All the listed characters, objects and existing references to already conceived plots are the property of Bungie and the Microsoft Corporation. I am simply writing this story because I really enjoy the plot and elements of the game Bungie has created and believe that I can create a good story out of the existing pieces.


It was dark. The faint green glow of a light stick radiated from the center of the room, the only source of light. A slight shuffling in one of the rooms corners broke the eerie silence and gave a slight intimation that there was something alive in this lonely space.

Corporal, Michael Grant was propped up against the wall, staring at the light stick and thinking profusely. If anything he was thinking simply as a self excuse to stay in the relative safety of the room just a little longer.

Against the opposite wall from Michael lies his dead commanding officer, a blue covering draped over his unmoving mass. The covering hid the sight from Michaels view; however he could do nothing to mask the smell.

A single doorway, shut tight and locked was the only way out or into the room, and Michael focused on it. He was after all alone, and for all he knew the station had already been overrun and it was just a matter of time till those doors opened and he would be killed on sight.

Michael wasn't the type to fool himself; he knew that scenario was all too possible; however he didn't let fear cloud his mind. Part of rational thinking after all was to not let little variables as emotions get in the way of a solution. No. The only thing that would stop Michael's actions was physical obstructions, not mental. Long ago had the marine grasped this concept and it had helped him through many hard situations.

Michael's goal was to get out of this situation alive, nothing more. His platoon's original mission was to guard airlock 12B from breaching of the covenant. They had come en mass however, outflanked them, and forced Michael to retreat with the surviving marines. In all the confusion, Michael had managed to lock him and his wounded CO into a supply closet.

After only a few minutes however the lone soldier's companion succumbed to the multiple burns across his body and had went without a sound. The hardened marine's death was yet another mental obstruction Michael pushed out of his mind.

To the task at hand however, the corporal was still contemplating. The first thing Michael had to do was to determine what he had at his disposal. All the items he had considered useful were neatly laid out in front of him. Some may had found it a little silly to be so organized in this kind of situation, but it was simply yet another habit the marine had developed.

Michael peered down at the objects in front of him and quickly went through them. He still had his battle rifle, which in the intense fighting had fortunately not been damaged. Along with the rifle he had his M6C magnum, a small fleck of blue blood on the tip. Michael had removed the magazines from his weapons. In addition to these firearms, the marine also displayed a sheathed, double edged combat knife, three concussion grenades, some polyurethane thread, two C rations, his water canteen, an unused light stick, an optic cable, his level 1 security clearance card, his standard issue PDA, a single can of .50 caliber ammunition, one hundred thirty-eight rounds of 7.62mm ammunition for his rifle, and sixty rounds of 12.7mm ammunition for his pistol.

He had copped much of his munitions from his dead comrade, and had found the rations inside an open crate stored in the room. All in all he didn't have much, but he would make due. The next thing that Michael thought to do was to figure out the relative status of the station. The young marine accessed a general purpose map of the ship on his PDA and tried to locate exactly where he was. In the chaos of retreat, Michael had no idea where he had run.

He knew that he was on deck twelve, the second uppermost deck of the station. There was no designated rallying point aboard the station, so Michael couldn't be sure where any survivors could be for him to join up with. If anything, he should head for the stations central command so that he could access the stations com. systems. The command post was five levels down, on the seventh floor.

Plotting a path to the nearest elevator, Michael began to pack up his equipment. The marine shoved the gear in his backpack, and strapped it on. He loaded and cocked his pistol, then placed it in his hip holster, ready for use. Sheathing his knife he latched it sideways to the back of his belt. Re-checking all of his straps and buckles, Michael donned his helmet.

Finally the marine picked up his rifle, replaced the magazine, racked the chamber and gripped the weapon with both hands. All of this preparation gave Michael confidence that he would be prepared for anything, even if he was going into unknown territory alone.

Taking one last deep breath, the soldier did a once-over of the room, spied his comrades corpse one last time, and then, with a swipe of his security card, opened the door that he had become so accustomed to.

