Legacy of the Precursors (Revised Edition)

by DrakeTheTraveller

A legacy is what man leaves behind, the culmination of past deeds laid down at his feet for those who come after. Noble Six walks in the footsteps of his predecessors, peerless warriors and tacticians. As a spartan, war is his birthright. As a man he has nothing to call his own, no legacy to his name. But after Reach's fall, he discovers just what inheritance he will leave behind.

10. Once More unto the Breach

Another voice screamed, a throat tearing agony rising above the energetic fizzle of lasers crisscrossing through the air. She'd heard the sound many times in her life, the dragging howl of someone who knew they were going to die, and ignored the emotions that broiled from down the slope, the anger, sadness, and desperation, a distraction she could sorely do without. In the years since she had left the molten husk of her world, she had become quite adept at suppressing her natural gift. A talent turned necessity as she furthered her career as a warrior.

If someone had told her as a kit that there would come a time where she would spurn the sacred ability of the ancestors passed through her line, she would have cast a rather dubious stare their way. Now, as she hunkered amidst the wreckage of war and held tight her guardian staff, her grip slick with blood not her own, she only lamented the past, the circumstances that brought forth this harsh certainty that had become her reality.

"Shit's about to get fucked, I'm changing barrels."

Falco's grim voice and demeanor forced the vixen to cast aside her sudden melancholy, and she clutched her once ceremonial weapon tighter. The austerity of current circumstance had no patience for introspection. Crude as he was, Falco was quite knowledgeable in regards to the principals of war. Things were indeed about to become very difficult. His assistance had been a reprieve against any meaningful advance from the Remnant. With its loss had vanished all attempts at serious opposition.

She listened for the moment as it came, the once constant and heavy thunder of supporting fire cut all at once, and there was a deep and sudden silence, like a sucking void that tore out all thought for sound. It was not long then that she heard it, the shuffling of boots and the crinkling of armor plates, low spoken words and grim growls. Her support was gone, and all present were aware of the sudden change. There was a moment of hesitation across the field, wary of deceit, and she could hear Falco in his hideout fumbling with metal as he worked at a breakneck pace to swap the near molten barrels of his gun, hissing and snapping his beak as he burned his hands in his haste.

If there was ever a time for Fox to make one of his self-patented dramatic entrances, it would be now.

And while she knew he was approaching with all possible speed, they had gone deep inside the wreck, deeper than he had first probably wanted, driven by curiosity no doubt. She could sense him rapidly coming closer, his spectrum colored brightly with determination, concern, anger, but not close enough a part of her knew.

She briefly wondered where Slippy was, before the cacophony of war once more rose from the silence. A mass of sound rushed up the slope towards her with the fury of a rising tide, the rumble of boots and the sharp snap of enemy fire heralding her entrapment. She was pinned, held behind cover by constant suppression from the advancing force that splashed against her cover, and she thanked the ingenuity of this unfortunate alien race, that their technology held so well under such relentless assault. Not that it would matter in a few moments.

Krystal emptied her thoughts, readying for what was to come. She twisted her staff, and it shot out to its full length, the pointed blade jutting from the pommel gleaming bright in the sunlight. She readied for the fight of her life, perhaps the last one. Thoughts threatened to spill past her concentration in that moment, unfulfilled dreams and desires. The flicker of her wants that she tried to keep buried so deeply, of a future she wished to have but had all but forsaken, and the fear, a cool chill in her spine. But it was not enough to shake her, not today, and not as long as she drew breath. Krystal gathered the errant distractions and pressed them back to the depths of her mind, when a clamor of events broke her tenuous concentration.

She felt it first, a slight reverberation in the dirt, and then she sensed an overbearing wave of emotion bearing down like a hurricane. A swirling vortex of tumultuous sensations so lurid and complex she could not discern specific feelings but could certainly sense the overwhelming intent. A desire, a base need, for violence. And then, shortly, she heard it.

The advance upon them had halted violently, the tread of boots and shouts conflicting as they scrambled to reposition towards the approaching threat pressing crushingly against their flank. Her dourness lifted with the beginnings of relief. Had the garrison finally made its way through? The thought lingered only for a moment however, before common sense prevailed. No. Whatever had entered her awareness felt nothing like Federation soldiers. This feeling was more… primal.

Suddenly Falco's emotions spiraled.

"What… the… fuck…" He exclaimed tonelessly.

Confused, she risked peeking out of her position to see what was happening. And in that moment her world shattered with a glimmering flicker of fragmented glass as she laid eyes upon the avatar of the emotional tempest, a single entity, that bore down upon the Remnant like an avenging phantom torn from the mythos of ages past.

The saliva in her mouth dried and she felt the air rush from her lungs as if she had just been hit in the stomach. It was a giant, a colossus, wreathed in blackened metal, its armor scarred, cracked, and pitted. The vixen was taken aback at the sight as it kindled etchings of the past. The apparition held much similarity to the mythical figures from the folktales her parents used to read to her, of the warriors of starlight, though the iconography had not depicted them with such ferocity. Whatever it may have truly been, it looked like it had clawed its way up from all the hells of all the religions she had ever studied.

It was armed with a rifle, the weapon appearing like a child's toy in its arms, and yet it was wielded with supernatural accuracy and speed, a withering torrent of energy that scythed through the enemies' attempts at a defensive. She watched them felled so effortlessly under the stream of fire from its armament. Not one shot cast astray, each delivered with the precision of a machine, and as the weapon fell silent it was cast aside, the being pulling another from its back. Half the number against them, once an intimidating force, had been cut down in moments and no response seemed to deter their adversary.

The Remnant, to their credit, fired upon the creature despite their dismay. They were a well-trained, well-equipped foe, and despite the relentless force coming down upon them they effected an expedient counteroffensive. It was only that their attempts were disregarded.

The fire born down upon this strange being was withering, and she could only be in awe as it pushed through, its armor smoldering and beginning to liquify as it continued undeterred, unrelenting and unbothered. A score more died under its return exchange, and then it dropped the gun and drew a massive curved blade, lopping the head from a Remnant officer in a single swipe.

Krystal had seen darkness in her time, a great deal of it. She had escaped the burning remnant of her world and faced the wickedness and cruelty of those driven by the demon of ambition. Even so, as she watched the armored giant fold a full-grown gorilla in half with a rib shattering kick, she recoiled internally. It did not fight like a being of flesh and bone, its actions were meticulous, each motion perfectly performed, each movement calculated to the smallest degree, like a machine. Krystal could not describe the feeling that bloomed in her chest, a quickening heat that caught in her throat and stole her voice.

In its heart it raged like a beast, yet in action there was precision. The creature was silent, she could not even hear it move. Fear once more trickled into her heart, and yet it was meager, silenced by her wonder.

It did not kill the Remnant soldiers.

It butchered them.

This was the first time she had seen the Remnant break with such wild terror, and they were given no quarter. The first to turn and run was split in half, the forward curvature of the blade cleaving through skull, sternum, and pelvic bone in a single motion, the halves splitting apart and leaking hot viscera. The second lost its legs as the giant turned and removed them with the same motion, he had used to end the first. And then they scattered, attempting to claw up the steep incline of the crater with mad desperation.

She thought them spared, until the armored being took a sidearm from a corpse and dealt with them each accordingly, a single shot to the back of the head. It was as swift as it was callous in its disregard and lack of mercy. The being shifted in that same moment, even as the last body fell, the barrel still smoking, and made for the wreckage.

This finally earned a reaction from Falco.

"Fuck… fuck…" The pheasant whispered hoarsely, returning to swapping his barrels with even more vigor. Gone was his boldness, she could only sense fear in him now. And she did not hold fault over him.

Krystal moved to stand from the half-melted slab she had taken refugee behind, her knees shaking only slightly, as she watched the being draw nearer. And the closer it became, the less fear she felt within her heart and the more she grew troubled. For all its supremacy it had suffered tremendously, and she could hardly tell new wounds from old. Its armor was a smoking ruin, seemingly held together purely by its determination to persevere. And she realized, as it approached the wreckage so doggedly, that it must be one of the survivors. How it had become so estranged from the crash was a question she did not have the opportunity to ask. She instead wondered what manner of alien had fallen upon their galactic doorstep.

And as its stride faltered, there was a tug deep within herself, and she felt compelled to action, as if by some unspoken power. Whatever its intent, it has saved hers and Falco's lives. The least she could do was attempt to return the favor. She ignored Falco's shout of disbelief and concern, though she was amused that the usually confrontational avian was worried on her behalf. Instead, she rushed to the giant as it fell to a knee. She could smell it clearly as she slid down the slope, the punitive, acrid scent of burned ozone, and the harsh, metallic aroma of blood. It became immediately apparent that the alien's overwhelming assault had been at a steep personal cost. Its armor seemed more carbon than metal, and she could see blood, bright red, as red as her own, leaking from every crevice and hole, tinged a strange color by some manner of thick fluid that intermixed.

