IV: Loadout
"Star-Crossed Warriors"


Afar…

A canvas of rain precluded a disintegrating jungle upon which a cosmos of mirrorglass echoed each reflection in a ragged arbor, psychedelic and unrelenting. The thick leaves of the palm trees dripped with condensation, their waxy surfaces fat with pregnant drops and each trapping their own sacred fire, borne within by the cavalcade of troubadours immersed in their own raging wars, utterly ignorant to the reflective properties of the rain-soaked forest.

Heavensent water dribbled in an endless gurgle from the branches, the leaves, the trunks. The war party that stomped through the deluge paid only attention to the warrior in front of them as they moved in a single-file line, the darkness of the night raging a holy war against the light of the torches that they lifted aloft, ragged and whispering a red-yellow flame that cast aside the turbulent shadows for but fleeting moments, only illuminating its wielders in the light of the hellbound, deepening the lines of their bodies, their faces, with a sage and reminiscent air that cast aspersions on their true age. For they were making their way through this greeneried quagmire, pushing their way past moistened plant and sodden ground, making their way through a realm as seemingly infinite as the long tales the elders had prophesized, an inferno of cold and dampness. A circle of the deepest purgatory in which all among were ignorant to.

The grouping of warriors was ten in number, each afflicted with the same distant gaze as they made their way through the confined forest. They were wardrobed with the skins of animals, drenched with the humidity of their own sweat and of the precipitation that beaded upon their skin. Their weapons, most of which were honed from chert, still contained prior stains from past victims embedded upon them. Their faces were pierced with the priedaway teeth of vengeful predators that had once ruled this land, until their existence had been summarily met. Though they would usually mark such processions by howling in barbarous tongues, this night they kept silent, for the work they would set to witness garnered a sincere reverence.

The party met a clearing and they summarily clumped without saying a word. They grouped around one warrior from their group, a woman. The Halach Uinik had seen to it that this woman would act as their representative this night, for the fate of their batab was all but dependent on it.

The woman, half-naked, kept a defiant visage, her stare extending to none but the chief in front of her, her skin shining from the dampness of the night, striped from the descending trails that the rain made upon her.

The chief of the party raised his hands, beginning a spiritual prayer, and two priests that had journeyed with them embarked into a guttural series of chants and stomping dances. Dew and condensation sprayed from where the feet of the priests met the earth, the rain nourishing the ground all around them.

One of the warriors offered the chief a bowl made from a scooped-out coconut. Within the bowl was a milkywhite paste, made from bonemeal and ground minerals. The chief dipped his fingers into the paste, shook the excess off, and beckoned the woman forward. With deft precision, the chief slung thick lines upon the woman—two in sequence starting from her collar and down between her breasts to reach her navel, sharp ticks to accentuate her cheeks. Her face had already been marked by yellowclay, her teeth stained by cochineal insects, and a plug shaped like an aardvark inserted into a slit lip. She hardly reacted as the paint was dabbed upon her skin, the chief's hands like warm fire as they slid upon her, cradling her body with the memories and the will of her ancestors.

Once the woman's body was sufficiently covered with the muddied markings of ash, the chief gave a nod of approval—the party could move on again.

They pushed on through the tangle of roots and the smattering of drenched leaves. The jungle made slapping noises as fat beats of rain descended upon it. The torches held by the bearers cast grave shadows amidst the vacuum that the outer reaches of the darkness would only greedily embrace without a second thought.

At long last, the jungle thinned out again and a dim hemisphere of sibling torchlight greeted the party at the edge of the clearing.

A company of similarly-adorned braves watched from the clearing as the party emerged from the jungle. Like their brethren, they too wore armor in the form of quilted cotton, or bore hide shields that were decorated with the feathers of exotic birds. They gripped atlatl, macuahuitl, and spear, blowguns strapped to their waists. Their markings, however, were subtly different. The colors were askew, the designs incongruent. Opponents for years, these groups had been. Destined to battle for ideologies as unknown as the sun's purposeful design. Many warriors had fallen to the clubs and arrows of the other tribe. But tonight, the fate of only one would be offered, to willingly step forward into the round and take on the spirit of their ancestors and of their brethren in a glorious display of strength.

One, in place of thousands. A fair trade.

The first war party spread across the thick grass to meet their hemisphere with that of their adversary's. The marked woman remained in the center of this group, the chief at her side.

Without a word, the chief handed something to the woman. A quick knife of the blackest obsidian, so polished that it reflected the rain better than the soaked leaves of the jungle around them. The woman grasped her strong fingers around the grip, her emerald eyes boring into those of her chief's. Her elder sagely nodded, granting this ritualistic display his final blessing.

As the rain fell across the flooded arena that was the grassy clearing, the chosen herald from this tribe stepped forward, knife in hand, a terrible scowl across her face. She beheld a long figure that knelt in the grass upon the opposite side of the loosely-congregated circle. Surrounded by fierce fighters from the rival clan, another woman, perhaps her very age, peered narrowly at her. This other warrior was pierced and scarred in several places, with no inch of her body seemingly spared from either paint or warlike adornment. Her hands glistened crimson as she held the heart of a boar in between them. Her mouth came away from the fleshy object and her jaw worked the gristly muscle, her teeth softening the stringy meat while blood gushed from her lips and streamed down her jaw. The meat would provide her sustenance and strength. For she could consume the power of the gods by gnawing upon the very object that drove a being's will.

The ashen-painted warrior watched as her opponent ate the boar's heart, the sound of the deluge producing a steady rattle and stream as the jungle became battered from its assault. Slowly, she embarked into a deep crouch in preparation, her body pure muscle and sinew, and she ran a hand across the veinous length of the obsidian dagger she carried, embedding the feel of the cold stone from her fingertips, imagining the soul of the weapon experiencing a grisly joy in anticipation of its upcoming drenching with the blood of this brave across from her.

As the rain dripped off of her, the lone warrior kept her breathing hidden. No fear, she remembered her chieftain's words. The only one who will ever know your fear will be yourself.


UNSC Infinity
Spartan Barracks

The dream succumbed to the same pattern for Kelly. Only revealing bits and pieces, never the whole picture. Night after night. Refusing to grant her a restful sleep.

She awoke, staring at the ceiling of her bare quarters. On instinct, she immediately rose seconds after opening her eyes, casting aside the covers that had kept her warm. She leaned forward, hands tightly clasped together, staring at some part of the floor that neighbored the base of the wall, trying to search inward for the fragmented images that her unconscious had seen fit to subject her to.

It was no use in trying to decipher her fantasies, she realized. There would always be the imagined chimeras that would cut off the reveries before meaning could be gleaned. Whatever teachings such ancient warriors could bestow upon her, she seemed destined to never learn. How unfortunate. Kelly felt a twinge of utmost anger upon herself for quite so handedly betraying her deepest and innermost desires.

Her hands clenched together. A subliminal reaction. Her fingers relaxed their form before she could fully comprehend what she had just done. The events of the past day still rung heavily in her head, her unimpeachable orders weighing about her neck like a stiff noose.

