Chapter 31: Sparring and Speaking
The sounds of slaughter pierced the walls of the 'Chava family home. The modest residence, barely large enough to accommodate the small clan, echoed with savage roars, bestial growls, and the screams of dying sangheili.
Mahkee trembled as her papa and her elder brother readied themselves for the end. The jiralhanae's betrayal had caught them completely off-guard. The ape-like, nearly-3 meter tall giants had quickly overwhelmed their defenses and begun their systematic butchering of her family. The sight of her mother and younger sister being mercilessly cut down had been burned forever onto the interior of her eyelids.
There was nowhere left to run. All exits had been taken by the enemy or blocked off. The small guest room they had fled to would be the scene of their deaths. Mahkee trembled and held the small dagger tighter in her grip.
All of this was wrong. She had just reached maturity by the standards of her people. Her father and mother had been seeking a strong warrior for her to be wed to. She had hoped that her marriage could help elevate her family out of the place of shame they had been trapped in ever since their ancestor, Arbiter Fal 'Chavamee, had rebelled against the Covenant.
Now all of that was gone, like ashes in the wind. All that remained for her, for any of them, was death.
The sound of thunderous footsteps drew close outside the door. Her elder brother readied his plasma rifle; her father, his energy sword. There was a silence on both sides of the entryway.
The door exploded inward.
A shard of the shattered doorway struck Mahkee's brother, instantly depleting his energy shield and slashing his un-armored neck. There had been no time for him to don his full warrior's garb. He fell to the ground, clutching his ruined throat as blood spurted out. He stopped moving within moments. He hadn't even been given the dignity of striking a final blow.
Mahkee's father fared far better. By luck, he had managed to avoid any of the deadly pieces of the door, as had Mahkee. He surged forward as a trio of jiralhanae charged into the room. The bestial enemies bellowed in aggressive savagery. The sangheili swordsman answered them with a battlecry.
The first jiralhanae swung a large, vicious bladed weapon at him. The swordsman easily dodged. His riposte neatly cleaved the jiralhanae's weapon in twain. He followed this move by slashing his foe's leg, forcing him to his knee.
One of the other brutes attempted to charge the swordsman. The experienced sangheili vaulted over his just-injured foe.
The charging jiralhanae was taken completely by surprise. He impacted his packmate, knocking them both to the ground. The swordsman neatly cut the head off one before piercing the skull of the other.
Another roar sounded behind him.
The swordsman instantly pivoted, swinging his blade in a wide arc. The final jiralhanae, who had been attempting to attack from behind, received a devastating slash across the chest. The beast howled in pain before rallying and pressing the attack.
The jiralhanae's blows were large and strong. Any one of them would have depleted the swordsman's shield and sent him flying across the room. A single landed hit could spell the end for the aged warrior.
None of the strikes had any hope of landing.
The swordsman dodged, ducked, and weaved with a dancer's grace. He slashed and stabbed, never taking too long for fear of being caught by a riposte, covering his foe in smoldering cuts and punctures. Eventually, the jiralhanae slowed, the cumulative injuries finally catching up to him.
The swordsman landed a slash across his foe's belly. White intestines spilled onto the floor, a horrid stench filling the room. The beast grabbed at its guts before collapsing to the ground. It breathed a few shuddering breaths before going still.
Mahkee's father looked to her from the doorway where his maneuvers had landed him. He grinned slightly. The young female felt a surge of hope. Perhaps there would be some salvation, after all.
A towering shape appeared behind her papa. Mahkee cried out in warning. The swordsman reacted in an instant, attempting to leap out of the way of the coming blow.
It was in vain.
An enormous hammer, glowing blue from a built-in micro-gravity drive, struck her father in the side. The swordsman's energy shield instantly failed. His armor crumpled from the force of the blow. A dent so deep that it surely extended into his chest itself was formed as the sangheili warrior was flung across the room and into the wall. He fell to the ground in an unmoving heap.