She looked, and only caught a glimpse for a moment, of an eye, the most vibrant hue of blue she had ever seen, before the large figure collapsed into the dirt. An arm burst forward like a shot and dug into the hard soil, and she watched, once more inflicted with awe, as it, through pure willpower, pulled itself forward towards the fallen ship behind her. Its emotions were still vibrant and muddled, but there were faint notes, desperation, anger, and a flicker of sadness, so fleeting she was not sure she felt it.

Then the being went still and she felt nothing.

Krystal, now kneeling beside the fallen giant, could only take a moment to sit and stare. Splayed as it was so helplessly, she still felt the pressure of its mere existence like a physical weight. Even lain low the alien inspired wonder. Instinctively, she placed a paw over its gauntlet, her hand appearing childlike by compare. She traced her fingers alongside its massive arm, taking in its size with curiosity, coming to a stop on its broad shoulder. Then she shifted lower, placing both hands under its torso. The vixen ignored the slick feeling of blood and the heat of its scorched armor burning her gloves, and heaved, grunting loudly at the effort as her muscles tensed and burned with exertion. Unfortunately, the alien's weight seemed unreasonably proportionate for its size, and she struggled to even lift its body an inch from the ground. Frustration fermented inside her as her efforts proved ineffective. She knew that if she did not push the alien over it would die. She could already feel the blood pooling under her, the vitae adopting a strange purplish coloration as it mixed with the gel-like substance that leaked from its suit under the plate.

She would not allow it to die.

Krystal turned to Falco, the avian staring dumbly from his perch, and shouted in frustration.

"Falco!"

He twitched, like he was shaken from a dream.

"What?" He demanded, his inflection lost between his usual mutinous demeanor and a flange of incomprehension. His eyes were zeroed on the creature, and his weapon half-raised, defensively.

"Come here and help me." She urged, her voice a breath away from turning into a growl. The second alien Lylat had ever seen was bleeding out all over her, and he was staring like an idiot.

"Help you?" He asked bewilderedly. "Krystal, you should be getting away from that… that thing! Did you… did you see what it did?"

"Yes. It saved our lives."

"Krystal… it fucking folded a full-grown gorilla… with a kick!"

"Falco…" Krystal spoke in a low, dangerous voice. This was not the time for him to be confrontational, not when someone was bleeding out right beneath her. It was difficult to remain cordial with the pheasant when she was in a good mood. And at the moment she was certainly not. "If you don't help me right now, I will fold you and I guarantee I will not be as gentle."

"Fuck…" The bird grunted, actually taking a moment to weigh his options, and upon considering the chances of her carrying out her threat, threw himself into sprinting down the hill, snapping off a colorful soliloquy of vindictive curses.

"Good." Krystal nodded, satisfied at his compliance. "Now," she explained as he knelt beside her, his expression a fierce grimace. "Grab here and push." He did as she asked, and for a moment she was concerned that even with his help their attempt would fail. It felt more like trying to turn a stone than a body, and she wondered how heavy its armor must be. Thankfully, after a minute of quiet struggling and grunting they were able to move the alien on to its front and within moments they realized just how close to death it was.

"Oh, shit." Falco exclaimed as he took in the depth of its injuries.

Krystal herself only just held back a gasp as she was given a close look at the its condition. The armor was more damaged than she first suspected and she had a feeling that the injuries were much deeper. Yet the most pressing grievance was one she did not even know how to begin addressing. She found herself staring at a gaping hole in its breastplate wondering just what had caused such damage. If she did not know better, she would have thought a laser drill had punched straight through. The vixen could see that the alloy mesh beneath had melted, likely grafted to the flesh underneath, a very, very bad burn. The rest of the outer plating was more or less intact, though chipped and torn with jagged spikes of metal protruding from the mutilated armor. Worse still was the strange bodysuit, the under section was a curiosity in itself, seemingly a malleable metal alloy, it was visibly torn in numerous places, and there was bright blood weeping from horrible lacerations. There were also burns similar to the large section on its chest, from some form of high energy munition she'd never seen before. And, as the list of injuries she observed kept climbing she found it hard to remain focused.

"Uh… Krystal." Falco muttered cautiously from beside her, wary of igniting her usually composed mentality. "I don't think we'll be able to fix this."

"Shut up and empty your medkit." She responded with a snap, already detaching the hardcase affixed to the lower back segment of her armor. Internally, she thanked Miyu for teaching her battlefield triage in their spare time. She'd need every shred of knowledge if she was to stop this alien from dying.

Falco followed alongside her mutely, and they took inventory of their medical supplies. Synthflesh dressings, painkillers, tourniquets, medi-injectors, gauze and wound packing bandages. It was not an encouraging sight, not for the injuries this alien had accumulated. Its prognosis did not look hopeful, and she was greatly concerned that she would never have the chance to speak with another like herself, an alien cast adrift.

"We need a full field kit."

Krystal did not reply to Falco's realization, instead ripping open the packaging around the supplies and setting herself to work. Even so, there was a part of her that knew he was right. They worked quickly and effectively, focusing on the extremities first, wrapping the lacerations in dressings to stop the bleeding. They hesitated to do more, unsure if their drugs would help or hinder the alien, and unable to effectively treat the torso wounds. To start they'd need to remove the armor, and they had no idea how to get about doing that.

It was as she focused on wrapping a deep cut on its left arm, that she found her attention drifting higher towards the concealed visage of the unconscious alien. The longer it was in front of her the more cemented reality became and the more her interest was piqued. Curiosity drove her to lean closer.

The helmet was rather stunted, with a gentle forward slope that tapered into a narrow visor and high cheek guards, but too short for a typical cornerian snout or beak, sharing similarity to apish military design. The gold visor, what might have once been artfully crafted was now flawed, fractured by some immense impact that expurgated a jagged opening almost perfectly down the center where she could just make out the shadow of a face in the sunlight before the thunder of boots distracted her.

"Krystal!" Fox shouted, leaping out from the crashed alien warship, weapon drawn and Miyu and Fay not a moment behind him in formation. The vulpine's heroic dash was blunted almost instantly as he took in the carnage at the base of the debris strewn incline. His sprint fumbled into an uncertain jog as he began to slow down, weapon half-raised and seemingly uncertain if he even needed it. He had departed the ship with fire and fury, intending to save the lives of his crew. Instead, he was met with silence, the scattered bodies, broken and discarded, painted an unexpected canvas upon the vulpine's mind.

"Uhhh…" He exhaled bemusedly, looking quite lost as he thumbed the side of his blaster's barrel.

"Whoa… somebody lost their temper." Miyu muttered as she stopped alongside him, noticing the mutilated remains of the Remnant soldiers. Even a passing glance suggested that many of the them had not died easy deaths. It had been a while since the feline had seen carnage quite like this. She tried to share a glance with Fay, but the canine's distracted face was twisting into disgust.

"You uhm… needed help, right?" Fox asked tentatively, slowly tearing his gaze from the slaughter.

His leftmost ear twitched, and Krystal nearly smiled at the subdued, but lingering disappointment flickering across his emotional spectrum. She had long known Fox to have a determination of self to come to the rescue of others, and while it made him a captain she could willfully follow and respect, that selfsame drive had driven a wedge into any nascent romantic interest in the dashing vulpine. Krystal would never turn down help, but she was in no way a damsel, and loathed the very thought of being treated like one. He had always acted as if she was in need of saving, ever since Sauria. Though true she owed him her life, he sometimes overlooked her capabilities, and she had quickly lost interest in a romantic partnership. He was, however, one of the greatest friends she had ever made, and she was proud to be in his service.

The thick gagging of Fay's rising gorge severed Krystal's wandering attention as she watched the girl visibly stagger and step back, no doubt repulsed by the horrendous sight. Krystal did not blame her, but they could not afford to waste time on niceties.

"Yes." The vixen answered sternly, as Fox began to realize she was kneeling over a body, a fairly large, fairly unfamiliar body. "And I still need it. Get over here and empty your field pack." She ordered while furiously working at plugging the torso wound with packing bandages, a temporary and ineffective fix, but she was running out of ideas at the moment. Most of her knowledge was stunted by the obstructive nature of the alien's armor. Impressive as it was, it was now a detriment to the creature's survival.

The vulpine instinctively moved to help, understanding the severity of the situation if he did not understand the situation itself. It was an admirable trait to possess for a leader, the ability to forgo distraction was something they'd need if they were to save this being's life. And yet even so there was only so much one could easily ignore, and Krystal watched in real-time as Fox's autopilot ground to a halt when he took in the full size and scope of the creature below him. Emitting a surprised bark, he nearly dropped his weapon as he took a step back.

"Holy... is tha-"

"Yes." Falco retorted snippily from across the cerinian vixen; his arms covered in blood up to his elbows as he worked on what Fox had come to realize was an alien.