Kelly lifted her head. The room was threadbare, as befitted a Spartan. No pictures adorned the walls, nor any sort of integral and personal touch had been placed about the dorm to give any indication of the person that inhabited it. All it contained were the usual sort of Navy furniture that was bestowed upon any of its operatives: a bed, a squad desk, and a set of dressers, all made from cheap metal and plastic-based materials.

Though, if Kelly had been given the choice, she would not have known how to decorate the place. For a Spartan such as herself, there was nothing she owned that could define her own unique touch. She knew that to be a fact, but the truth of the matter was that she just didn't care.

From her bed, she finally stood and undressed before heading into the shower. She emerged from the bathroom after only about five minutes—boot camp had taught her to be conservative and efficient when it came to personal hygiene. She redressed herself in her uniform, though this time she took care to remove the slate of ribbons that had been pinned to her front. She set the discarded accolades upon the spotless nightdesk, which appeared lonely in the pale light of the lamp.

By the time she had adorned herself fully back into her gray uniform, sans any ostentation, the Spartan's personal datapad gave a chime. She headed over to the desk and saw that her datapad was showing the receipt of a priority message. Quickly, she thumbed a control to open the message.

IOTA-ACCESS CONFIRMED. SUBJECT 4459-JR1 ACCESS GRANTED. 24 HOUR CONTACT PERIOD IN PLACE.

Kelly gave a self-satisfied nod as she closed the messaging application on her datapad. It seems her new clearance level worked like a charm—this request had sailed on through, no questions asked. Normally, a request such as this would have taken at least a week to pass through the correct approvers, and many of them would have plied her with questions about why she would have made such an appeal in the first place.

With a final tug on the sleeves of her uniform, she briskly walked to the lone door that marked the exit of her room, and determinedly stepped through it into the hallway beyond.

She walked fast through the halls of the Infinity, heading towards the elevator bay. Kelly never moved slowly whenever she was en route to an objective. A few officers passed her by—they exchanged salutes. Kelly noted that, even though she technically was outranked by the NCOs on this part of the ship, they still wore the same disconcerted looks when they fully beheld her. Even outside of MJOLNIR armor, it was easy to tell who some of the Spartans were.

The lift took Kelly down several floors, sending her surging past S-Deck with only faint glimpses towards the ringed levels that were filled with the multicolored armored Spartans. But the brightness of the deck quickly faded and soon Kelly was looking at her own reflection in the glass.

"E Deck," the elevator sang, and the doors opened to let Kelly out.

A bio-door of frosted glass, etched with the UNSC logo, immediately greeted the Spartan as soon as she stepped out into the new hallway, which was composed of sterile white tile and lit by cylindrical yellow lamps. She stepped forward and a triangular blue beam of light snipped out and quickly passed across Kelly's retinas.

"Access granted, 087," the bio-door said, and the threshold parted to let her into the next section.

A clerk manning a simple desk sat beyond the partition. His eyes glazed upward as soon as he saw Kelly approaching.

"I have clearance to speak with subject 4459-JR1," Kelly said before the clerk could get a word out.

The man gave the Spartan a shrewd look, perhaps finding any sort of reason to mistrust her. Evidentially coming up with nothing, he then turned to his translucent console screen and set about typing in some administrative codes.

"Your credentials check out, Petty Officer," the clerk nodded. He then extended an arm in the direction of yet another hallway, upon which a doorway was now opening. "Please proceed to stateroom 22A."

Kelly perfunctorily nodded as thanks and briskly walked to the left and through the now-revealed passageway. The same cold look of the foyer extended into the halls beyond, the tightness of the corridors producing a wet clack as her boots made contact with the tile. The door numbers passed her by at a rapid pace—she kept her eyes situated upon the next door to come. Always the next door.

When she finally reached the one labelled "22A", she quickly reached out and palmed the terminal at the doorframe. There was a pleasant-sounding chime and the door opened. She walked into the room.

For a moment, Kelly had to consider if the stateroom was more comfortable than the barracks she was assigned, noting the distinction with a bare mirth. A sizeable bed was positioned in the corner, an L-shaped desk started from where it was integrated into the wall before jutting towards the center of the room, and there was even a kitchen area for meals to be prepared. A pill-shaped window also offered the lone inhabitant a prime view into one of the fighter bays, where they would be able to see technicians poring over a manner of several different ships while they were encased in a tangle of wires and hoses like stray umbilicals.

The Elite at the window turned to view their guest. She certainly looked far more presentable than when Kelly had first met her on Sonus V. The bandage at the alien's neck had been removed, the cut having been stitched up and cauterized. Scar tissue was already knobbing over. They wore a simple robe that lacked ornamentation, one that was deliberately meant to emulate the types of clothes worn on Sanghelios when not in combat.

Kelly took two decisive steps into the room, her hands behind her back. She affixed the Elite with a knowing gaze.

There was a long pause. The Elite tilted her head, her mandibles subtly shifting, her eyes squinting in flickers of faint recognition. Understandable, given that the last time they had been in each other's presence Kelly had been in full armor and the Elite had most likely been suffering from several maladies that could have addled her mind.

But the moment of confusion was over before it could fully take root, demonstrated with a few coarse blinks from the alien. After all, sometimes it was simple to figure out who the true warriors were.

"The Spartan," the Elite straightened. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, unsure if she should fully relax or keep up whatever guard she had erected while being situated in this place.

Kelly made a point of looking towards the window. "I trust that your accommodations have been adequate?"

The Elite picked at her robe. "The threads of the finery are too silken. And your analogue for a bed is too… cushioned. Unstable."

That almost brought a smirk out of the Spartan. She isn't suffering, I take it. "Humans can't get everything right," she said, but without a trace of apology laced within her tone.

"Which was quite the pervasive thought for a while among my people," the Elite rumbled.

Kelly narrowed her eyes, not certain if the alien had made an oblique reference to their race's hostility against one another. The many battles on Earth and Reach were not easily forgotten. But as easy as it was to lay the blame of a collective upon one another, the truth of the situation was that they were professionals, the both of them. They didn't need to immediately jump to pointing fingers—they knew what their side had done to the other. Slinging accusations right now was not going to be productive in any way.

At least, not that Kelly could see… yet.

Where the desk jutted out into the room, there were two chairs on opposite sides. Kelly claimed one for herself, but the Elite continued to stand.

"And your injuries?" Kelly asked. "Healing?"

The alien grunted, and for a moment it looked like it was not going to respond to the question, but she soon glanced back at Kelly almost begrudgingly. A hand rubbed at the wound upon their neck.

"Surviving. Your 'doctors' have me on some sort of nourishment plan. They fuss over me like I'm one of their childhood pets."

"They're doctors," Kelly said matter-of-factly. "They typically don't like have their patients deteriorate on them. Though they do tend to look down upon their own patients when they fight back against treatment."

"It's shameful," the Elite hissed. "Bleeding outside of combat is blood spilt dishonorably. How intriguing, to know that humans prize those who cut and slice your own under the guise of healing. Were they Sangheili, they would not have been permitted to leave the lower shipdecks upon which they had been shoved out of sight, banished to roam only the underbellies where they could scarcely be glimpsed by the crew."