The jiralhanae lumbered casually toward his fallen foe. It growled in satisfaction as it reached the ruined form of his defeated adversary. It raised its hammer high over its head, intending to smash its enemy into paste.
Mahkee leaped atop the jiralhanae's back. She reached around and stabbed her dagger into the monster's right eye. It roared in agony and dropped its terrible weapon. The instrument fell to the ground just beside her papa.
The blow Mahkee struck was devastating, but it was also clumsy and inexperienced. It destroyed the eye, but failed to penetrate any further. Her enemy reached over its head and took hold of the comparatively tiny sangheili female.
The world flew past as the jiralhanae used its kind's unmatched strength to lift Mahkee over its head and throw her across the room.
The sangheili female's impact with the far wall was gentler than the one her father had so recently suffered. Unfortunately, it still drove the wind from her lungs and threatened to crush her bones with its force. Her enemy stomped towards her, pulling the dagger out of its ruined eye as it went.
Despite her injuries, Mahkee was able to react swiftly. She lunged between the approaching behemoth's legs and crawled over to the fallen form of her papa. Her heart sank as she saw his broken body. She was alone.
The final jiralhanae interrupted any reflection she may have lost herself in. He grabbed her by one arm and spun her around, his left hand gripping her neck and soon being joined by the other. Mahkee found herself lifted off of her feet. The beast snarled in satisfaction as it began to squeeze the small female's throat.
The pressure was immense. There was no way to break the enemy's iron-strong grip. Mahkee's legs kicked desperately, to no effect. She felt her face swelling. Her heartbeat pounded in her ear ridges. Her vision started to go black. The jiralhanae leaned in, grinning with enormous teeth as it watched the life begin to leave its prey's eyes.
Abruptly, the beast's remaining eye went wide. It pulled back and looked downward.
An energy sword protruded from its chest. Mahkee's hand still gripped it with white knuckles.
The jiralhanae dropped Mahkee and stumbled back. The sangheili female fell to the ground, losing her grip on her father's weapon, and desperately sucked in lungfuls of air. The stench of burning fur, hide, and flesh filled her nostrils.
The final enemy reached at the blade impaled in its chest. It seemed its strength was failing it, as it was unable to so much as grip the weapon, let alone pull it out. The beast stared at Mahkee in disbelief before falling backward.
The jiralhanae hit the ground with a deafening crash. It never moved again.
Resting on her knees, her body trembling in shock, Mahkee 'Chava observed her surroundings. Her papa and brother were dead. Her family was dead. She was alone. Even if she survived the next few hours and days, her entire life was now gone. She would have to decide where she went from here.
It was a terrifying prospect. Mahkee had never had control of her life, her destiny, before. What would she do? Where would she go? What would her purpose be? Fear threatened to overwhelm her.
A fire rose in the sangheili's chest. No. She would not be beaten. She would not be cowed. Her family had not died in vain. She would live on. She would triumph. She would find a way to redeem her family name and honor those she had lost on this terrible day.
Her father's energy sword, named Redemption's Edge by one of her ancestors, still protruded from the jiralhanae's chest. Mahkee looked at her family's ancestral weapon. The blade had been passed down, from father to son, for hundreds of years. Now, there were no more sons.
There was only Mahkee.
The sangheili decided in that moment what she would do with her life, how she would pursue her purpose. She walked over to her fallen enemy and grabbed her birthright. The blade was stuck. Mahkee placed her hoof on the beast's motionless chest, gripped the blade with both hands, and pulled.
The sword came loose. Mahkee was born anew.
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The casing made a satisfying 'click' as it snapped back into place. Mahkee removed the blindfold and examined her work. She had fully disassembled and reassembled her plasma pistol. She brought it over to the range and depressed the firing stud. It worked flawlessly.
With a bit more practice, she knew she would top the legion record. She was only a few seconds off as it was. The sangheili warrior smiled. She had come a long way since she first picked up her family's sword in the Great Schism.