A thousand and one questions were certainly flying through Fox's mind, and those of Fay and Miyu she imagined. Yet, upon glancing at her harried, focused expression, he pushed down so very many of them as he dropped next to her and emptied his kit in the dirt. The contents clattered to the ground and Krystal was already snatching up most of the dressings as she shifted to wrap the deep lacerations in the under layer of the alien's armor.

"Spirits…" Fox shuddered at what he was seeing. He wasn't even sure if the alien was still alive. There was a hell of a lot of blood, and it looked like it'd been losing blood before it showed up, however the fuck it did that. He tried to ignore how large it was, how it could probably crush his head in its hand, and hesitantly swathed its enormous bicep with a dressing, deciding to put it over the one Krystal had just placed since it was already darkening with blood.

"Yeah, what a day for it eh?" Miyu spoke up rather jauntily as she plopped down next to him and set herself to work.

He eyed her strangely, almost jealous of her ability to take things in stride. For him this was a pretty big deal and he had been unable to pass it off so blasely. In fact, he was sure for a lot of people this was a monumentally huge deal.

"What do you reckon?" The feline continued almost conversationally, her paws plugging a small, bleeding hole in its collar as she waited for him to pad it with a packing bandage. "What does this count as? Sixth? Eighth Contact? Cause it seems like we just cut a hell of a lot of corners."

He wanted to laugh, knowing her attempt at levity was her way of coping with sudden stress, but he couldn't muster the energy, seeing as his paws were currently soaked in the blood of an alien. Instead, he offered a rather meek smirk as she helped him stop the wound in the alien's neck from bleeding. He looked again to Krystal, the cerinian vixen's eyes narrowed with focus as she worked to save this creature's life. He was surprised at her focus and commitment to this. She had always done her most to save lives, a noble goal, and one that was difficult to achieve as a freelance mercenary. But this time she seemed more fixated, driven, by what he didn't know.

He had questions, by the gods and spirits he had so many questions. This alien looked nothing like the others. Even though the bodies had been horribly mangled he could tell as much just from a glance. It was larger, and unlike the crew of the ship, it wore armor, impressive armor. He was fairly sure it must be powered, the only feasible way he could see to make such a massive suit cost effective. Although by which means he had neither the time or attention to bother guessing.

And yet, despite the countless questions blitzing through his mind, he had enough spatial awareness to recognize the racking of a charging handle behind him. His head whipped back just as Fay let out a surprised scream, and he froze in shock.

His mind ran blank.

A figure stood in the shadow of the ship's wreckage. Tall, adorned in a black suit and bulky black armor overlaid, and an angular helmet with a black, reflective visor, similar but different, from the creature they were currently trying to save.

Quite different in that it was conscious, and armed.

Fox's heart lumped in his throat as he stared down the barrel of a rifle, surprised to suddenly find himself looking down a gunsight. He took in several details within the span of a moment. The weapon, a silver bullpup, was leveraged in crook of the alien's left arm, which judging by the unnatural way its forearm was bent, must have been broken. The more he studied the details around the creature the more he wondered how it was standing. Its left leg was twisted wrong, and it was clearly putting most of its weight on the right, and he could just make out a deep dent in its chestplate that had likely resulted in broken ribs. In all it certainly looked like it had just survived a horrible crash.

There was a silence in the air, and he looked to his team through the corner of his eye. They were all exposed, kneeling in the open and working on the body in front of them, only Fay was separated, having been standing to the side watching them work. They'd overextended, no security and no lookout, although to his credit he had been confident nothing had survived the crash, he'd seen for himself the bodies crushed and mangled. And yet, clearly, he had been wrong, and now they were in the sights of what was a delirious alien from across the stars. He didn't know what kind of weapons the aliens had, but dollars to donuts, it'd kill them just as easily as Federation standard munitions.

He looked down, and wondered what this looked like. A bunch of aliens, covered in the blood of a member of its species. He wondered if it was coherent enough to realize they were trying to help, or if it cared if it did. Either way. They couldn't just sit here. And while he was all for saving a life, he was not in the habit of endangering his team. There was a way to defuse this, and it required a fair degree of nuance.

"Everyone, stand up… slowly." He spoke in a low voice, struggling to keep it calm and even as he very carefully moved his paws from the fallen alien and began to rise. The others followed in his footsteps, though Krystal seemed much more hesitant to abandon her work. In the end she complied, and they were all soon standing by the body. He exhaled in relief when it did not immediately open fire. So far so good. Fox took a careful step back and to the left, putting himself between the weapon and his team. "Alright, back up and keep your hands visible." So far, the alien had not attacked, and he was not sure how long that was to last.

They began to withdraw, and he made plans to take cover in the tree-line and contact the Great Fox to send an emergency burst data packet to command back on Corneria. The situation had just skyrocketed far above his paygrade. He was in no way prepared for a first contact scenario. There should have been diplomats, peacekeepers, anyone but a mercenary company. Hell, they needed a full trauma team! Instead, here they were, a band of mercenaries, standing near a half dead giant amidst the wreckage of an alien warship and slaughtered Remnant soldiers.

Times like this he found it hard to argue against Falco's constant badgering on their cursed luck. Still, it looked like they weren't about to find themselves in a shootout, which was nice. All they had to do was create distance and find cover to observe and report. Simple, at least until their cursed luck reared its ugly head, fucked things up all to hell.

He heard the hammer before it dropped, manifesting as a low droning in the air that grew in volume, and then he played unwilling spectator as several things happened all at once. Slippy's Arwing peeled across the sky at high speed, and a pair of Federation troop transports came in close after, the heat of the exhaust pushing down on them like a searing desert wind. The air suddenly filled with the heavy roar of jet turbines, and he barked out a panicked order to his team as he saw the alien flinch.

"Scatter!" He ducked low and threw himself to the side, aiming for a low piece of debris that was half buried in the dirt, the closest he could see out the corner of his eye. A deep thunder echoed through the air not a moment after he spoke, and something small, fast, and burning hot punched him in the upper arm with the force of a flag cruiser. He twisted, stunned by force of the impact and hit the ground behind the debris. There was a moment of numbness, before fire ravaged his arm. Fox shouted in pain as he clamped a hand over the wound, throbbing with all the subtly of a botched surgery. It was all he could do to muffle the scream.

That was not, of course, to say he was some two-bit punk.

Fox had been shot plenty in his career, in the days before he earned his wings he had worked alongside the marines, fought on the ground in the mud and the blood and the trenches. High energy impact lasers had a heat when they struck, like pressing flesh against a stove or a burner. One could say he'd grown used to that searing pain, intense, but rather short lived. This was different. This felt as if somebody had jabbed a heated poker into his arm, and the wound howled with all the fury of an inferno.

"Fuck!" The expletive ejected from his mouth unconsciously as he struggled to take command of his now ravening emotions. It hurt. By the spirits and old gods, it burned so bad! "FUCK!" His voice climbed higher in depth and pitch as he pressed his back against the safety of metal, and he clamped his paw down on the burning pain as if he could smother it. He glanced to the wound, and blanched at the blood spurting between his furred fingers. He pressed harder, trying to stem the sudden blood loss.

Shit, that's not good at all. He mused almost half before had he produced a thought so utterly banal and yet so completely lacking.

It took a moment for him to realize what had happened.

I've been shot. He thought in disbelief. "I've been shot by a fucking bullet…" The vulpine now voiced aloud, almost skeptical at his own injury even as it spattered his expensive leather jacket in a spray of bright ruby pearls.

"Fox!" A voice called out to him, and he suddenly realized that the thundering chatter of the godsdamned ballistic weapon, had been silenced. He looked forward, seeing the worried eyes of Krystal peering from her own cover. Since no one else was screaming in pain he figured he'd been the only to get hit, the knowledge of which did little to ease his mind or his arm.

Fox took a second to stomach a scream and instead tried to grin somewhat reassuringly, hoping it did not come off as a grimace. He'd have offered a thumbs up to indicate he was alright, but his attention was currently focused on plugging the fucking bullet hole in his arm. "I'm a-alright." He called out in reassurance, embarrassed at the nearly inaudible stutter that came from his mouth. "It's not bad." It wasn't truthfully, it could have been a lot worse, had it hit a little to the right… well then he'd be facing a more serious issue than a fucked-up arm.

Damn it. He stomached a curse since Krystal was still looking his way. They'd dumped all their medical supplies by the alien on the ground, meaning he had no real means of plugging his wound.

Scratch that, things really were bad.

"Stay down." He whispered loudly, as if that was in some way useful in their current predicament, and risked his safety and apparent sanity to peek over the edge of his cover to see why the psychotic alien had stopped trying to riddle them with holes.

He saw the homicidal creature, closer now, standing beside the body of its fallen compatriot. It did not seem that much concerned about their presence anymore, for whatever reason. He wasn't in the mind to take offense. Rather its helmet focused almost completely upon the giant armored figure, as if in shock. He wondered, why an alien would be so surprised to see another of its kind, when he watched it collapse, its leg finally seeming to give out.