Kelly folded her hands together. She had not been anticipating to embark in a clash of cultural differences right off the bat. This had the potential to turn into a powder keg. She was going maintain stance normally more diplomatic than usual, a skill wasn't one of her stronger suits to begin with.

"Would you at least agree that the doctors here had your best interests in mind by attempting to bring you back up to full strength?" When she didn't receive an answer, Kelly gestured to the chair across from her. "You can sit. I didn't come down here to antagonize you."

The Elite eyed the empty chair next to her, as if wondering if the Spartan had somehow booby-trapped it. But eventually reason took over and she pulled it out, though her alien contours meant that finding the right sitting position didn't come naturally.

"I was wondering if you would come down here at all," the Elite said, mimicking Kelly's posture. "I… hoped that I would be given a chance to relay my gratitude. As demeaning as my situation was when we first encountered one another, I cannot deny that my circumstance has changed most fortuitously since then."

Kelly was poor at accepting complements, so she just provided a bare nod in exchange.

"Has anyone come to see you? To talk to you, I mean?"

The Elite shook her head. "Only your medical personnel. I must admit they have been rather amenable, despite their propensity for… bloodletting. Though, truthfully, an examination from your kind—an intelligence inquiry, I mean—was anticipated. It would be a missed opportunity if you had someone like me on board this ship and made no such effort discern my motives." She tilted her head. "Are we having such an inquiry now?"

"An informal one," Kelly clarified, her voice even. "I typically don't interrogate."

"Yet this is intended to be an interrogation, is it not?"

"It can be, provided you cooperate."

A low subharmonic growl rippled from the Elite's throat. She leaned forward and Kelly almost felt the urge to do the same thing. Even though both of them were unarmored, the Elite still maintained the clear height advantage and was comprised of such solid muscle that it would take all of Kelly's strength to subdue such a creature. Right about now, she was regretting not having suited up in her MJOLNIR armor before coming here. She was starting to think that her gracious gesture of walking in unmasked had been a massive mistake.

"Do not test me, Spartan," the Elite whispered. "I may be alive, thanks to your intervention, but my appreciation has limits. I am not keen on being a prisoner to be passed around from one master to another."

Kelly remained resolute. "Then it is fortunate that I don't plan on taking advantage of your predicament."

"The word of a Spartan means less than you would think. If not you, then someone else down the line will dictate my fate."

"Again," Kelly shrugged, "that all depends if you cooperate or not."

The mandibles of the Elite gave a simultaneous twitch. The alien's slender fingers tapped the edge of the desk irritably. Trying to work out if Kelly was more duplicitous than she let on.

The Elite then said, "Very well. Let us see how this goes."

Kelly placed a datapad on the desk in front of her, but made no motion to unlock the screen. Instead, she folded her hands together and looked upon the Elite with all the expression of a professional card player.

"I don't think I realized back on Sonus V just how un-subtle you were with me when we first met," she said. "You were making several oblique references, yes, but I now understand that you were trying to gauge my allegiance because of the prior injuries you had recently occurred."

"Is that right?" the Elite asked airily, its tone inflecting upwards almost mockingly.

The Spartan then gave the datapad screen a double-tap with her finger. Stills of the colony massacre popped up in a grid on the device. Kelly selected one—where the three blurry figures were all in frame—and rotated the datapad so that the Elite could see.

"We know who killed the colonists. I'm betting they're the same ones that attacked you as well."

Kelly made a show of intentionally dipping her eyes in the direction of the Elite's neck wound. But the Elite was preoccupied with peering intently towards the datapad and of the three individuals that were displayed in their mediocre quality. The alien then swiped through the other images with its clawed finger, which Kelly thought was rather intuitive of the creature to do. Either that, or the Elite had prior experience with human technology before.

The Elite looked up and gently pushed the datapad back to Kelly. "If you're asking questions about them, am I to assume that their operations are, for the moment, unsanctioned?"

"Did you recognize any of them?" Kelly pressed, ignoring the question.

"I did," the Elite said. "Three Spartans. Three murderers."

"Murderers? Are you referring to what they did to the colonists? Or have the three Spartans in the image attacked any of your peoples' keeps?"

"Humans killing other humans would not merit my concern," the Elite gave what sounded like an indignant chuff. "Just like you would not rise to the occasion if Sangheili suddenly took up the sword against their brother and sister."

Privately, Kelly doubted such a statement. Humans were quite good at getting involved in proxy wars—as long as they backed the winning horse, there would be something to gain from providing ancillary support without any of the risks of getting personnel killed.

The Elite then sonorously blinked. "Therein lies the answer to the unasked question. Those Spartans were not meant to have slaughtered those colonists, were they? Hence, your interest. But is that interest personal… or mandated?"

"You first," Kelly said evenly. She was the one in charge, after all. "You've met them in person."

A snort came from the Elite's nostrils. "Feigned intrigue, Spartan?"

"Oh no," Kelly slowly shook her head, her eyes never leaving the Elite's. A tiny smile was allowed to fracture on her face. "You'll find my attention to be unwavering on this particular subject."

And, if Kelly played her cards right, that would be all the Elite would ever know of the subject. If she was lucky, her past association with Phaedra would never register with the alien whatsoever. All the information would remain surface-level, just as she intended it to go.

It looked like the Elite was processing every excuse in the book in an attempt to not seem quite as forthcoming in front of Kelly. But the taller creature would soon deliver the slightest shrug and drop its voice to a conspiratorial level.

"Your colonists were the victims of these Spartans," she said. "As were my crew."

"Your crew."

"Yes, Spartan. A company of loyal warriors, tried and tested in the fiercest of battles. Some of whom I knew as childlings."

Kelly sat forward in interest. "These three—" she tapped the image on the datapad, "—you're saying that these were the operatives that destroyed the warriors you associated with? You're absolutely sure it was them?"

There was a noticeable pause. The Elite then nodded, its gaze turning distant. "It is… customary for surviving members of routed units to seek vengeance against those that wronged them. I was the only one who endured the wrath that your fellow Spartans wrought upon me. To that end, my only duty is to hunt down the three that had participated in such slaughter and do unto them in kind what they so callously performed to my company."

Kelly found herself nodding—it was easy to sympathize with the Elite, for she knew that if she had been gifted with the intimate knowledge of whomever had done harm against a SPARTAN-II, it would not have taken much convincing to lead a retaliatory effort against such individuals. She almost felt hypocritical sitting here, because in this case Phaedra's indiscriminate massacring of the Elite's crew was probably the closest thing to killing legitimate targets that one could consider. Never mind that this Elite was supposedly Swords of Sanghelios—a military tribunal could easily push such atrocities under the rug if, and only if, they had been carried out against non-humans.

But hypotheticals never stood much chance against reality, which is why Kelly was in this room right now, listening to this Elite, who was still speaking.

