerful, and slightly coppery, but did not stand out in an alarming fashion.

He rolled his shoulder, hoping to ease the tension in his upper back, and gestured forward. "We should get moving. I'd like to be in position before Falco starts complaining."

Krystal was slow to nod, he noticed, her posture never entirely relaxing, but she eventually did fall into step beside him, procuring her own assortment of mines and motion sensors. Between the pair of them they should have all the most obvious, and even some of the more obscure approaches to the ship mined and secured, likely before Miyu led the others to their places. Foxes were fast, and quite at home in an environment like this. Even keeping an eye out for Remnant guerilla tactics they'd make excellent time loping through the underbrush.

Fox looked to her once more, sharing a small smile, before they leaped into the brush, vanishing stealthily into the collage of deep green and dark browns.

XX-XX-XX

Six sunk back against the tree trunk, dropping an arm from the blade sheathed into the shoulder strap on his Mjolnir, the blade hanging to its straps by a thread and the occasional prayer. The spartan took a shallow breath, easing out air with a short hiss that sputtered rather nonthreateningly. He tried to feel relief but exhaustion was the only feeling he seemed to still possess.

Climbing from the wreck and maneuvering through the dense forestland had not done his fractured ribs any favors, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain steady breathing. Fatigue was taking its due at last, even his spartan constitution could not endure the weeks of constant running and fighting on minimal caloric diet and sporadic hydration, beset as well by bruises and deeper wounds seemingly at every turn. His body was starting to openly revolt, and he knew that soon he would not be able to simply ignore his worsening condition. If this place did not kill him soon, its damn inhabitants would do the job for it. Blood loss was beginning to impair his basic functions and make a mockery of his skills, to the point where he had almost not heard the howl of overhead aircraft closing in on his location.

He'd took to ground immediately, scrubbing down his armor with native soil and plant life, dousing the cloying scent of blood as best he could and hoping to obscure the dulled, dark colors of his armor that did not match the terrain. In a rush he had picked a tree and settled in place, hoping that his caution was unwarranted.

But, as always, prudence made itself both friend and enemy. His makeshift camouflage was adequate but the place he had chosen to take shelter had been, in a cruel but familiar twist of fate, in the direct path of an approaching party. The voices were alien, not of the Covenant, and he was simultaneously relieved and concerned. The Covenant, for all their strength, were familiar, and he had experience in evading capture.

The aliens of this world, wherever it may be, were an as of yet incalculable variable. And to further complicate the matter his suit was offline, meaning the language matrix was not gathering data, and he was far from composing a viable translation.

So, when their party had stopped, less than three meters from where he made his hiding place, he had been prepared for the worst. Killing this group would not have been an impossibility, though his wounds were proving to be an escalating disadvantage. Confident that he still had the strength to take on a small party of five, he did not have the capacity left to do it quietly. Even so, he was off put by the difference. They appeared to be a separate entity, bearing neither the equipment or the marking of the previous force. And the… animals forming the squad were not of the same breed as those he had studied in the Covenant warship.

A new faction?

Or simply a different organization?

These were questions he didn't have the luxury to dwell upon. Neither did he technically have the luxury to sit in one place. He was bleeding to death, and he did not have the means to staunch the flow. He needed to reach the wreckage of the ship and hope it still had some medical supplies, and weapons, though he did not put much faith in that.

Suppressing a groan, he pushed aside his hide, a quickly woven mesh of branches and leaves, and took a minute to stand up. His joints ached and he felt a fresh hotness trickle down his side. But it had been long enough that the aliens should be at a safe distance, though the direction they were moving did not entail in him a sense of relief.

One could not hide the metal corpse of a heavy cruiser, and even from his crash he had seen the broken back of the dead warship jutting from top of the canopy, leaking wisps of blackened smoke far above the tree line. It was not something forgotten. It was a beacon, a landmark, and it would not be spared from idle hands.

Noble Six took a step forward, regaining his balance and a modicum of his strength and prepared to follow in the footsteps of aliens, something he appeared to be doing with increasing frequency. The future was a muddled mess for the tired warrior B312 and he did not yet know what it was he wanted in the end, be it a quick death or one last push. Events did not seem to favor either outcome, and he wondered what truly lay at the end of this spiraling road.

Whatever it may be, to reach it he had to keep on moving. He had no intention of dying outside of combat. Gritting his teeth, he kneeled to the pit he had dug earlier and shoveled a clump of earth and stuffed his newly reopened wound. The mixture was some sort of native clay, one he hoped held similar medicinal properties as those he had encountered before. It was no biofoam, but at least he wouldn't be leaking the scent of his blood all over the damn forest. He had a theory that while untested, seemed only logical. It was likely these animals shared the same olfactory senses as their more unevolved relations, and he had heard that animals from the canid and feline species could smell out prey from miles away.

He'd rather not be ousted so embarrassingly.

The spartan-III allowed a moment to recuperate, checking his wounds and gathering the tattered elements of his stamina, before he followed after the vanished party of natives. As much as he disliked the idea, he was not sure how long he would last if he was forced to take a more circuitous path to his destination.

Six did not break into a run but instead a steady walk. It would be slower, but far less energy exhaustive. And right now, he needed every shred of energy he had left. After all, apparently there was someone else still alive out here, and that was a mystery he had every intention to solve.

It was the only real goal he had left.