Her mandibles clung to her face as she remembered those dark days. The san 'shyuum and the sangheili had founded the Covenant together, but the prophet race had long chafed at sharing power with the warrior species. Apparently, they decided in the end that they could replace the sangheili with the savage jiralhanae. Those brutes would follow orders without the questions and give-and-take that the prophets had endured with their original guardians. Thus, they had ordered their thralls to massacre the sangheili in an unparalleled act of betrayal. Millions had died as the Covenant tore itself apart.
The funeral pyres had been endless. Mahkee, being the lone surviving member of her clan with no remaining assets other than her body and her sword, had had to settle for one of the mass ceremonies. Mahkee wondered if the humans had conducted similar rituals.
Whatever sympathetic thoughts were forming in the sangheili were interrupted as she noticed the female human, 'Vale', approaching her once again. Mahkee suppressed a sigh. Not this, again.
The human stood straight at a respectful distance and saluted, a gesture that Mahkee returned, albeit with some reluctance. "Greetings, Warrior Mahkee," she said in the expected greeting. "Would you like to spar with me?"
Mahkee blinked. This was not expected.
The sangheili warrior took stock of the Spartan once again. She was without her armor today, likely passing the time while it was being serviced. She certainly appeared capable; the reports of the raid on the slaver fortress spoke well of her abilities.
Mahkee had grown up hearing stories about the human 'demons'. They were always a bit contradictory as they attempted to characterize the Spartans as an unholy menace, and yet still substantially inferior to the awesome might of the sangheili warrior tradition. She had to admit that she had always been curious to see how a Spartan would fight in a melee.
Besides, Mahkee had not had a good spar in some time. There were few female warriors in her legion and most of the males were hesitant to fight a female, even in a spar. Some refused because they looked down on her. They tended to remain belligerent even if she wore them down into accepting and inevitably drove them into the mat. Others held back out of some outdated sense of chivalry; she always got the impression that they let her win. It was possible that this 'Vale' might give her a genuine challenge.
"That would be...acceptable," Mahkee agreed. The human smiled in the strange manner of her kind and motioned for Mahkee to lead the way.
The pair made their way toward one of the training centers. They both stripped down to their undergarments; if they weren't wearing armor, they might as well relieve themselves of encumbrances. Mahkee noted with curiosity that the human kept a small piece of clothing on her upper torso in addition to the one around her waist. It must have been to keep those absurd mammary glands under control. The sangheili shook her head; how did human females put up with those things?
The sangheili and the human entered a vacant sparring ring and ignited their practice energy swords. The training tools contained slightly heated air as opposed to plasma; they wouldn't kill you, but they would leave a nasty burn as a rebuke for failure. The 2 warriors raised their swords diagonally in front of their chests in a salute. They waited 3 seconds.
The match began. Mahkee launched the attack.
Immediately, the sangheili warrior realized that she had been correct in her assessment of her opponent. The Spartan was extraordinarily fast. Each attempt Mahkee made to land a blow connected with open air or a deft parry. It seemed the human shared her favor of speed and agility over brute strength.
The warriors began an intricate dance. Mahkee moved to land a blow, Vale dodged. Vale attempted a strike, Mahkee parried. Neither remained stationary for even a second. Their battle took them across every square centimeter of mat. Each party made full use of their agility and speed to stay ahead of their foe.
The world around them faded away. There was nothing but their opponent. Nothing but the dance.
The tempo began slowly.
Move.
Counter-move.
Step.
Lunge.
As time went on, the warriors began increasing their pace. They struck and dodged with greater and greater bursts of speed. The air whistled as their limbs moved past with the velocity of a serpent's strike.
Strike—Dodge
Counter—Grapple
Lunge—Pivot
Soon, both warriors were moving faster than even their own eyes could see. They were operating on instinct and countless hours of ingrained training. Weeks, months, and years of relentless self-challenge showed their fruits as both warriors refused to go down. Refused to be the first to bleed.