"I eventually caught up to them on that planet, the one you refer to as Sonus V, and tried to catch them unawares, but they had been alerted to my presence from the start." She then indicated her wound. "One shot from their sniper—and that was it. They had lured me into a trap of their own. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Thought I would pass out from blood loss, lying upon that scrape of talus rock. I was cursing my entire existence for being so sloppy."

Kelly watched the Elite. "Yet you survived."

Suddenly, the alien slammed their fists down with tremendous force. The sound barked once in the stale room, but Kelly didn't so much as jump.

"As an insult!" the Elite raged. "No doubt my poor showing convinced them that killing me would not bring them any sport or satisfaction. I can still remember their laughter in their ears as they tormented me, dragging me this way and that, removing my armor from my body and departing with it."

There was a rattling sound from the Elite's fists shaking terribly upon the desk. Only Kelly's eyes moved as she watched the Elite, studying her closely.

"Days later," the Elite rasped, "I stumbled into the remains of the colony in which the Banished would utilize as their base. They stumbled across me in one of the empty huts and easily claimed me as a prisoner. Which," she levelled a hand towards the Spartan, "is where the chain of events have now led us to."

"They took your armor," Kelly said, "as a trophy? I have heard of such things before, but it's unusual for Spartans to devote such attention to spoils of war." The soldier couldn't imagine even inhibiting the desire to pluck so much as a pistol of Covenant make from the battlefield as a keepsake, let alone a suit of Elite armor.

However, it was clear that even reminiscing about this act was sending the Elite into a dark and hazy rage. She was twitching her head back and forth, as though she was looking for some object to punch.

"It was meant as a humiliation. A demonstration to make me realize that I was beneath them. And… it worked. For now."

"'Now?'" Kelly raised an eyebrow.

"I would have thought that it was obvious. I don't intend to be kept here forever, Spartan." The Elite then stood and moved to the window, her eyes tracking Kelly in its stark reflection. "When my release is secured, I will resume my hunt of your brethren. I will see them all cut down before me, their life soaking into the ground, my sword humming over their bloodied bodies. My armor will be recovered and my crewmates will be avenged. Nothing else can steer me from my path, Spartan. Incarceration is merely a delay… and I am quite a patient one."

The Elite turned their head to look behind them.

"No doubt your own directives would rather have your compatriots be kept alive. A pity, but it won't matter. I'll never cease in my search, and you won't be able to stop me."

Kelly also stood. She scooped up the datapad and held it in a large hand. "And what makes you think I've been ordered to take them in alive?"

The Elite stilled, frozen in space as they blankly looked out the window and into the bay. Then, with the scrape of a leathery foot upon cold tile, she turned.

"They would have you eliminate the perpetrators? A Spartan sent to kill Spartans?"

"They have been determined to be a grave threat," Kelly said, the words automatically exiting through her throat, even if she had trouble buying into them. "For human and Elite alike. My orders are to terminate the squad of Spartans with prejudice. Rest assured, our goals are more mutual than you might think."

This seemed to please the Elite greatly. She now stepped back over to Kelly, adopting a less confrontational poise.

"If you aim to co-opt my work," she said, "to take on this task of killing these demons, then I hope you can allow me a simple request."

"Go on."

"Secure my release. Now. I will accompany you on your mission to ensure that our goal is fulfilled. It will be as noble of a journey than what the Covenant had writ for us in our entire history."

It was all that Kelly could do to keep from laughing. Miraculously, she still maintained a straight face. A "simple" request, indeed. But, the more she thought about it, the less crazy it seemed. She found that she could make several arguments in favor of such a stance. But, there was still one thing missing.

"Do you think I even have that kind of authority?" Kelly asked, trying to see what kind of reaction that would stir.

"You have the authority to loiter in a room with me without an accompaniment and to ply me with questions without one of your transcribers recording every word you speak. Would authorizing my freedom act as such a monumental jump of prerogative?" The Elite saw Kelly's mouth flatten and she maneuvered her mandibles into what approximated a sinister grin. "Oh yes, I'm well aware of how human protocols work when dealing with prisoners, or even guests they harbor suspicions about. When you walked into this room alone, the act of doing so must have bent or even broken quite the list of regulations all so that you might converse with me. No doubt this room is monitored, so your presence here was most certainly detected, and the lack of response means that it was allowed. So, if you were granted the permission to engage in this type of discourse, it's quite likely that you were granted the permission to determine my status as a guest of this ship. Of course, my complete freedom might not be something that you can grant, but no doubt you will be tasked with a vessel to pursue your quarry—you could always assign me to that, instead of the one we are in now. I would therefore remain attached to some ship in one way or another, but it could be one that would steer me in the direction of my quarry. Or… do I presume too much?"

"What you do presume," Kelly said after a thoughtful beat, "is that you would be willing to put the both of us in a situation in which we would have to trust one another. Trust—that's what we'll be gambling with. I'm not sure that's something that you can guarantee."

The Elite looked up to the ceiling and then nodded in contrition. "It isn't. I wouldn't want to have my life held in the hands of a Spartan under any circumstance."

"Well, that makes two of us, because I'm not at all enthusiastic about having an Elite watch my back. Which means we're at an impasse."

Bristling, the alien tried not to look too disgusted.

"I'm willing to… put aside, or at least partition, my prejudices in your case, Spartan. Clearly I can disassociate my feelings for your kind apart from yourself—I have no reason to harm you when you have so far shown me only what constitutes as warrior courtesy. In exchange, you will not have to worry about receiving a knife in the back from me."

"You'll have to excuse me if I'm not completely assuaged by that," Kelly replied coolly. "Besides, your race prefers to knife people in the front."

The Elite looked amused, which Kelly took as a sign that the bone-dry humor had landed with the alien.

"You have my proposal," the Elite said. "What of your answer?"

Now it was Kelly's turn to take a long stride across the room to the window. She moved past the bare walls to reach the transparent opening and gave a glance down at the Marines performing calisthenics in their ranks far below while Scorpion tanks maneuvered into position underneath Pelican loading clamps.

She turned around, her face frosted with an unreadable emotion. "There's only one thing left that I need from you."

"And that might be?"

Kelly's mouth flicked upward. "The one piece of information that you've been keeping to yourself this whole time." When the Elite did not reply, she continued. "You never did mention how you came to track a Spartan squad from one part of the galaxy to the other. Spartans don't allow themselves to be followed so easily, yet you found a way. How?"

If, at any point, the Elite had considered Kelly to have the intelligence of a brutish mongrel, that notion had long fled her head.

The alien returned to her seat, hands tilted upward as if she was about to receive a benediction. "Before the attack on my crewmates, we had obtained a reading on the jump drive of the Spartan's vessel. That same drive signature has the ability to be tracked and pinpointed with great accuracy, even for pursuits spanning the galaxy."

"You had a read on the specific Hawking radiation profile of the Spartan's Shaw-Fujikawa drive," Kelly murmured.

"The human method for propelling your ships between the stars is primitive. Violent. You tear holes through realms while our drives part it with the efficiency of a scalpel. Every drive has its own signature, and it was the utilization of that very information that allowed me to reacquire my target on Sonus V."