The alien hit the ground awkwardly, half trying to stay standing and keep its weapon centered down range at the same time. And even though the fucker had shot him, he winced in sympathy as its twisted leg bent further as it hit the ground hard, the echoing crack eliciting a shiver from even his spine. Fox heard an audible scream of pain echo from the wounded creature, and yet in site of its pain it moved, wrestling its broken body toward the giant until it propped against the fallen alien in support, where it seemed to take a moment to pace itself.

It propped its weapon on the giant's chestplate, still aimed their way, and shifted its helmet by the smallest margin. And while Fox could see nothing behind its mirrored visor, he just knew it was splitting its focus between the people it had pinned and the body it was pressed against. Seeing as they were effectively pacified, the creature appeared to shift its attentions.

He continued to watch in curiosity as it fumbled around awkwardly, trying to maneuver its twisted arm somewhere along its back, until, after a few strange moments, a latch released with a pop. A large case, black as the armor and covered in strange symbols and festooned with clips and latches, dropped beside it with a thump on the dirt dried out by the heat of long extinguished fires. There was a symbol larger than the rest on the case, a red cross in a white background, and Fox was astonished that he recognized the sign. The alien, now observed by the entire team who, upon realizing it wasn't going to shoot as long as no one made any sudden overtures, had leaned a little further to get a more complete view, watched as it popped the latch with a hiss of pain from its broken arm, and flung the contents out with a kick of its boot against the polymer case. The collection of tools and devices clattered as they rolled out, a strange assortment of steel canisters, vacuum sealed fabrics, translucent cases, and vials of colored liquid tumbling into the dirt.

The alien shifted grips, forcing its broken arm to wield the rifle as it rummaged amidst the clutter with the other, sweeping most of the gear closer to its torso. Then, to his surprise, it grabbed one of the larger canisters with a pointed nozzle, and stabbed it into the chest of the fallen giant. There was a sharp hiss of pressurized air and a quiet bubbling sound as the gaping hole in the giant's armor began to fill with a peculiar white foam. The alien worked tirelessly filling gaps in the suit with the canister, switching it out when it ran empty and grabbing another. It paused, upon seeing the collected hodge-podge of hurriedly applied medical wrapping, its helmeted visage twitching by the smallest fraction in their direction, before it ripped the wrappings aside and plugged the wounds with that same strange foam. In minutes it had stopped the bleeding and Fox wondered at this strange alien technology, until the creature seemed to pause for the briefest moment.

He saw hesitation in its movements as it carefully grabbed the slackened helmet of its larger companion, and with aching slowness, it pulled the headdress away. It seemed to pause upon seeing the face, and Fox wondered at its clear surprise, before it set the helmet down in such a way that it blocked their view of the comatose one's face, and proceeded to grab a blue colored vial that it strong armed into a syringe gun with some difficulty considering its other arm was keeping its rifle pointed towards them.

Fox watched all of this with interest, before looking to his own injury. He figured he wouldn't have minded a canister of that white foam himself. Although, considering the foam came from the alien that had shot him, he doubted it'd be so generous as to offer. Instead, he sighed as he ripped the hem of his pantleg and used the sheet of torn fabric to bind his wound until someone more qualified could have a look at it. The bullet wound still stung of course, burned like hellfire, but he could ignore it, for the most part. Instead, he looked towards a more optimistic future. Perhaps after the alien finished saving its friend they could try and resolve things diplomatically. It seemed far calmer now that it had tended to the giant, and he figured that they might be able to broach some kind of dialogue. Of course, in that moment he was reminded of why it had thought to shoot him in the arm in the first place.

And that was when things began to escalate.

The crackle of branches and rumble of boots tore his gaze from his observations and he suddenly felt as if he was trapped smack dab in the center of a horror mover, the moment the protagonist opens the door you just fucking know the creature on the posters is hiding inside. Helpless to watch as you realized that character was not going to be the hero of the story.

He should have been glad to see the gleaming silver armor with its green filigree, he should have sighed in relief at the sight of Federation marines swooping in to save the day. And he should certainly have been glad to see Slippy as he waddled his way between them, expression as nervous and yet determined as always as he brandished a blaster pistol, like the dashing swashbuckling hero whose movies the toad watched religiously. Instead, Fox felt a dawning dismay as a platoon of armed marines began to charge down the crater side, towards an alien that was certainly cornered, panicked, and likely delirious from its injuries. The vulpine knew in that moment that a lot of people were probably about to die.

Unfortunately for him, and luckily for them, he was afflicted with a rather poorly managed savior complex. Fox was moving before he even realized it, waving his arms in the air, wincing at the wound he had already forgotten, attempting to flag down the platoon of marines before they overreacted. He didn't raise his voice for fear of reigniting the alien's ire, and instead made himself a rather poor imitation of a flightless bird. Thankfully, he was punished no further than that simple indignity, as the alien seemed more confused than anything else as it watched him, pausing its ministrations as it likely gawked incredulously under its matte faceplate.

His movements were able to garner the attention of the platoon's first lieutenant, the canine with the silver bar etched into her armor slowed her march down the incline, bewildered expression visible under her transparent visor as her unit slowed behind her.

Fox waived to a cope of large debris that had been sheered from the massive warship's hull. He risked only a fleeting glance at the alien, its faceless helmet watching as the troop descended at a much slower, less aggressive pace. Its weapon swiveled from its brace against the torso of the giant, tracking their descent, but it did not open fire, at least for the moment. Fox exhaled heavily in relief, and seeing as it did not shoot him for leaving his cover, began to return to his team while nursing his injured arm, and pride.

He could see his team watching his approach, Krystal with a small, impressed smile, and Falco with a rather tense smirk. He was sure the pheasant had a joke at his expense that he'd be hearing later. Fay was the first to move as she rushed over, already opening her small medical case as she hurried to meet him.

"Are you alright? How bad does it hurt?" She quizzed as she grabbed a handful of packing bandages from her meager kit. Fortunately, she had not donated her supplies, otherwise he'd have been in a spot of bother.

"I'll live, not that bad." He listed off as she set herself to work removing his hastily applied patch and packing his new bullet wound. He chuckled, gritting his teeth through the pain. This would certainly make for one hell of a story when he next spoke to Fara.

He set himself down heavily on the ground, not really carrying to find a more comfortable spot, and as Fay kneeled down beside him to work Miyu was the first to approach him with a conspiratorial grin.

"Wow boss, you've been shot… again."

"First time, technically." He answered jokingly, wincing as Fay pushed hard and began to wrap the wound.

"Be proud, McCloud." Falco snorted. "I think you're the first person to be shot by a ballistic in probably two, three-hundred years. You could write a book."

"Yeah, maybe I'll kick this mercenary shit and try my hand at becoming a writer. Might be more profitable."

"I have seen the reports you write to the General." Krystal joined the conversation as she crouched a few feet apart, resting easily on her haunches as she looked his way, deep green eyes twinkling with silent mirth. "How does the saying go? I believe it goes something along the lines of do not tender resignation for your current employment?"

"She means to say don't quite your day job, Boss." Miyu offered helpfully, sharing a laugh with the blue vixen who smiled with some embarrassment at her own mistake. "You're shit at writing boss, stick to blowing shit up, you're good at that."

He winced, this time at his wounded pride, and leaned fully into the ground as he groaned.

"Duly noted."

"FOX! GUYS!" A high-pitched voice shouted.

"Oh, here we go…" Falco muttered, before Miyu slugged him in the arm.

Fox turned to his good side and watched as Slippy ran up in a huff, the poor toad practically gasping for air as he jogged to them.

Falco quickly walked over and clipped him beside the head, though not too roughly as he admonished Slippy and cast a wary eye to the pair a few hundred yards towards the wreck. "Keep it down dingus, we're trying not to end up like Fox over there."

"Sorry." The toad apologized; his volume much lower as he glanced the way Falco was looking. Then he noticed Fox on the ground and rushed past the bird. There was something to respect about his priorities as he brushed off the revelation of alien life to go to his friend. "Hey Fox, you alright?"

"Well, I was shot." The vulpine answered lazily as he looked up the amphibian that now towered over him. "You missed out on the party Slip. We found a crashed alien ship, took a tour, the Remnant attacked, and then we found some of the aliens…" His playful drawl petered off as he considered something. "What the hell happened to the Remnant anyway?"

Krystal perked up at his question, the vixen turning from her observation of the distant aliens as she met his eyes. "The large one killed them all." She answered succinctly.

"Oh.' He murmured absently, turning to notice the number and state of the bodies of the Remnant soldiers.

"Oh…"

Falco shuddered, appearing for the first time in a long while to be uneasy. "Yeah… a part of me hopes it doesn't wake up. Sorry Krystal." He apologized immediately as the cerinian fox gave him a cold glare.

"Captain McCloud!"