There was no way of knowing how long the fight went on for. All thoughts beyond the dance had bled away. Even their sense of self had faded into the background as their minds focused on their next move. And the one after that. And the one after that.
The only thing the fighters knew was that, suddenly, it was over.
Mahkee held her blade a scant centimeter from her opponent's neck. Any closer and she would smell the acrid scent of burning skin.
Unfortunately, Vale was also holding her own blade a centimeter from Mahkee's neck.
The spar was a draw.
Before Mahkee could even process this turn of events, a male voice expressed its displeasure. She turned toward the edge of the ring.
They were surrounded by a crowd of sangheili warriors. Many of them had clearly been betting on the outcome and were no doubt unhappy with the way the spar had concluded. Others had a very annoying type of grin on their faces that indicated just how much they had enjoyed their little 'show'.
Vale raised her right hand and extended a thumb and 2 primary digits held together in a passable approximation of a sangheili offensive gesture.
Many of the spectators burst out laughing at the display of defiance and dismissal. Others looked like they wished to respond to the insult but held themselves in check. Doubtless, they had strict orders not to offend the Arbiter's 'guests'.
The pair made their way out of the ring and toward their folded possessions. Mahkee used her towel to wipe the copious amounts of sweat from her long neck. Her chest expanded and contracted in a deep rhythm as she greedily sucked in air. That really had been a good spar, she admitted grudgingly to herself.
"Want one?" Mahkee turned and saw the human in question offering her a small container of water. The sangheili spread her mandibles in a smile.
"My thanks," she said, accepting the apology. Perhaps this human wasn't so bad, after all.
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A bare ceiling greeted Locke as he jerked awake. He sat up in bed and surveyed his surroundings. Burgundy walls. Medical equipment. Organic-shaped furniture.
The sangheili clinic. Right. That's where he was.
He tried to blink away the images from his recurring nightmare. Images of burnt streets and broken bodies. Of a scorched planet, pushed back over the brink into oblivion...
"Bad dreams?" Buck asked. Locke turned and saw his subordinate, once again sitting in the curved seat next to Locke's bed.
"Yeah, I dreamed I woke up with your ugly ass next to me," Locke quipped. He'd be damned if he admitted what was really bother him to anyone, let alone the former ODST. Buck chuckled.
"Did you bring the datacube from my armor's internal storage?" Locke asked, changing the subject.
"Yep. Right here," Buck replied, handing Locke said datacube and the ONI Agent's personal compad. "Damn thing's restricted, so we don't know what happened yet. You got the password?"
Naturally, Locke did have the password. However, he wasn't about to let his subordinates see what was on the cube. He needed a way to get rid of Buck for a while.
The Spartan IV looked to the side for a moment, apparently examining something on the interior of his visor. He turned back to Locke after a few moments.
"Seems Vale challenged our pilot to a spar," he explained. "It's gathering a bit of attention from the base staff."
Perfect. "Take Tanaka and check it out," Locke ordered. "Make sure nothing goes wrong. With the blood pumping and sangheili ego on the line, things could go bad. Fast."
Buck hesitated a moment, but nodded. "On it, sir," he said, moving out.
Once he was gone, Locke grabbed the compad and datacube. It took only a moment to access the data. There was a complete record of what had happened when the Master Chief tried to assassinate him.
Locke entered a few discrete commands. Several minutes passed. A box appeared on the compad's screen indicating that Locke's program had finished its work. The ONI Agent rebooted the compad and attempted to access the records from his armor's storage.
Error: Data Corrupted.
Excellent. Locke grinned internally as he removed the datacube from the side of the compad. He would add a bit of physical damage to the thing later to sell the story that the data had been lost due to the beam rifle round that penetrated his armor. No one but him would know what had happened.
Not even his superiors.