Kelly grew closer to the Elite, her movements slow and composed.

"I'm guessing you don't have that kind of information memorized?"

"Of course not," the Elite snorted. "Such quantum calculations cannot be stored in something as disposable as a handheld memory lattice. But—" she added, warding off the obvious follow-up question, "—those calculations were disseminated to every ship in my fleet. I took care to see that through. I like dealing in certainties."

This was it. The best lead for finding Phaedra. Kelly knew better than to hope, but a part of her still betrayed that notion.

"You wouldn't happen to know where your closest ship might be?" she asked.

"I have a Phantom on the colony world of Vona," the Elite replied with a smug air. "Another human world, so I wouldn't be surprised if the ship has been captured or destroyed by now. But I can guarantee that the drive signature is located in the databanks of that Phantom, though that information isn't much use to you, because…"

"…it's most likely locked behind a genecode generator that I couldn't access, but you could," Kelly finished. She didn't mention that an AI could likely break whatever firewalls the Elite had put in place, but Kelly wasn't keen on making assumptions when every day Phaedra and her crew could be hitting another world—time was of the essence. "You really do have a failsafe for every occasion."

The Elite spread her hands in the equivalent of a shrug. "You have what you wanted. Will you respect my offer now?"

There were a thousand reasons that Kelly could have used to tell the Elite "no." That it was too much of a security risk, that the Elite could not be trusted, that she just did not want to broach the idea, among others. The idea, when viewed through the most pragmatic lens, was justifiably insane. Going forward with it would result in the complete violation of several dozen UNSC directives, almost certainly. This would only be an exercise in lunacy.

Yet, Kelly's denial never came forth. Her intense training had taught her to seek and destroy the enemy without any harbored doubts. But when she looked upon this Elite, it was hard for her to even see an enemy at all.

That did not make the Elite her friend, though.

Knowing there was no way back, Kelly just performed a nod as curt as she could muster. "I'd say you secured your release."

The Elite gave a rumble of approval and leaped back to her feet. Despite being slender than most Elite males, the female still had to look down upon the Spartan as they stood inches from one another. If Kelly resented the height difference, she didn't show it.

"Very good," the Elite said. "I will be pleased to take up this worthy endeavor again, even if it is alongside a Spartan."

"You do realize, Elite," Kelly said, "that you are to obey my every command while on this mission. If that will be a problem for you then we can end this conversation right here. And you may think of this as a righteous task, but for me, this isn't personal. It's a mission and I aim to carry it out."

"These terms are acceptable," the Elite mused after a two-second pause. "Though I do take umbrage to being referred to as 'Elite' or 'Sangheili.'"

Kelly almost chuckled. Had she hurt the alien's feelings somewhat?

"Well, what would you like me to call you?"

The Elite looked at the Spartan as if the question was a bone-headed one.

"My name will suffice. You can call me Furan."


UNSC Infinity
S-Deck

The Brokkr gyro unit groaned as it rotated Kelly back up to perpendicular with the ground. She was clad in her MJOLNIR armor again, after a series of limber and delicate arms had assembled and sealed the armor around her like it was a three-dimensional puzzle. She had remained completely still throughout the procedure, barely blinking as the sharpened and refined devices encased her, one piece at a time, with the blue-gray armor.

There was a soft whirr as a plastic armclamp from above maneuvered down, holding Kelly's Hermes helmet between its padded grips. Quickly, it aimed the helmet upon the Spartan's head and gently lowered itself down until her face disappeared from view and there was a click and a hiss of atmosphere.

A green light on the Brokkr flashed and the clamps that fastened her boots to the unit sprang open. The armored soldier then stepped from the device with a silence and lightness that deceptively hid the massive weight of the MJOLNIR armor.

"Hydrostatic gel and LC layers are reporting within normal thresholds," a nearby tech with a glass-like datapad said as the Spartan stood in the standby zone. "When you're ready, please calibrate your energy shield system."

Kelly chinned the proper control and there was a brief crackling of sparks. She imagined she smelled ozone. But then, at the top of her HUD, which had glimmered to life half a minute ago, a blue bar rapidly filled, a cute little warping sound effect indicating that the charge had built to full strength.

The tech studied the results and nodded approvingly. "Looks good, reading no irregularities. You also have the latest soft-patches installed on your HUD. These include the updated TACCOM protocols and version 3.65 of the GEN2 BIOS."

With her armoring complete, Kelly stepped back into the main avenue of S-Deck, where Furan had been watching the entire process, her arms folded over the other. The Elite had been provided a spare set of utility coverings that she now wore instead of her robe—the UNSC may have begrudgingly agreed to Kelly's decision to take her along, but they had explicitly put their foot down at the very idea of giving the Elite battle armor or anything that had its own personal shield unit.

They now walked together, the Spartan and the Elite, over towards the elevator bay. Furan garnered quite a few skeptical looks from the other Spartans as she passed them by (in addition to a few bystanders from the upper levels leaning out to get a better look at her). No doubt they were wary of the idea of having an Elite being situated in the middle of the densest concentration of Spartans in the galaxy, but no one made a motion to accost her. Kelly's presence was more than enough to ward away any doubts. If the Elite was with her, then there was most likely a good reason for this highly irregular occurrence, was the thinking.

Furan stole a few cursory looks at Kelly's now-polished armor. She gave a grunt of some self-reflected humor. "You know, the first Sangheili that encountered humans apparently mistook your kind for parasites. The armor you wore was not contoured to the comparatively soft creatures underneath them, therefore the misconception spread for a time."

"I'm aware of that tale," Kelly said. "I believe that you Elites came up with a special insult for humans due to that misunderstanding."

"Yes. 'Nishum.' It means, 'worm.'"

Kelly uttered a short chuckle as they stepped in front of a set of closed elevator doors.

Furan tilted her head. "You laugh at the invective?"

"Only at its ineffectiveness," Kelly admitted. "Figure that your kind's usage of the taunt probably confused more humans than it did insult them."

The Elite grunted in surprise or disappointment—it was hard for the Spartan to tell which it was.

There was a chime and the elevator doors parted to reveal an empty lift. Kelly and Furan stepped inside. A couple of other Spartans had initially headed for the lift as well, but stopped once they saw the Elite inside it. They loitered in the bay, figuring that it would be wiser to take the next one.

It would only be a short trip to the next level, but the silence in the elevator was so thick and awkward that it could be cut with a scalpel.

Finally, Furan appraised Kelly's MJOLNIR armor with a long stare. "I wonder—does the armor make the Spartan, or the Spartan make the armor?"

"There were Spartans before this armor was even an idea," Kelly said.

"Yet you could not reach your full potential without it, it seems."

Now it was Kelly's turn to stare upward at Furan. The Elite's mandibles became even more elongated in the searing gold bubble that completely masked the human's face.

"I'd be happy to give you a demonstration of that potential, armor or no armor. All you need to do is ask."

Furan eyed the armored Spartan, her brow folding what was a universal sign of intense consideration. With a shrug, the Elite resumed staring straight ahead, breaking eye contact first.