A voice cut through their conversation, and he sat up with a groan, realizing that he wouldn't be able to relax any time soon in the future. Fay extended her paw and helped him up to his feet and he thanked her as he turned to face the approaching group of Federation marines, peering at the aliens from the corner of his eye. Thankfully, the conscious one seemed content to spectate. He was surprised to only see the lieutenant and a handful of her soldiers, before he noticed the rest were still holed up in the distance, positioned to face the wrecked starship and moving pieces to form a temporary palisade. Impressive initiative, all things considered. Most garrison forces were… less than vigilant, a result of stagnation and widespread military disarmament following the conclusion of the War with a capital W.

He eyed the approaching officer, a dark furred canine with a strong muzzle bordering on masculine and a rather stern expression. Unsurprising given the situation that had just dropped in her lap. "First Lieutenant Kost, Fortuna Warhawks." She saluted rigidly, the very image of a starched marine.

He could not help but smirk.

"Welcome First Lieutenant Kost, to the greatest shitshow of our time."

"Thank you, Sir." She responded firmly, her stiffened posture dropping just slightly, eyes scanning past him to the looming starship in the distance, jutting from the broken earth like bleached bones. "Now, with pleasantries concluded, can you please tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

"Well… Lieutenant…" He dragged his words along awkwardly, the bullet wound in his arm throbbing painfully.

"How do you feel about aliens?"

XX-XX-XX

Six awoke with a jolt, his eyes snapping open as an airless gasp shuddered through his body. He sucked a deep breath in through his teeth, and choked, his throat dry and dusty. Once more he could see the sky above, though devoid as it was of overhanging branches and vines. He moved, or rather began to, when his body sought to punish him for his arrogance. A wave of fire washed over him, what he recognized as his nerves informing his brain that while he was alive, he certainly had not avoided the cost.

A horrible crushing pain tightened in his chest as he risked another shallower breath, the injuries to his chest had likely been exacerbated, and he would not be surprised if some of his ribs were broken. His mouth was as arid as the plains of Azod and his tongue heavy against the floor of his mouth, and yet… above all… he was alive.

How… He wondered, the first coherent thought he was able to piece together. His last moments before he blacked out had no indication that he would be waking up. He had been certain they were to have been his last.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, sir."

The spartan felt his fledgling thought process stonewall. A voice, even toned, tired, and yet very much human.

The spartan forced tired, inflamed muscles into action and turned his head toward the voice and the pointed pressure he realized was weighing against his chest. Dark black armor, faceless visor, and a familiar, if unexpected, sigil on the breastplate, a winged pod wreathed in flames and imposed with a jawless skull. He'd not seen the like since New Alexandria.

Male.

Human.

ODST.

Noble Six attached the strands of information together, strung it into a coherent weave and visually and auditorily confirmed his hypothesis, and was yet unable to believe the influx of data. A human, there was a human leaning against him.

Six took a deep breath, stifling a cough of dryness.

"Name… rank…" He uttered hoarsely, partly focusing on forcing his body into compliance. Working stiffened muscles with small, careful movements. He would not waste time on disbelief, not when his last wakening memory was briefly after a battle against the native species of this planet.

"Sir, Sergeant Aleksander Fedorov, ODST's 19th battalion, 105th Shock trooper Division, Corpsman, Second Class, Sir." The soldier belted out stoically, even as he leaned heavily against the spartan. The man looked no better than he felt, armor dented in some places and cracked in others, and half his limbs clearly broken or dislocated.

The spartan was impressed, if confused. There were not many baseline humans that could remain combat effective with such debilitations, though he knew not where this soldier came from, he did feel some measure of relief to see him, if only for the notion of normality it represented.

"Sir… where are we?" The ODST's question came out more as a tired grunt, and Six watched as the man started to sag against him. Made of stern stock, but yet not superhuman.

"Unknown." He answered, realizing then that he could feel wisps of warm wind on his face. His expression must have been some indication as the soldier leaned over his chest and pulled back, holding his helmet, fingers tucked inside the hem of the chin guard.

"Here, Sir." The ODST offered.

The spartan nodded his thanks and retrieved what had become his face over years of warfare, his thoughts drifting as he gazed into the reflective surface of his helmet. He'd worn the armor since Currahee. In the years after it'd gone through numerous refits and upgrades, contributions from his benefactor in Naval Intelligence and his personal modifications. There was little left of his original Mjolnir, parts had been changed like seasons. As the war progressed and he found himself taking a more aggressive role on the battlefield he'd taken to swapping the outer shell for variants with increasingly thicker layers of armor. As it was now his Mjolnir had amalgamated into a bastardization, a makeshift patchwork of the GRENADIER platform and components of the experimental line of the Mark VII. After Mamore, he'd spliced a secondary shield matrix into his armor and overlocked its compact fusion generator and he could likely attribute these alterations to his survival. Six dropped his gaze from the Mark VII helmet as he leaned forward, securing it in place. He wondered, briefly, at why he'd taken to such melancholia.

Something must have been shaken loose, unsurprising considering how often he found himself teetering on the precipice of death.

The spartan suffered in silence as he sat up, his body screaming in outrage at his obstinance. It seemed to believe that he was still dead, and should not be moving. This, he ultimately disregarded. Six's muscles twinged and spasmed, the sensation erratic and painful. But he was able to maintain control, if only barely, as he tried to ascertain his surroundings. Metal debris scattered for hundreds of meters in all directions, with hard baked dirt beneath him. Bodies, not far off, alien, armor color and sigils denoting the hostile force he had encountered on the Covenant battlecruiser. Up an incline loomed the tarnished majesty of a halcyon heavy cruiser, the ship's spine bent and contorted like a shattered corpse. Gnarled slats of metal hung from its twisted frame like strips of rotting flesh and he could hear the soft groan of metal in the wind. In all, it looked not dissimilar to how he felt.

Noble Six brushed a palm against his leg, feeling metal flake off his Mjolnir like old paint. Armor integrity destroyed, no power to HUD. He flexed the muscles in his legs, and winced. Agony, sore, deep tearing in the fibers, but not paralytic in nature. He pushed forward, now on his knees, and swallowed down the nausea and sudden vertigo that caused bile to bubble at the back of his throat. Fatigue, exhaustion.

Cause: blood loss.

Analysis. Loss of 48% combat effectiveness.

Unfortunate, but survivable. And considering passing memory of recent events, unexpected.

"Did my best to patch you up, Sir. Thought you were a corpse when I first saw you." The ODST, Sergeant Aleksander, (Six internally notated the soldier's name.), offered in answer at what he was sure the spartan was wondering.

"Would not have been the first spartan I've seen dead, Sir." The man scoffed, his voice dropping. "So much for the propaganda." He uttered under his breath, likely thinking it would pass unnoticed.

Noticed, but ignored. Six cared little for the mythos of their organization and the UNSC's tasteless attempt at constructive P.R., only that it offered some sort of buffer against flagging morale. Considering the situation, he doubted its importance. There'd been more than enough dead spartans on Reach to dissuade the notion.

Noble Six glanced down at his chest, recognizing the familiar off-white coloration of hardened biofoam plugging his more egregious injuries. Survival attributed to Sergeant Aleksander. He glanced further down, noticing unfamiliar branding on some lingering gauze on his extremities.

And…

His thought process trailed off.

Synapses fired; flickers of memory reasserted through the slowly stitching fragments of his consciousness. The color blue, the sky… no… not sky. The spartan looked over his shoulder and his body contracted stiffly on instinct. He reached for a weapon. But his fingers simply dug into charred earth.

They were being observed.

Aliens, armed, different armor permutation. Opposing faction? Bright silver armor, green embellishment. Transparent visors, canines, felines, avians. Different hegemony? Religious or political deviation? Disregard. Pointless to hypothesize without concrete data. Primary focus tactical observation. Outnumbered, outgunned, alien force has high terrain and optimal cover.

Logical conclusion, retreat to better position and prepare counter offensive. Push for tree line, begin escape and evasion, guerilla warfare. No. Disregard. Physical condition of trooper Aleksander unable to outdistance pursuers. Retreat to wreckage. Fortify?

Wait. Confusion. Alien force maintaining observation despite clear advantage. Alien element… non-hostile? Closest element formation of irregulars, familiar, watched pass previous before dismantle of hostile patrol. Blue… not sky.

Noble Six's analytics faded as he noticed the comparatively unusual assortment of aliens that had taken residence in a dense cluster of hull debris some two hundred meters from his position. His gaze centered on the creature with the strange coloration, sterling blue, like the sky. Connections were formed in his memory, past his drug infused delusion. The atmosphere had not rushed to meet him, the alien had. He glanced at the gauze on his extremities, lifting an arm to observe the fabric. Non UNSC manufacture, unfamiliar branding, recently familiar lettering, still indecipherable.

The spartan's thoughts derailed.

The aliens had attempted to… treat him.

The spartan-III found himself looking into eyes of polished veridian as the foxlike creature seemed to stare right back at him. Its gaze seemed almost… human.