With a snap, Michael drew his rifle forward, checking both ways of the deserted hall. It was quiet. The ambient noise however of a small fire, prevented absolute silence. Except for the burning panel against the opposite wall, the hall looked untouched. The stains of dried blood on the floor reminded Michael of his earlier struggle. Slowly venturing out, Michael headed left down the hall, rifle drawn.

Eventually, he came to a closed door, coming near it, the door opened automatically. Peering around the corner, the marine surveyed the room. It was tall, about 2 stories, and had several low islands about four feet tall doting the floor. Creeping along the side of the nearest island, Michael heard a high pitched squeak. The marine froze in his tracks.

He knew the sound, a grunt, and it was relatively close. Michael peered around the corner and sure enough, the stout figure of orange and purple came into sight. Michael retracted. A lone grunt, just one, and a minor at that, no problem, thought the marine as he hefted his rifle. Peering over the top of the short island at the pacing figure some forty feet away, Michael slowly leveled his firearm. The crosshairs of his scope lined up with the grunt, still squabbling and staring at the floor in deep thought, oblivious to the weapon aimed at him.

About to squeeze the trigger, Michael hesitated. What could that thing be thinking about? He asked himself. It's not as though he could ask, but the young marine simply couldn't help but be curious. For years he had mechanically slaughtered these creatures, all of which looked the same, and never asked himself about their intelligence.

Is it possible that they had a civilized society just like mankind? And that whenever one was killed in action, they had families to grieve over them? How exactly did they themselves view mankind? All of these questions arose for some strange reason as the lone grunt stood, scratched the back of his head, fiddled with his plasma pistol.

All these questions couldn't be answered here and were irrelevant to his current task, thought Michael. He could sort the answers out later. Re-steadying his aim, Michael pulled the trigger without a second thought.

The shot pierced the silence of the tall chamber, the round whistling through the sterile air. Then with a loud, wet, splash, a fan of blue appeared on one of the islands, a moment before the grunt itself slammed against the metal, slumping to the floor, a single, wisp of white smoke trailing from its head.

Slowly proceeding to the fresh kill, Michael scooped up the ejected shell casing. He stared down at the dead grunt, and tossed the casing next to its plasma pistol. "If your death causes pain among the living, then I am sorry, and if it does not, then I am even sorrier".

Stooping down, Michael snatched the single plasma grenade attached to the corpses belt and exited the chamber.


Michael proceeded past an open bulkhead and took a right past a pile of burning wreckage. Empty crates and papers were scattered across the floor, the halls so quiet, paranoia was creeping up Michael's fingertips. Every, corner, every shadow, every open doorway, anything could be lurking, waiting.

The vent grates were particularly disturbing. Eyes could be watching Michael, eyes of anyone, and anything, hidden in the darkness. So desperately did the marine want to break the silence, to have something for him to interact with, even if it was covenant.

Michael began to speed up now, breaking into a run. The lift was around the next corner, he was almost there…

Michael turned the final corner and his fears ripped through his stomach. A familiar figure, a tall figure, which's gleaming blue armor was blinding in the white light. Michael threw his weight in the opposite direction as fast as his inertia could carry him. The hum of the elite's plasma rifle was already in the air, and Michael could see the blue bolt heading straight for him. Willing gravity to move quicker, the marine's vision was clouded with the cold metal of the bulkhead, as a splash of blue sparks exploded in front of him.

Pushing himself up against the metal, Michael quickly reoriented himself, gripping his rifle as more liquid plasma splattered onto the floor mere inches from him. He turned his face away from the corner, so a stray droplet didn't strike his exposed flesh.

The moment the stream stopped, the soldier edged his way to the corner, a portion of the metal glowing red and bubbling from the sudden temperature increase. Thrusting his rifle around the corner, he opened fire, pulling the trigger once, twice, three times, and four. The rounds zipped downrange. A single orange clad grunt shrieked as one of the hardened tips sliced through his shoulder. The pint sized creature dropped his plasma pistol and was sent sprawling to the floor as a second round cut his left leg from out under him. The air around the minor elite crackled as his shield flared to life, deflecting a round into a nearby garbage can, sending it crashing to the floor.