"Arrogance is apparently a shared trait among Spartans."

"If that's true, then I'm in similar company," Kelly shot back. The rest of the ride was spent in blissful quiet.

When they reached the medical level, the two had to go through three different security checkpoints just to make it to the specialized Spartan wing. Furan was stopped to be questioned each time, but Kelly would always pull rank to prevent them from being delayed.

Soon, the two of them walked into a brightly lit room that was comprised of a single long hallway with multiple circular surgical theaters splitting off from the main avenue. Doctors and other medical personnel stood at diagnostic screens while centrifuges whirled blood vials next to them. There were two MRI/MIDAS machines on this level, which looked like massive circular tunnels that had been bored into the walls. There were also several individual checkup areas located here—areas for patients to be examined by the medics—where cheap brown leather chairs were sitting upon thin carpets that were colored pea green.

Kelly strode to one of these empty stations and a medic quickly walked over to assist—the nametag on his surgical uniform read "McLeod." Kelly simply stood next to the offered chair. If she were to sit upon it, the weight of her armor would almost certainly destroy it.

"Remove your helmet, please," the medic said.

Kelly lifted the covering away and set it upon the table. There was that feeling of cold air on her face again.

"Wait just a moment while we connect with your medical implants," the medic chattered as he rapidly tapped upon a datapad. He reached over and swung around a ringed instrument made of a white plastic alloy about four feet in diameter. He positioned the ring just above Kelly's head—this was an advanced imaging system that would allow detailed scans of her body to be taken in a matter of seconds. "How long has it been since your last augmentation check-up?"

"Twenty-three days," Kelly answered immediately.

"Suffering from any nerve imbalances or retinal rejections? Noticed increased cardiac volume?"

"No to all."

As they had been talking, the scanning device had been projecting a series of images upon the datapad of the medic. He proceeded to tap at every other image, turning the three-dimensional figures in all directions, searching for irregularities of any sort.

"Well, all your augmentations are reading green," the medic said. "Can't be too careful with some of these Project ASTER procedures, though. The surgical implants are wonderful and all, but prone to far more unknown variables compared to the new chemical inductions that Project CHRYSANTHEMUM introduced. You've been keeping up your required drug regimen?"

"Haven't missed a dose," Kelly said as she reached for her helmet and slipped it over her head.

"I suppose you know the drill if you start experiencing any new side effects, then. If you'll just move to the blood testing station, we'll be able to clear you for active service in the field."

Kelly moved in the direction where the medic had gestured, quite eager to get past this routine. The medic then turned to Furan, blanching a bit as the towering Elite stood next to him.

"You wouldn't be looking to be tested, would you?"

The Elite considered the man as if he was nothing but an insect to her. "I couldn't imagine a bigger waste of our time," she grunted.

"Well, fine then," the medic sarcastically snapped. "Just trying to be helpful."

Two minutes later, Kelly strode out from the laboratory, having passed her blood tests with flying colors. With Furan joining her again, they moved from the medical wing and took a sloping ramp down one level to reach the armory.

Once inside, Furan gave a noise of approval. The Infinity could probably boast the most impressive collection of weaponry on any human warship—the walls were lined with rifles and combat equipment, decked out in every kind of color imaginable. There were knives, grenades, camo units—basically the items that could comprise every operator's dream kit.

Kelly grabbed a weapons box that was lined on the inside with ridged black foam. From the lockers, she took two M7S submachine guns—the silenced version of the base weapon—along with several clips of 5x23mm caseless ammunition. She also selected a M6H2 handgun as her sidearm—this was the latest model that was due to go into widespread service next year, but the Infinity pulled strings to ensure that their personnel was able to get their hands on these weapons first. The pistol, like most sidearms, had smart scope functionality, but also boasted an integrated suppressor and had been customized to allow the oversized hands of any MJOLNIR wearers to operate the trigger without any difficulties.

She also selected a MA5D assault rifle, the latest version of the famed bullpup rifle that had served the UNSC for decades. This particular model had been fitted with stabilization jets to control recoil in addition to an extended barrel to improve the effective range. From short to medium range, this rifle could be more than a match for any Elite warrior. Kelly wondered if it would have the same effect on a Spartan.

Kelly then walked over to where a set of stasis field containers were situated. The containers looked like two long rectangular boxes supported in the middle by a blue shaft of light. Within those shafts—the stasis fields—a metal disk about two inches thick hovered in place. Kelly grabbed two of these disks and clipped them to her armor.

She came back over to the crate, along with a set of frag grenades and knives—she slotted one of the blades into the sheath at her right boot. Furan, sitting on a bench the whole time, pointed towards the disks that now clinked against the Spartan's thigh.

"What might those be?"

"Armor restraint systems," Kelly explained. "When active, they latch onto MJOLNIR armor and short-circuit the mobility systems. Renders the wearer immobilized for a short time."

"Clever. Any long-range capabilities?"

"No. You need to physically place the device on the target's body yourself. The old-fashioned way."

"The ideal way," the Elite corrected. The propensity for honorable combat seemed to be integrated directly into the DNA of the Sangheili race. There was very little chance of that inclination being ironed out any time soon.

Kelly grabbed the crate that was now bristling with weaponry and took it over to the quartermaster's desk to check out each piece. The sergeant made sure to do a brass check on each of the guns himself, despite the fact that Kelly had instinctively done so when she had been selecting the weapons to begin with.

"Oh, and by the way, Petty Officer," the quartermaster said as he racked the slide of one of Kelly's SMGs, "that custom order you placed a month ago finally came in. I have it here, if you want it."

"Show me," Kelly said.

The soldier bent down and retrieved a long fabric package from underneath the desk. He unzipped it and opened it up for Kelly to see. Inside was a heavily modified M45D shotgun that Kelly had spent an entire week configuring before she had placed her requisition order. It was so new that it was almost sparkling. The upper half of the weapon had a coat of white paint applied to it, and there was a red stripe pattern that Kelly had specifically selected herself that scraped at the sides. The red stripes curved alongside the weapon and terminated in the form of a leaping rabbit decal near the ejection port, which was the obvious locus for any casual passerby's eyes.

"See what you think," the quartermaster said, his eyebrows raised in interest.

Kelly lifted up the weapon and racked the pump several times. She pulled the trigger, hearing the satisfyingly dry clack resound within the room. The M45D may have not been the most modular weapon in the UNSC's arsenal, but there was plenty that Kelly could do with it to make it better than the standard-issue shotguns. She had the springs replaced and fitted with Wolff springs to increase the fire rate by 15%. She had also replaced the grips and trigger with Cahar equivalents, set to break with what felt like featherlight pulls. The choke had also been swapped so that the cone of fire was tighter and more accurate. It could only hold five shells, but the tremendous power this thing could dish out meant that she would only need to fire this thing once and her target would become little more than a gristly smear upon a far wall somewhere.

She racked the slide open and left it that way. The Spartan tested the weight of the shotgun with a hand and found it to be more than satisfactory. "An excellent piece," she said. And it truly was excellent—a fine weapon for a hunt.