"Sir…' The ODST spoke up from beside him, voice almost distracted. "I found those… things around you. The bandaging…" The spartan looked over as the soldier gestured to the mess of bloody wrappings around his knees. "Is from them. I… I don't know for sure but I think they were trying to save your life. If not for that you would have been dead when I found you, Sir. That'd be a first I have to say."

Aleksander laughed, the sound dark and sickly. "Fucking scared them off, shot the orange one, and yet they didn't return fire. Then my gun jammed, the piece of shit. When the ones in armor marched up, I thought we were done for but the orange one, the one I shot, waived them off." The soldier's opaque visor shimmered in the sunlight as he shook his head. "Now they're just sitting there, watching. I don't think they know what we are, Sir. Certainly not like any of the Covenant I've killed before."

"Not Covenant." Six agreed. "No correlation. Designate as Uniform X-Ray. Encountered hostile elements of Uniform X-Ray inside wreckage of Covenant battlecruiser planetside. Different faction, red armor, black decal, note as hostile. Engaged with and defeated Covenant forces, detonated battlecruiser."

"Holy shit… they wiped a battlecruiser?"

"Correct. Covenant warship was beached and tactical capability hindered by lack of information. Still, I advise caution. They are armed with energy weapons, not as strong as plasma from Covenant munitions, but no less dangerous."

The ODST nodded. It was clear he had more questions, but they had wasted enough time already. "Understood, Sir. But… what do we do now?"

Six looked to the assortment of aliens in the distance, and to the spent gauze around him. "Break for the wreckage. We can search for supplies and use it as temporary fortification. You'll need to have those wounds addressed, Sergeant. We won't be able to move with you in such condition."

The spartan had not even considered leaving the Sergeant behind. In his condition there was safety in numbers, more eyes, more guns, higher chance at survival. As far as he knew they were the last remnant of UNSC forces… wherever they were. Even so that was irrelevant. He wouldn't leave anyone behind, not again.

He'd prefer to leave his ghosts on Reach.

The spartan finally stood, ignoring the weakness in his legs as he gathered his bearing. The overbearing exhaustion he had been running and fighting through seemed to have plateaued, or he'd suddenly drop dead. But at the moment, those were reasonable odds. The ODST followed suit, but let out a short curse as his leg gave out. Six caught him, slinging an arm to support the soldier. The man offered a terse nod of gratitude as he was saved from sliding into the dirt.

With the Sergeant leaning against him, he made break for the wreckage, trying not to think about how hard it was to march up the slope. As he did so he cast one last glance back at the strange aliens he now faced, and the vigilant eyes of the one that reminded him of the skies of a planet he had not seen in many long years.

Somehow, someway, things had just become even more complicated.

But then again, when had they not?

XX-XX-XX

Precision was not a word Krystal had ever thought to attribute to the emotional spectrum, and yet… She could think of no other means to describe that she had saved. A part of her had been pleased when it had begun to move, despite the general trepidation from her friends. It was a relief to her that their efforts had not been fruitless. It was not often that as a mercenary she was given the opportunity to save lives. As of late she had become far too used to taking them. For that Krystal was glad, and curious. The sensations of the larger alien were new to her. Emotions she had not before had the chance to feel, or rather ascribe any form of notion in regards to.

Precision, focus, drive. She'd never thought to feel such sentiments so powerfully from a single individual. It was a curiosity and a novelty, but that was not what interested her most. She was instead interested in the lack of the more common expressive ambiances. There was no fear, relief, anxiety or even anger from the giant as it rose to its knees.

Though they made no sounds she could hear from this distance, she knew they were communicating. And what a strange interaction it was. The larger one was an emotive blank, no gestures, no movement, akin to a stone as the smaller being in black made short motions and rather cornerian movements. This one was wracked with familiar emotions. Anxiety, uncertainty, confusion, and yet, little fear. Grit and determination were far louder to her senses. The large one moved, studying the damages it had suffered, before slowly turning her way.

Something flickered inside her as she found herself looking into its broken mask. A single eye, bright blue like the shimmering oceans of Cerinia, and yet no animation, no fire. It was cold, almost lifeless. Emotions danced at the edge of her notice, fleeting notes hardly intelligible and nearly overshadowed by its companion. Confusion, surprise, and so very faintly, curiosity.

It turned away, and she exhaled instinctively, having failed to notice she had been holding her breath.

"What a strange creature." She hummed thoughtfully.

"Sure is a tough son of a bitch." Miyu agreed, the feline lounging beside her, eyes tracking the aliens' movements with laconic intensity. "I was pretty sure it was going to die, considering there'd been a pool of blood deep enough to fish in. Color me surprised the big bastard is moving around." The lynx turned her head. "Hey Fox, the big fucker's up!"

The vulpine's ears perked, and he turned from his conversation with the Federation platoon leader, words trailing into silence as they all watched the aliens.

Krystal could see the widening of his eyes, and feel the subtle pulse of fear as the giant creature was not only active, but standing. It was admittedly a novelty. She had never been forced to look upwards at another person before. From a glance, if she were standing right beside the alien, she'd have to crane her neck to meet its eyes.

There was a slight commotion in the distance, and the uncertain emotions and the soft shifting of rifles, before the platoon leader gave soft spoken orders over radio. It wouldn't have done to start another shoot out, certainly not after the larger one had single handedly dismantled most of a platoon of Remnant Force Recon.

Instead, they watched silently as the aliens climbed up the slope, the small one in black armor supported by its companion, until they disappeared into the shadows inside the wreck.

There was a lingering pall of silence once they were out of sight.

"Whoa…" Slippy mumbled quietly, accurately summarizing their generalized feelings on the matter.

"So…" Falco wondered aloud. "The fuck do we do now?"

"Fortify the perimeter, begin observation, and wait for orders." The Platoon Lieutenant, answered. "While I haven't had to brush up First Contact Protocol since boot, I remember that much."

"I think we might have jumped through a few of the steps, Lieutenant." Fox joked, smirking rather awkwardly.

"Hey, that was my joke!" Miyu snapped good-naturedly, flicking a spent power cell in his direction. The charge pack bounced off his wounded arm and the vulpine winced, but conceded her point with high-pitched sorry. "And, I said it better."

"Really?" Fay deadpanned, gesturing broadly with her hand. "We just discovered the existence, of sapient extraterrestrial life, and you are bantering over quips?"

"What?" Miyu muttered defensively. "I take pride in my personal intellectual properties." She looked back at Fox, who was still wincing in pain. "Hear that, boss. If they make a movie about this, that line belongs to the smoking hot actor who will be playing my role."

Slippy huffed in annoyance. "Could you guys' bicker about this later? There are aliens inside the crashed alien ship, remember?"

It was not often when Slippy interjected, and it was enough to stilt the cat's humor. "Right," Miyu tugged on an ear loop in embarrassment. "Aliens now, legal battle later."

"How about never?" Falco muttered.

"Are they always like this?" Lieutenant Kost asked, turning to Krystal, who had been watching the exchange mirthfully.

"Most days." She answered, her expression quirked into a wry smile.

"I see…" The canine sighed quietly, before clearing her throat loud enough to garner the attention of the bickering band of mercenaries. "Regardless of the level of contact already established, my unit and I will be withdrawing to the permitter of the crash site where I will be establishing communication with the commander of my garrison, hopefully by now they were able to punch through the EM interference and we can send a signal to the capital. In the interest of not complicating this situation more than it already is, I suggest you do the same. Captain, I will send you and your team an invite to my command channel, keep in contact."

"Yes, Ma'am." He saluted jauntily, flaunting his patented smirk that inspired the common soldier and so frustrated those in the higher echelons.

"And... I suppose I'll have one of the medics stop by and take a look at the arm injury."

"Ah… thank you, that'd be appreciated." He chuckled awkwardly, suitably chastised the bluster under his sails suitably deflated.

Krystal was surprised he had the grace to be embarrassed. The Lieutenant seemed quite pleased judging by the amusement the vixen sensed from the Federation officer as she departed to join her unit.

"Ever the lady killer, Fox."

"Shut up, Miyu."

The feline laughed, joined quickly by the rest of the team.

Krystal tuned out of the conversation, not all that interested in the usual cycle of bickering. It was nothing new, a byproduct of intense combat situations and stress. In no way did this irritate her, it was natural to find an outlet and she had allowed herself to partake on occasion. She did watch, however, amused as it followed the usual pattern. Fox and Miyu would argue, then Falco would join, Fay would play the part of intermediary, and Slippy would do his best to help her. A familiar song and dance, but no less heartening for it.

She was far more focused on the reason they were on this planet.

Her attention returned to the darkened shadow of the alien warship as she wondered what all of this would mean for the Federation. It may have been odd to consider ramifications in such an objective fashion. But she had always felt herself as an outlier. Cerinia had been a sovereign world uninvolved with foreign affairs. While they knew of the existence of other such planets and peoples there had never been a need or want to enter a larger community. There had been no desire to be swept into their wars and political turmoil. Only now, with the cruel benefit of experience, did she realize that their isolation had not saved them.