This was a dangerous game he was playing. If he kept pulling stuff like this his bosses at ONI Command would start to grow suspicious. Locke was a high level asset, but while that offered some protection, it also made him more of a threat if he became a liability. If his file was switched from the Credit to the Debit column in ONI's metaphorical spreadsheets, he would never see his end coming.
Locke pushed these thoughts out of his mind. If news of his near-death reached Command it could jeopardize his true objective. They might take him off the assignment or send backup that could get in his way. He needed answers. Answers about what had really caused the destruction of Meridian. There was only one man in the galaxy that could give them to him and Locke wouldn't let anything stand between him and his private interrogation.
Locke set his compad down and leaned his head back. The bare, burgundy walls of the sangheili infirmary stared back at him. He had another day left before he was combat ready. Another day before he could leave this room.
There was nothing to do. He'd already examined all of the files available to him. He'd kept up with what news of the offensive that the Arbiter allowed him access to. Buck was gone, which had enabled him to do his work, but that meant that he had no one to talk to. He was alone.
Alone with his thoughts.
Locke didn't want to try to sleep. He wasn't tired, and closing his eyes only resulted in those images appearing on the inside of his eyelids.
Damn it, there had to be something to do!
A short while later, the curtain separating Locke's little corner from the rest of the infirmary parted. A sangheili healer, the one responsible for his direct treatment, entered. He closed the curtain behind him. Locke watched as the healer examined the readouts on the medical equipment beside his bed. He seemed to cross check them with something on his own organic-looking compad, nodded approvingly, and moved to leave. Apparently, sangheili healers had yet to develop bedside manner.
"So, how's it look, doc?" Locke asked. He wasn't really interested, but a conversation with the alien would be better than nothing.
The sangheili paused and looked at the human with surprise. It seemed he hadn't been expecting that. He rallied after a moment and moved back to Locke's bedside.
"Your condition has continued to improve at the expected rate," the healer explained. "You will be released tomorrow, on schedule."
There was an awkward pause. It seemed the healer was unsure exactly what his patient wanted. Locke could hardly blame him; he wasn't sure what he wanted, himself.
"Can I ask why your equipment looks like it's based on human designs?" Locke asked, finally.
The medical equipment all looked like blatant rip-offs of human devices. Really, Locke was not too surprised by this. The sangheili had always reverse-engineered their technology from the achievements of other races. In the days of the Covenant they had copied the Forerunners. It was not too big of a stretch to copy a more contemporary advanced race.
Privately, this was encouraging to Locke. It demonstrated the clear superiority of the human species over alien life. They would need that edge if they were going to spread their influence across the stars. It was in the nature of sapient beings to compete for dominance, and Locke believed that humanity would one day spread its domain over the entire galaxy. The human empire would rule all. Sangheili space included.
"I believe you just did ask," the healer replied with a snort. He hesitated a moment and checked a device mounted on his wrist. "However, I suppose I have time to indulge your curiosity," he said, pulling up a seat.
The sangheili healer paused again, apparently collecting his thoughts. "Tell me," he began, "what do you know of how my profession was viewed in the days of the Covenant?"
Locke searched his memory, going over the reports on Covenant culture that he and other ONI Agents had compiled during the Human-Covenant War. "If I recall correctly, receiving medical treatment was considered a sign of weakness," he answered.
The healer snorted. "An understatement, to be sure," he said. "The blood of a sangheili was considered sacred. To touch the blood of another was an experience that was to be reserved exclusively for the battlefield. To do so outside of shedding it in an act of violence was taboo, even in the treating of wounds. To receive the aid of a healer in surgery or the like would bring shame upon both the healer and the patient. Thus, medical science for sangheili has been largely stagnant, if not regressive, for centuries." He shook his head and clicked his lower mandibles. "Thankfully, the Arbiter has repealed that ridiculous institution."