The quartermaster put the empty package back away. "Yeah, the boys at the weapons lab actually gave your project a name. Seems it's just something they do with all custom Spartan orders. That shotgun right there—they called it 'Oathsworn.'"

"Oathsworn," Kelly repeated. She flipped the shotgun so that she was now holding it grip-upward in one fluid motion. "Interesting."

Furan, drawn by the level of conversation, now came over to peer at the weapon from over Kelly's shoulder. "You've emblazoned a creature on your weapon?" the Elite pointed to the crimson decal, which was depicted in mid-leap.

"A rabbit," Kelly said as she set the shotgun onto the counter.

"No doubt a fearsome predator on your world."

"Not a predator," Kelly corrected. "Common prey, actually."

The Elite did a double-take, thrown by the contradiction. "Not only do you pointlessly mark your weapons, you apparently do so with the images of prey?"

Kelly glanced over at Furan, amused at her general confusion.

"The rabbit is me. It's the role I play on the team. The bait for enemies to be lured into our traps. They might think of me as prey… but it would only be for a few fatal moments."

"I see…" Furan said, but it was clear that the Elite did not see.

After stowing Oathsworn into her rearward armor slot upon her back, Kelly turned to head out the way they had just come, but Furan persisted in remaining in front of the quartermaster's table. The Marine had a sour face as he peered upward at the massive alien, trying to decipher exactly what the creature's intentions were.

Kelly turned to face the Elite. "Something else?"

"Something… yes," Furan said, never taking her eyes off the quartermaster. "You did not allocate a weapon for me."

"SOP," Kelly smartly rattled off, referring to the standard operating procedures. She wondered if this Elite was simple for being surprised at why she had not been given a gun. Kelly certainly was not that trusting. "Your weapon status is procure-on-sight only. Find what you can in the field."

"Foolish. You will need all the help you can get if you find yourself face to face with your kind. Such encounters could chance at any moment. It would be unwise to assume that there will be a respite for me to arm myself in the interim. Lend me a weapon, Spartan. You will need the tactical advantage, wherever you can find it—another warrior at your side will help even the odds."

The Spartan considered Furan's request. She tried to map out the branching possibilities in which Furan would betray any sort of trust, given the slightest opportunity. She had worked with Elites before—the ones who had allied themselves with the UNSC's interest had, true to their word, been steadfast in their loyalty. However, it was hard to eliminate old habits, or old grudges.

But, with a microscopic shrug, Kelly figured that she could at least solve both of their issues simultaneously. She walked over to another weapons locker and palmed the bio-lock—electronic sensors in her armor relayed her genetic code, causing it to open. She reached inside and procured a plasma pistol. Hefting the odd-shaped sidearm in a hand for a moment, she tossed it to Furan, who caught it. The Elite checked the battery gauge and frowned.

"This is only at half power." She did not appear amused.

"Not only that," the quartermaster chimed in, "but the lab boys tinkered with a few of those models so that it would take twice as long to build up a charge shot. Think of it as a ceremonial weapon."

Furan now gripped the pistol with two fingers, as though she was considering dropping it upon the floor. "This is an insult. I demand a fully-functioning weapon."

"That's all you get," Kelly shook her head. "You wanted a weapon and you got one. What you did not get was a weapon that you can easily turn on me, given half a chance."

"You really do lay suspicion upon anyone you come across, don't you?"

"You would expect any other sort of reaction?"

Narrowing her eyes, Furan's mandibles rippled in frustration. She then hooked the plasma pistol to her belt, a silent admission of defeat.

Kelly didn't waste any time savoring her little victory. She simply gave a curt turn, expecting the Elite to follow.

"Now that's dealt with," she said, "let's go see what kind of ship they provided for us."


UNSC Infinity
Hangar Bay 22

The Sahara-class heavy prowler was reminiscent of a dangling spider with its downward curving wings and angular ventral fins extending from prism-shaped pods at the wings. At 281 meters long, it was on the smaller size of the type of vessels the UNSC had in its corps, but the prowlers were a completely different breed of ships from the rest. Although lightly armed, the prowler's main advantage were the active stealth systems—baffler fusion drives, heat sinks, deception jammers—that rendered it invisible to any ship on sensors for a limited time. It was also designed for low observability, hence its ablative coating.

The hangar was completely empty except for Kelly and Furan, who strode across the polished bay towards the ship. Racks of hoses and wires had been placed perfunctorily to the side—the techs attending to the ship had cleaned up after themselves quite nicely. A gigantic energy field screened the way between the ship and space, acting as the far "wall" of the hangar.

Furan appraised the prowler with a studious eye. "Rather inelegant," she determined. "Human design does not court grandiosity, evidentially."

"Not in the military, at least," Kelly said. "Prowlers are designed for stealth operations, loitering, and procuring enemy intel. Its design will serve us well in tracking down our wayward Spartans."

"Armaments?"

"Nonlinear pulse cannons, Hornet remote explosives, and a nuclear missile."

"Could be worse," the Elite conceded.

"It'll be our one constant throughout this voyage, so get comfortable," Kelly said. "The UNSC Nighthawk is its name."

"Nighthawk," Furan murmured. "Suppose it's better than being named 'Rabbit.'"

Kelly ignored the comment. "It shares the name with humanity's first stealth aircraft. As much of an honorific as a ship can get."

They ascended the ramp and went inside. The interior of the prowler was small and cramped—it reminded Kelly of a Pelican—though it could easily transport thirty people. Before she did any further exploring, she found a nearby cabin and set down her case of weapons inside it. This room was also small to the point of being claustrophobic, only containing barely enough space for one to roam around in. It had a bed, a tiny desk, and a door that led to an adjacent bathroom, and that was it.

Furan claimed the room next to Kelly, thankfully keeping any further criticisms to herself. Kelly headed towards the rear of the ship—a small ladder barred the way down to the cargo bay, which was barely large enough to hold a Scorpion tank. A few crates of provisions had been stored here, along with two Mongoose all-terrain-vehicles and a simple rack of weights the previous crew had left behind—not that Kelly was going to use it, in any case.

She headed back up and moved to the cockpit/bridge. Now the similarities to a Pelican really came to a fore. The two pilot seats were situated one behind the other, a bulbous canopy bulging where each seat was positioned. Behind the pilot station was a cylindrical plinth—a holostation. A captain could appraise a three-dimensional battle theater here and determine the optimal location for a prowler to station itself. It was dark here—viewscreens around the room were throwing out electric light in wan purple sheets. It was difficult to maneuver around the bridge in MJOLNIR armor—Kelly found that she had to sidestep to reach some of the more difficult-to-access parts.

Furan joined Kelly in the cockpit. She glanced at where the pilots would sit and give a scoff. "You put too much faith in the integrity of a sheet of glass to protect a crew from the void."

"The canopy is a transparent metal polymer," Kelly said. Is this Elite going to be like this the whole way? "Rest assured, it's not going to be the component that will fail first."

"It's a structural weakness," Furan emphasized.