Personally, she felt no loyalty towards a government that failed to contain or apprehend the likes of Andross. She fought because she owed Fox a life debt and she had even less love for the Remnants of the Venomian Empire. She would fight, and die, if need be, to prevent what happened to her homeworld from happening to others.

And it seemed, for whatever reason, that these aliens harbored a similar disdain for the Remnant. What was it that made such an unknowable being help them? Why had it showed such ruthless aggression towards the Remnant, but not her or Falco? Was there some greater reason, or had it merely been random circumstance? Whatever the reason at the least this species had made themselves out to be incredibly warlike. The one that had come to their rescue certainly gave the impression. Of course, it could be only a result of this ship being a military vessel, but there was something in their mannerisms, in their emotions, that made her feel differently. It made her question.

What manner of war would breed such a soldier?

She could feel the touch of unseen eyes. The aliens were not visible, but she knew they were watching. What it was they were thinking, however, was something she greatly desired to know. The vixen had never bothered to read the Federation field manual Fox had given her. The soldierly publication instead gathered dust on her bookshelf, wedged into a forgotten corner with geographical magazines and some vacation pamphlets Miyu had forced on her.

While she was ignorant of greater Federation protocol, she had a feeling that it would be less than helpful in this instance. It had taken her nearly two years to adapt to her new life, and that was with the benefit of sharing appearance with a similar species and what little of the Lylat language her father had taught her as a hobby. These aliens did not have the benefit of good fortune. Their arrival was… combative, to say the least. She reasoned that a more atypical approach would be best.

Krystal felt a pressure on her shoulder.

"So… how are you going to upset Fox this time?" Miyu questioned aloud, the feline's arms resting against her upper back, nearly surprising her. It seemed sometime between her debate with Fox she had slipped away.

Had it been anyone else who thought to be so familiar with her, they'd have been thrown over her shoulder and her staff's hidden blade would be pressed against their throat. Since it was Miyu, she simply shifted her posture to accommodate the new weight and considered the lynx's question.

She knew what she wanted to do, just as she knew how Fox would respond. And while in most instances she defaulted to his orders, this was different.

"I am going to try and communicate with them." Krystal answered, realizing she had come to the decision the moment she had seen the alien's eye. The feline's weight shifted against her back and she could see Miyu's shadow move as her posture changed tone.

"Well… that'd definitely roughly his coat." The cat admitted slowly. And if her response had not been telling enough, her emotions were an open book for Krystal.

"I want to do this, Miyu." She affirmed staunchly, her tone somewhere between determination and the slightest note of pleading.

Miyu sighed. "Any why is that?" The lynx asked, though Krystal knew she already had the answer.

"I am the most suitable to try."

It made sense, really.

She had the unique opportunity that no one else did. They may not speak the same language, but she could feel what they feel. She had the ability, and means to understand a fundamental part of their nature. And in that way, she was perhaps really the only person qualified to meet with them. If there had been someone there that day her life fell apart, someone who could do half as much as she could…

The pressure on her shoulder increased before it lightened, as Miyu shifted to stand next to her. "Yeah well… you definitely need someone to distract the boss. Spirits only know what he'd say if you told him you wanted to go talk to the aliens. Especially considering one of them shot him and all."

She turned to the feline with a knowing smile, which Miyu waived off coolly.

"Yeah, yeah… I know, I'm the greatest. You're going to owe me big time. You know that?"

"I'm sure I could make it up to you." Krystal leaned in and placed a soft kiss on the lynx's cheek, the scent of citrus and fruit tickling her nose as she smiled, watching as the fur on the cat's muzzle darkened and Miyu stumbled away abashedly.

"Y-yeah well you better!" She squeaked, rather unladylike, and turned tail.

Krystal watched her go, still wearing a calm smile as her reckless distraction prepared to play their part. Miyu Lynx was a loud, brash, and spirited braggart, with a heart of gold. Miyu was the only person Krystal had ever met that the vixen could read at a whim regardless of her unique perception. Indeed, it was rather unnecessary to read the emotions of someone who wore them so openly on their sleeve. Krystal knew what Miyu surely thought she hid so well. After all the feline was perhaps the only one unaware of her own intentions. But truthfully Krystal did not mind it, in any way.

There was a certain roguish charm to the swashbuckling feline, and the fact Miyu always trusted she knew what she was doing, touched her in a way Fox had been unable to. But that was neither here or there, Krystal supposed with a quiet chuckle, watching the bombastic conversation between Fox and Miyu as they discussed whose character would be the lead for the movie, they were all but certain would be made about this day.

Seeing that everyone was suitably distracted, Krystal turned her attention to the starship that loomed in the distance, and the fascinating creatures that were sheltered inside. She very much wanted to try and speak with the creature she had expended so much effort in saving, if only to experience such strange emotions once more, though that was hardly her only reason. There was a part of her, Krystal realized, as she slipped away towards the hole, she had watched the aliens disappear into, that hoped for even just one more glimpse of pale blue eyes.

XX-XX-XX

He winced at the sharp pain in his chest that flared as he tried to shift around. The jagged shrapnel that jutted from the bulkhead made for an uncomfortable place to rest. The hard backplate of his Mjolnir prevented the barb from puncturing his flesh, but the dull pressure on his spine was an irritant he was forced to ignore for the sake of his temperance. He had long come to realize that comfort was a word devoid of purpose in his life. Truthfully, he would take even a few moments rest. Alive he may have been, but he had thought himself dead not long ago.

"Shit, goddamn son of a bitch."

The discomfort of his new ally however, provided some assuagement for his tolerance, seeing as he was not the only one so utterly inconvenienced. It was, in some, infinitesimal way, reliving that there was another forced to deal with the peculiarity of current events.

"Fuck!" The ODST shouted the obscenity as his broken leg bounced against a length of metal pipe that protruded just far enough to be a terrible nuisance. The man leaned forward, trying to set himself down without exacerbating his injuries, when the top of his helmet clipped a low hanging panel.

"AAAHHHH!"

Noble Six eased himself against the bulkhead and considered his own misfortune as his companion railed against everything, curling the fingers of his good hand before smashing a fist into the wall, as if to somehow break even with a meter of reinforced titanium. The man was then quickly reminded of Newton's Third Law, the spartan paying little mind to the newest onslaught of foul verbosity.

Six might have been frustrated by the lack of professionalism from the ODST. But the spartan understood he was just defragging the hard drive, a phrase he had learned from… well that didn't matter anymore. The spartan thumbed a sachet on his bandolier and gave some thought to their situation, seeing as the young sergeant would be a while before he became a meaningful participant to any strategic planning.

In truth, the spartan-III was still trying to come to terms with the possibility of a circumspectly nonhostile alien species or collection thereof. Humanity's track record was… skewed, to put in a small way. So much so that he had never once even bothered to consider the possibility of anything that was not inherently hostile and in direct opposition to humanity's survival. The fact he had regained consciousness had been a peculiarity beyond his prediction. He had fully expected, if not intended, to die. Having survived, no less in part to an alien species, was… unanticipated.

He pondered on the significance of such a discovery, portioning a percentage of his concentration to the dilemma as he directed the rest of his attention towards his state of being. His armor was fragged, barring exhaustive and detailed repairs that while he could and had before done himself, might as well be impossible given his current situation. Running a hand across the edge of the bifurcation in his visor, he tried to rationalize the fact he should be appreciative to even be alive. Yet, back to previous subject matter, the fact he lived due to alien interference was something of a shortcoming.

He was as of yet irresolute on what sentiment he should be feeling.

A heavy, lengthened sigh from across him alerted the spartan to the fact he was not alone, something he seemingly had already forgotten. In his defense, he'd spent his last weeks on Reach thinking he was the last human left alive. Which made him wonder.

Why was he not?

"What's your story sergeant?" He found himself speaking his thoughts aloud, unexpectedly. A lapse he blamed in part to physical exhaustion and mental degradation as a result of blood loss and recently injected narcotics.

The ODST seemed surprised at the question, glancing up from working on the makings of a splint around his leg.

"Sir?" He spoke up.

"Where did you come from?" The spartan decided that he might as well commit to his errant thought, and he would do well to learn more about his only ally.

"I was stationed on this ship, Sir." The man answered, to Six's consternation.

The spartan was given pause for thought, memories playing back through his mind. The Halcyon had been a wreck before he found it, a ghost amidst the orbital debris. Its sailors long dead, or so he had thought. Truthfully, he had not even bothered to consider the chance of survivors. The cruiser had been gutted and its corridors exposed to hard vacuum. There was also the knowledge that he had rammed the tattered wreck into a Covenant battlecruiser and detonated a jury-rigged slispace warhead.

"How did you survive." Six looked across to the man laying opposite of him, the ODST having become of considerable interest for the spartan's rarely emergent curiosity.