The elite retreated behind a cylindrical shaped storage container as additional rounds raked across its torso. As soon as the creature was out of sight, Michael dashed from the corner, and dived behind a collapsible shield, as the elite guided blue energy right behind his heels. Popping up, Michael pinched off a round, and ducked back down, plotting his next move.

Fifty feet away, Nammamee usa' squatted behind his cover, directly in front of the lift which was Michaels goal, waiting for the human to emerge. A low whining noise got the elites attention. Several feet away, the grunt that he had been traveling with was slowly crawling towards him, a trail of blue phosphor behind him. "P-please master, h-help me…" the wounded creature begged. Nammamee scoffed and hefted his plasma rifle.


Michael slowly inched the small cable around the corner of the shield, the optics already hard wired into his battle suits wrist link. The image the cable provided was a clear, crisp picture on the marines head visor. The tipped garbage can was the first thing to come into view, a small tendril of smoke arising from the side. Slowly inching the cable to the left, a small crumpled heap came into picture. Michael realized it was the grunt he had wounded seconds ago, slowly crawling towards the crate that concealed the elite.

Focusing on the small orange figure, Michael heard it cry out so pathetically it was almost painful. Then from behind the crate, the clawed hand of the elite appeared, plasma rifle glowing with energy.

Then with a sickening screech, a sound that sounded like a sledge hammer striking a watermelon and the distinct buzz of plasma, the grunts head exploded. It was sickening, pieces of hot flesh splattered against the walls and floor, droplets of blue blood studding everything around. The headless corpse, one claw still raised in a plea for help, slumped back to the floor. Michael retracted the cord, the image still fresh in his mind, mildly shocked. The marine was used to such sights, nature in all of its colors, bright shades of purple, blue, and red. Shoving the cord back in his hip pack, Michael pulled out his recently procured plasma grenade.

Arching up from behind the shield, grenade in hand, the soldier extended his left arm behind him and hit the fuse with his thumb. The loud crescendo of the plasma grenades whine approached rapidly and once Michaels mental aiming was complete, he lobbed the glowing sphere up and out across the no-mans-land of hallway. Briefly illuminating the dark space, the ball of light arced downward toward the target crate. At the same moment, Nammamee Usa' lifted his head above his cover, so as to check the humans status, and the light filled his vision.

The elite knew what was happening but did not posses the reflexes needed to react. The blue sphere slammed into his face plate, the ball glowed brighter and more brilliant and seemed to be enlarging. In the final second, the howling creature stood defiantly as the glowing orb peaked solid white and detonated.

The force of the explosion sent the creature's body hurling downwards to the floor, a cloud of purple showered the area within a six foot radius. Bits of armor and flesh splattered against the ceiling, walls, and floor, like wet sponges. The nearby corpse of the betrayed grunt was sent hurling into the wall behind Michael, the armor burned and melted.

Then all was quiet. A noticeable smell hung in the air, like that of an air conditioner that had been running too long. Stepping out from behind the shield, Michael surveyed the scene. The elite was up against the door of the lift, his upper torso vaporized, and ringed by his own gore. The marine walked quickly to the lift and swiped his security card. Within seconds the tell tale ring of the elevator sounded and the doors opened with a mechanical whoosh. The dead elite twitched slightly as the door propping him up vanished, and then lay silent.

Michael stepped into the lift and shoved the portion of the elite that had fallen in back out into the hall. He hit the level seven key and stood to one side of the elevators door. Chokepoints meant one thing: lump victory. Chokepoints were narrow passages, where individuals had to be bunched together and move single file, with little or no cover whatsoever. Explosives or even a single automatic weapon could slaughter dozens if they are caught in a choke. Even worse, the team being fired upon really had no way to return fire, lest they hit their own comrades.

Basically it was a deadly formula, which almost always assured victory for one side and death for the other. Doorways, narrow halls, hatches of vehicles, elevators, all of them served as chokes. Michael knew this well and while readying his optic cable, wished to be out of the confines of the elevator as soon as possible.