Locke nodded. This lined up with his understanding of sangheili culture. The idiotic perspective further solidified his view of the sangheili being intellectually inferior to homo sapiens. His own kind would never be so stupid.
"You think us mad or idiots to have ever held such a custom, don't you?" the healer asked, looking at Locke with suspicion.
Telling the whole truth was, of course, not an option here. Whatever he said would almost certainly make its way to the Arbiter. The last thing he needed was to make the sangheili leader even more annoyed with him. "I wouldn't go that far," he answered, carefully.
"I would," the healer replied, surprising him. "Our records of the pre-Covenant period are incomplete, but our greatest scholars believe that the taboo is far more recent than our prior leadership would have had us believe. You are aware of the Great Schism, of how the san 'shyuum tried to have the sangheili race exterminated to solidify their control over the Covenant?" he asked. Locke nodded in the affirmative. The healer explained, "we now believe that they were working to weaken my kind long before they attempted their killing stroke. The taboo against healing was engineered by the prophets in order to weaken the sangheili people, in both numbers and well-being. The Great War itself was partially designed for that purpose, as well. The Great Schism was but the culmination of millenia of cultural warfare that my forebears were completely blind to. It is our good fortune that the Arbiter is doing away with their machinations," he said, holding his head a bit higher.
"So you're a patriot, then?" Locke asked. He figured allowing the sangheili to stroke his own ego a bit would help ingratiate himself to the alien.
There was another pause. The healer shook his head, chuckling. "Partially," he answered. "Although I would be telling a falsehood if I claimed that as my only reason." He tilted his head back on his serpentine neck, staring at the ceiling in apparent self-reflection. "I always chafed at the taboo against treating injuries. I thought it was foolish. When I became one of the few healers in the time of the Covenant, operating often in secrecy, I did so in the belief that shame was an acceptable price for compassion. There were...incidents that earned me severe recrimination. Of course, I was always a lousy warrior, so that made the choice a bit easier." He chuckled again. Locke thought he could detect of bit of self-deprecation in his tone. "I must confess that, before the Arbiter, I had little hope of ever rising in station. Truthfully, my current profession is likely as much a matter of personal vindication as it is helping my fellow sangheili."
This was getting weird. Everything the healer said was making sense to Locke, but he couldn't understand why the alien was so open with him. "This is fascinating, truly," he said in as genuine a tone as he could manage, "but if I may be blunt, why are you being so open about yourself?" he asked.
"Because it is the truth," the healer answered, turning his gaze from the ceiling and back to his patient. "Ever since the lies of the san 'shyuum were exposed, my people have placed an extreme value upon honesty and openness about one's self. It is a rather refreshing development, although I don't believe it was present in pre-Covenant society...I think that, even with all of what the Arbiter is reclaiming from our past, the society that he is building will not be the old Sanghelios." The healer leaned back, once again growing reflective. "I think, perhaps, that is for the best. We must never again be in a place where the lies of those in power are able to so dominate our future."
The conversation petered out after that. The healer took his leave, off to treat his own people. Locke remained. He stared at the wall, mentally reviewing the conversation, trying to figure out what about it was making him so on edge.
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Fred was getting tired of fending off aggressive tentacles.
The huragok, Reaches-Far-Quickly, was once again attempting to 'help' Fred examine the Forerunner equipment Blue Team had found on Meridian. The Spartan had been attempting to access one of the more promising pieces for several weeks.
He had made little progress.
Admittedly, an outside perspective could be useful. Someone with fresh eyes might see something he missed. That said, he still wasn't willing to let an alien handle this equipment. Fred reached into one of his equipment pouches with his left hand as his right continued to fend off the huragok's inquisitive appendages.
The crystalline device glittered in the sunlight as Fred brought it into view. Immediately, the hovering alien lost interest in Fred's work and snatched its favorite toy out of his hand. It floated off, twittering in what Fred interpreted as childlike enthusiasm.