"Luck, Sir." Aleksander answered, shrugging. "After the pull out orders my unit rerouted from New Alexandria, hopped a pelican and made our way back to the ship. Somehow our bird made it through covie AA." The sergeant leaned back, seemingly in thought. "Most didn't. Not that it mattered, really." He reached part way toward his head, as if to scratch at his chin before he stopped.

Six watched as the man shifted, pulling his helmet from his head and setting it aside. Aleksander was young for an ODST, though with humanity's horrific attrition rate it was not surprising. He was pale, with straw colored hair and something approaching a beard. Still, he was human, and alive, and that was more than could be said for those left on Reach.

"Anyway," he continued obliviously. "Our pelican made it to the Adjudicator and what was left of my unit was heading to duty stations since those alien fuckers love boarding our shit. I split off to run to the med deck for this right here…" He gestured to the lower left portion of his chestplate, where the armor had adopted the consistency and coloration of melted plastic. "When I heard the klaxons and ducked into the closest room. My luck it was a bunkroom and I was able to strap myself to a cot before the ship was eviscerated by a goddamn energy projector. Some unsecured shit was sent flying when the Adjudicator got hit and one conked me right on the head and knocked me out. I woke up not too long ago, and found myself face first on the ground. The ties to the cot broke sometime while I was out and I found myself sporting a new broken arm and leg. Heard some noise and followed it through the ship and that's where I found you being operated on by goddamn cartoons."

The spartan followed his words and had to agree. Aleksander was certainly lucky. Although something confused him.

"Cartoons?" He questioned aloud.

The ODST gave the impression that he was mildly taken aback, and Six was rather bemused to see the man's eyebrow visibly raise. "Yeah…" He answered slowly, seeming to be somewhat confused. "You know, the crap they had on the holos when we were kids. Sometimes they had characters that looked like upright animals. Man… I remember this one show where cats were flying a fighter jet." Aleksander shook his head wryly at the memory. "Man, they sure wrote some wild shit back in the day."

"Cat's… flying military hardware?" Noble Six found himself to be skeptical of this conversation, and the mental faculties of his only human ally. It was likely he suffered some injuries to his cerebral cortex. That did not bode well for their mutual survival.

"Yeah… you know, they flew around fighting supervillains and avoiding the law… I always thought they were kind of badass." The trooper admitted sheepishly, a rather pink tone shading his features. "Anyway." He blustered, "enough of the chitchat. We should be planning our next step, Sir." He tacked on the honorific at the end almost as an afterthought. But that was little surprise. ODSTs had always been known to be… spirited.

Aleksander shifted up straighter against the hull and adopted a more serious disposition. "Cause right now I have to admit, I'm not really seeing a way out of this. Frankly, I don't even fucking know where we are or how we got here."

Six pondered on the idea of telling him the events leading to their bizarre predicament, but decided that to accurately explain the details would be an exhaustive and altogether futile attempt, as it was having been the operative figure in the events, he himself was equally as mystified by their existence, and location. However, even so, at the very least the first step was obvious.

"Where we are and how we got here is not currently a priority. First, we need to salvage all useable materials from the wreckage. Once your leg is treated, I want you to find the nearest aid station and gather whatever supplies you can.

From there find the nearest armory and gather weapons and ammunition. I will see about fortifying any exposed entrances along the hull and prepare defensive measures for when the aliens turn hostile."

It was perhaps not a tactically advantageous maneuver to split up. In fact. Objectively, it was irrational and foolish. They were outnumbered, out supplied, and outmaneuvered. Technically the smartest option would be escape and evasion, but Six was not willing to gamble success while he and the ODST were essentially walking wounded. The situation before them was not one casually remedied. They needed supplies, weapons, ammunition, medicine, even food. And of the two, despite his injuries, a spartan was the best aggressive and defensive option available to them. If there was to be any hope of a meaningful counter offensive, he could not afford to be anywhere else but here.

Aleksander nodded, struggling to his feet with a tired groan, scooping up his dented helmet. "Copy that, Sir. Initiating pack rat protocol." The man chuckled dryly at his own humor as he shifted into a limp down the corridor leading deeper into the fallen halcyon. However, he paused after a moment, looking back. "So… I don't think comms will be coming back up anytime soon, how will I know if you need help?"

The spartan rolled his shoulders and lifted himself up, ripping away a sheet of metal that jutted from the wall. The slat was four feet in length with a cruel length of twisted iron. "You'll know when the screaming starts."

"Right…" The ODST shuddered. The man muttered softly under his breath, the words spartan and psychopath nearly inaudible amidst his muted grumbling.

He soon vanished into the belly of the ship, leaving Six, for the interim, once more alone with his own thoughts which were numerous and consuming. Questions of the future, both immediate and longstanding, weighed heavily on his mind. There was a part of him, infinitesimal in the greater design, that was… concerned, regarding the nature of his situation. He had faced long odds, and for a time he had thought his longest to have been on Reach, where he had prepared himself for death, perhaps with an eagerness to embrace it.

And yet… he was alive, stranded, whether through space or time or some enigmatic combination thereof. Even so. It was not the presence of new aliens, or even the unknowability of his displacement that gave him pause.

But himself.

His last directive had been the safe transport and delivery of CTN 0452-9. A success, at the cost of the only people he had ever considered more than shadows in his peripheral. The only mission that ever made him feel that if it succeeded, then he would have actually made a difference. The cost… well he had not yet been given much time to think about it. His broad objective was simple, swift and expedient return to UNSC territory. However recent events and observations brought his goal into question. And it made him wonder.

What if his return was not a guaranteed outcome?

It was that question that created such confliction.

It was a question, one of two throughout the entirety of his life, that he was afraid to answer.

The spartan removed his helmet, peering at his twisted reflection in its broken visor. He did not remember the face that stared back at him. Dark hair matted with sweat and blood, unfamiliar scars little more than half-healed furrows of mending flesh. He ran a gauntlet through his hair, uncaring of the dust and dirt he dragged through it, only that the cool metal offered some relief for his feverishly hot skin.

Time had not been kind.

It never had been in his experience.

He had been told, in an old remembrance reduced now to an ephemeral whisper in his thoughts, that time healed all wounds. That, he had come to realize, had been a lie. Instead, he was burdened with memories that grated against the rawness of his mind and an overabundance of scar tissue that ran deeper than flesh.

The sudden echo of gravel crunching underfoot pushed the spartan's wandering thoughts away. Noble Six felt his pulse quicken, his body shuddering weakly at the new surge of adrenaline. His mind may have been willing to face adversity but his physicality had long reached the edge of what was plausible. He was nearly spent and had little strength left to his own, and yet he stood regardless, helmet sliding easily into place as he prepared for what could very well be his end. He tightened his grip on his makeshift blade, the warped metal of the hull panel a small reassurance as his gaze was drawn to the outside past the hull to a hostile world.

The incline was steep and he could not yet see the source of the noise but he was still coherent enough to recognize the sound of boots on loose rocks and dirt. Six was struck with a sudden and familiar sensation, an unconscious realization that a fundamental aspect of his existence was about to be usurped. It had been the same that day on Mamore, and the moment he had jumped out of the warthog his first day on Reach. Given what followed these events he was rightly wary of what was to come. But he was not afraid, and he had grown tired of the unknown.

Logically, he should stay inside the ship, the cloistered corridors the only meaningful advantage available to him given his situation, but he had his fill of backpedaling. If this was his last day alive, he would not spend it cowering like an animal. He would have answers, dead, or alive.

And so, he stepped forward, determined to meet whatever may come, on his own terms.

---

AN: AT LAST! Here is the next chapter, after HOURS of writing and rewriting and cutting and pasting and proofreading and adjusting... it is ready, even though there are probably a handful of errors that will have leaked through, just like my brain after writing. Anyway, I had wanted and talked about releasing the first contact in a single chapter, but upon realizing it would take even longer to do that, and it would undoubtedly become a stupidly long chapter that would break my already chaotic pacing, I decided in the end to break it apart, again. Rest assured the next chapter is already well under way since it is basically the later half of this one, and I will do my best to try and get it out faster, but my IRL schedule is busy and leaves little time for hobbies, and of course video games are a drain on my life, but I digress. As you will have seen by the end of the chapter, things are very much different, and the more I write, the more I change, which means changing my plot outline, spiraling into a mind numbing cycle of addendums and revisions that while I know and believe are needed, are nonetheless tedious.

On another note I was curious if there would be interest in a discord channel. I am not sold entirely on the idea myself, but Fanfiction doesn't have a journal or journal adjacent feature so I can assure readers I have not been killed or likewise fallen off the face of the earth. It would also allow for more frequent update alerts, like progress on chapters or whatever. In any case before I bothered with the effort of creating one for my handful of recurrent readers I figured I'd ask for feedback.

As always reviews are greatly appreciated, the lifeblood of attention craving authors such as myself, and barring that, critic is also welcome.

In any case, my brain is mush and I am going to get some rest, adios,

Drake