The elevator ceased motion, and for an instant all was quiet. Then the door parted down the middle and left Michael to his fate. Pushing his optic cable once again around the corner, the marine saw no sign of hostility waiting for him. The fairly large room showed signs of battle however, ominously enough. Stowing the cable, the soldier gripped his rifle and proceeded.

Must be one of the crew lounges, Michael thought to himself, eyeing the tables that dotted the room. A row of vending machines was lined up on the wall directly to Michael's right. Crouching behind the nearest machine, the marine took out his PDA.

The bright picture of the ships map flashed into view and Michael located his position. There's one door out of this place, in the opposite corner, follow the hall to the right, and it should lead me to a door that opens to the top floor of the bridge, Michael thought. He was close, but he still needed to be cautious.

A sudden groan caused Michaels heart to drop. He quickly attempted to shrug off the nausea and coldness in his spine that the noise had caused and tried to focus on where it came from. Surveying the room, Michael's eyes caught a splatter of blood against the far wall. Creeping out to the nearest table, the scene became apparent. Fighting had indeed been waged here as the bodies proved. The corpse of a red armor clad elite was sprawled against an overturned table, dried blood trailing from the multiple piercing in his chest.

A Moving closer, Michael swallowed. The familiar form of a green marine lay spread eagle on the ground, a gruesome wound to the back was the cause of death. Michael could have just imagined the pain as the plasma burned though him, in fact a small flame was still burning from the charred hole. The groan sounded again, causing Michael to jump. It was right on top of him. A second upturned table was the source, the marine concluded.

Side-stepping slowly with his rifle drawn, Michael circled to the other side of the table.

A single marine sat up against the table, both hands covering a gaping wound in his abdomen, blood all over his body. Michael immediately lowered his rifle and stooped to the marine's side. He was incredibly pale, having lost nearly all his blood, but he was still conscious. The mortally injured soldier managed to raise his right hand in a gesture to indicate Michael to come closer. He did so and strained to listen to the dying mans scratchy voice.

"E-earn this," the soldier said, so quietly Michael nearly didn't catch it. Without another second to pass, the marine ceased to move. Michael slumped back on his heels. What did he mean? The marine thought. The words flashed once in his head, earn this, earn what, death? How do you earn death? Michael thought to himself. There was no time to think though, as the soldier felt himself getting carried away again. Michael pushed the item to the back of his priorities list.


Michael continued down the next hall that would lead him to the bridge. He had searched both marines and had found little. A few magazine of battle rifle ammunition and a fragmentation grenade, as well as both soldiers combat knives and an M6C.

Climbing underneath a half opened blast door, the marine spotted the sealed door. A red light shown on its lock. Damn, I was afraid of this, Michael thought. The door was locked and his security card didn't have the clearance to open it. The young man slumped against the wall and to the floor. A hitch, that's all, I couldn't expect this to go perfect anyway, I just need to find a solution.

Michael concluded there were three solutions. One would be to find a clearance card with the proper security level to open the door; a crewman of the bridge probably possessed one. Two, he could find another door, and try to access the bridge from a different entrance. Of course there was no guarantee any of the bridge doors were open, the crew within could have sealed them if they believed that the ship had been overrun. Of course Captain Armstrong hadn't been on the loudspeaker in ages, providing the possibility that the bridge had already been taken by the covenant.

Therefore, Michael had no intention of knocking to try to get the occupants inside to open up, as he had no idea who they may be. His third option then would be to find some way to blast through the door. He really wanted to avoid option three, A, because it was loud, and B, because he would have to procure explosives.

Checking his PDA once again, the marine concluded that he would have to take the lift one floor down, go through a small supply room, and down another hall. The door at the end of that hall was directly below the one Michael was currently slumped against. Looking left down one side of the hall and right down the other, the marine also noticed that both blast doors at each end had been sealed shut. Guess my only choice is to go down the elevator, thought the soldier.

"Well let's get to it," he said to himself. Michael stood up quickly, and sprinted down the hallway to the lift, determined as ever.