This was getting tiresome. The huragok was not the only member of the academic expedition that was having difficulty keeping their distance. The Spartans had established early on that they wanted a clear segregation between their matters and those of the aliens. Objectives, equipment, sleeping arrangements, etc. All separate.
It was a rather accurate microcosm of the Spartans' view on inter-species relations, honestly: humans had their space, the aliens had theirs. No crossover.
Unfortunately, the sangheili just couldn't seem to get the message. Their society was heavily communal. Everyone knew each other and knew each other's business. There was little in the way of privacy or secrets. This had led to repeated attempts to engage the Spartans in conversation and the sharing of goods. It was starting to get to Fred.
At least he was handling it better than Kelly. She had nearly started a few fights when the academics continued to pester her for social interaction. They'd learned pretty quickly to avoid that particular human.
Fred sighed. He might have to get Blue Lead to talk to 'Khebrem again. Fred paused, remembering recent events. He looked up and toward the edge of the camp.
The Master Chief was standing there, seemingly staring into the distance. Blue Team's leader had seemed distracted ever since he came back from the botched mission. He refused to talk about what had happened. Linda, likewise, was keeping quiet, saying that any answers would have to come from their leader.
Fred hoped that his brother pulled himself together. He wanted to do something, but he had no idea what he could do. Maybe he should send Kelly over. He shook his head. The Chief was never one to respond well to intrusion, regardless of the social skills of the intruder. He'd have to work through this on his own.
Hopefully, that would happen soon. Blue Team needed its leader mission ready.
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The Master Chief was staring at nothing.
Things had gone so wrong. Why had he ever thought that trying to assassinate Fireteam Osiris was a good idea? Linda was right: the risks were too high and the rewards were too low.
Now they had potentially ruined their relationship with the Arbiter and his forces. Would Locke tell the sangheili about what had happened? The Chief couldn't imagine that he wouldn't. The only way the Arbiter wouldn't find out was if the ONI Agent died from the beam rifle round. If the Arbiter found out, the very least he would demand would be answers.
The Chief decided that, if that happened, he would tell the Arbiter the truth. Everything. Full disclosure. The modern sangheili valued truth and despised lies more than anything. If they tried to present a fiction and the Arbiter sniffed it out, any hopes for completing the mission would be well and truly scuttled. Besides, being as obsessed with honor as he was, the sangheili head of state might actually prove sympathetic to John's motivations.
His motivations...
There was no denying it anymore: he had tried to kill Locke for revenge. It had taken many hours of reflection, but he had finally recognized that truth. He had allowed his own emotions to get the better of him and had jeopardized not just his mission, but the billions of lives that could be lost if they failed. It was one of the most serious betrayals of his duty, his purpose, that he could have possibly committed. A court marshal would not be out of the question once all of this was said and done.
The Chief began to pace restlessly. This had never happened before. He had never failed so utterly. The rest of his squad was almost certainly starting to question his judgment, and they were right to do so. He was starting to question it himself. The Master Chief forced himself to stop pacing and squared his shoulders.
The mission. He had to focus all of his efforts, all of his being, into completing the mission. He had to stop the Guardians and, more importantly, find Cortana. He needed his friend's wisdom. Her perspective.
John needed someone to tell him what to do.
Sorry for the delay. Mods came out for Fallout 4 on the Xbox One, so I've had trouble coming up for air to do any writing. I haven't even gotten to the dlc for Witcher 3 yet.
Note: I find myself giving more and more screentime to Mahkee as time goes on. Originally, she wasn't even a viewpoint character. I'm a bit worried that she's taking attention away from the main characters and mucking up the pacing. What do you guys think?
Note: So, another action scene, kinda. Feedback?
Note: The part about the taboo against healers being cultural warfare was something I came up with. I always thought that part of sangheili culture was kind of dumb, so I figured I'd incorporate my own personal explanation for it here.
Thanks for reading. Love you guys.
Slipspace Anomaly