"Then you are more than welcome to drop a line to the skunkworks division and let them know your thoughts. This is what was allocated to us and this will more than suffice." Kelly then turned around once. "Now, ONI said there was an AI on board. I wonder if—"

"'More than suffice.' Couldn't agree with your assessment more, Petty Officer," a voice in a clipped accent oozed from the interior speakers.

The crystals in the holostation warmed and a graphical burst of fire and ice blossomed in a tornado of light. The conflagration parted and the image of a pale man stepped out, wrapped from collar to toe in what looked like a cloak of shifting obsidian. The man was bald and had gray eyes and a hooked nose. Raptor-like features.

He turned to face Kelly and the Spartan had an unerring sense of déjà vu. It then occurred to her that she had seen this man before, in real life. Not this AI, specifically—more like the man who the AI simulated: the man who had present during her briefing with ONI—the one with no rank. The resemblance was certainly uncanny. She was now wondering once again who such a man would be to have cloned his brain in order to derive a smart-AI from his neural lacing. She had only known one other person to have done such a thing.

"You're the AI, then?" Kelly lifted a hand as she approached the holostation.

"UNSC AI Number ARM 4822-0," the image of the pale man dipped his head, a carefully stated motion that hinted at a regal inclination. Perhaps this AI was infused with a sense of superiority. "Armitage is my designation. You are Spartan Kelly-087."

Kelly bristled, though the motion was undetectable. Somehow, an AI saying her name was even more uncomfortable than when Dr. Halsey said it.

Furan had glanced over at the mention of Kelly's name, but Armitage now addressed her with the air of someone who was considering the weather. "I trust that makes you Furan."

The Elite grunted and swung her head fully in Kelly's direction. "It already knows my name."

It knows more than that, Kelly thought. AI were useful tools that were designed to perform a wide variety of tasks, from ones as benign to monitoring shipping lanes, to the complexity of integrations with human neural laces. While they were not necessary to maintain optimal mission readiness, a military AI could easily turn the advantage by bypassing enemy security measures along with coordinating battle strategies.

No doubt Armitage could do all that and more, but Kelly wasn't assuaged. He was an ONI-issued AI. Only an idiot would not realize that he had been designated to this mission to act as a handler of sorts. A dutiful minion to be the eyes and ears of the organization and to report on all of Kelly's actions. To imagine that he would have Kelly's best interests at heart would be foolish. She was just going to learn how to handle this AI carefully.

"You have experience with AI?" Kelly asked Furan.

"Very briefly. I tended to keep potential interactions to a minimum."

The hologram of Armitage flicked a smile. "Those 'interactions' may be unavoidable for you in the near future. In any case, we will have plenty of time to get acquainted." He tilted his head towards Kelly. "Spartan-087, ONI has assigned me to the Nighthawk as your mission intelligence attaché as well as your pilot for this prowler. I can provide you of a listing of my runtime diagnostics, or we can go into more—"

"Give me a status report of the Nighthawk," Kelly said brusquely.

Armitage's lip curled. Did the AI look annoyed at being cut off?

"Reactor shakedown of the Nighthawk completed 1.28 hours ago," he said with a crisp tone. "All systems green. Oxygen, communications, power, and pressure all reading within nominal limits."

"Weapons?"

"Capacitors for the nonlinear pulse cannons reading at 0% charge. No electrical faults detected. The Shaw-Fujikawa generators are also online—you may commence launching procedures at your command."

"Good," Kelly said. "Anything else I should be aware of regarding the ship?"

Armitage folded his hands behind his cloaked back. "I would be happy to get into further detail on the Nighthawk's subsystems."

"No need," Kelly said as she strode past the holostation, towards the pilot's chairs. "Finish your preparations and move the Nighthawk off the Infinity. Input the destination of Vona into the navcomputer and plot a course."

The AI's expression was like ice. Perhaps he had been anticipating more opportunities where he could rattle off his worth in front of the Spartan. Kelly wasn't interested, though. There was something about AIs that just rubbed her the wrong way. Never mind the fact that half of her team had been paired with an AI at some point—John and Linda—Kelly had never once indicated any curiosity in having such a partner, probably because she had never felt she had needed one before.

Kelly turned to Furan. "Might as well get comfortable. It'll be several hours before we disembark."

"Very well," the Elite said and soon departed.

Armitage watched Furan leave. "I'll keep an eye on her," he told Kelly.

"I figured," she said as she took her seat in the copilot's chair after pushing aside the armrests to allow her armored form to fit into it. She did not bother strapping in and calmly folded her hands atop her lap, her gleaming gold visor speckled with the electric surge of the energy field just past the canopy.

Rare were the times when Kelly could witness a launch, even a mundane one. She didn't want to miss this chance.

Imposing in her rigidity, the Spartan sat in the chair without so much as twitching a millimeter, watching as the hangar bay tilted in the canopy's field of view after the engines of the Nighthawk produced a thin rumble throughout the prowler's interior. The thrusters pulsed and the energy barrier quickly loomed large before the ship, only to dissipate entirely once they passed through it, granting the passengers an unobstructed view of the savage and speckled night. A few short streaks of light glimmered unevenly against the lonely backdrop—recon fighters coming in from their missions, or frigates looking to rejoin the fleet after coming home from afar.

"In order to ensure the security of our tenuous position in the galaxy, the members of the Phoenix Unit must be destroyed."

She had replayed that sentence in her head ad infinitum since yesterday. There had been no chance to misinterpret anything that had been spoken behind those closed doors. If there had been a chance for this to have ended any other way, that chance had come and gone before Kelly had even come into the picture.

Rina. Logan. Phaedra. Traitors to the UNSC, all. What had caused them to turn like this? What had been the catalyst?

It quickly dawned on Kelly that she was asking herself the wrong questions. The cause of the defect in the Phoenix Unit was immaterial. The time to decipher the root cause would come later. The only immediate recourse was the immediate culling of these Spartans through the use of discrete violence. Her inner voice scolded her from even trying to emphasize with the enemy. For they were the enemy now, even though they were the closest thing to family that she knew.

And a family of turncoats was not a family at all.

"Good hunting," Kelly whispered to herself. "That is… they used to say that."

"You say something, Petty Officer?" Armitage called from his station.

"Nothing," Kelly lied.

Kelly lost herself in her thoughts as she watched the stars blitz by until the raging churn of slipspace formed around the ship, a cauldron of starlight and plasma colliding together in a frightful yet beautiful storm. Spacetime ripped and sheared away at the edges of the craft, the garden of stars parting like ragged curtains only to fall back once the prowler had slipped through the portal, knitting back reality as though the jump had been little more than a nuisance in the grand scheme of physics.


A/N: There are three separate references in this chapter that I just could not help but put in. Think you can figure them out?

Playlist:

War Party (Ancient Dream 1)
"Captives"
James Horner
Apocalypto (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

Oathsworn
"The One"
Hans Zimmer
Dune (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

Nighthawk
"The Rig"
Steve Jablonsky
Deepwater Horizon (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

The Departure
"Mogren Radio Outro"
Ludvig Forssell
Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain (Original Video Game Soundtrack)