Blood spluttered all over his face as he woke, he vomited immediately and let loose another torrent of blood and liquid into the nearby sink as he fell back down to his position of lying down.
Gabriel opened his eyes slowly; letting the nervous eyelids tremble as he surveyed his surrounds quickly; looking for anything that could rip out his organs or feed on him.
He was in a white room; everything was clean and perfectly organised in patterns of their own. It was a typical emergency medivac room for injured soldiers…but wait? Was he even injured?

The soldier looked around himself and noticed his right arm and legs were fine, his chest had been operated on and was covered in stitches and bandages but that was alright. Only until he turned to his left did the Spartan IV realise and remember what happened to him.
His entire left arm was gone, the tips of his fingers all the way up his elbow and even to his shoulder just ceased to exist anymore; replaced by a heavy set of metal sheets and bandages to stop the bleeding and him feeling anything.
He roared out-loud, smashing the back of his head into the soft cushion in absolute anger as he couldn't even move his arm anymore. In-controllable rage filled his entire body, enough to make him stand up and immediately smash his right fist into the wall, pain arched his hand; reminding him of the similar punch he had performed on the Harbinger.
Memories flashed past the Spartan as he started to remember the entire ordeal, the numerous kicks he had received, the punch that had broken his fingers and even the energy reaper coming down and slicing of his arm.

But something was missing, something alot worse than any injuries he had sustained. He fell to his knees trying to remember the one memory that he had been blocking out for the past set of minutes…or was it an hour? He couldn't even remember the time anymore.
He gritted his teeth slowly as he went over the same memories over and over again in his head, trying to pin-point the turning point that could led to his insanity.

Then slowly he looked down at his reflection on the clear and perfect medivac floor and saw the blonde hair and blue eyes look straight back at him. He had a friend with almost identical facial features…but who was it? And what had happened to him?

Michael…his name was Michael.

And then the Spartan IV smashed his good hand into the floor so quickly that the entire surface smashed like a mirror from his rage.
Tears fell from his face as freely as his emotions had spilled out.
He remembered what had happened to Michael.

Rage overcame him as he sat hunched over the smashed floor, blood and tears falling out of his face as he smashed his head into the already destroyed floor. He screamed out his friends name in desperation, calling out for him although he knew it was pointless.
Because everything was pointless, everything was a joke and everything was worthless.
Michael was dead, and it was his entire fault.

Meanwhile
The tight metal bars were separated almost an inch apart, enough for a blade to enter but not for a Sangheili Field Marshall to escape through.
Ya'kai sat in the middle of his cell, staring intently at his knuckles as he slowly waited for time to pass by as it always did. He had been situated in this particular cell for almost two days now, betrayed by his allies and attacked by the Storm faction.
There was nothing to be done, not anymore; he knew his time was at an end, and there was nothing to be done about it. In a sense, the former shipmaster was glad it had finally come to an end, he had lived a long and fulfilling life; from his foolish actions as a youngling to his esteemed commendations as an elder.

A set of bars parted as the primary door into his cell opened, two sets of Sangheili boots entered the room loudly. Golden armour plating that was worn by Mort'ang, the Zealot who had sat by Ya'kai's side for near a decade; the same Zealot who had come to finish it all.
"They are calling you a heretic now" The Royal Warrior spoke slowly, walking up to the Field Marshall's exposed back.

Ya'kai grunted, "I've been called worse" his voice was flat, no emotion or regret escaping his tone or composure.
Mort'ang stopped for a second, he was unsure there was even a term worse than a heretic, "What could possibly be worse?"
The Field Marshall turned around slowly, looking right up into the young Zealot's eyes, "A fanatic, a murderer and a traitor" He stared right at the Golden Warrior, as if he felt sorry for him.
Mort'ang roared and immediately drew his energy sword in frustrated anger, the twin blades lighting up the entire room with energy and light. He stepped forward and loomed over his former master, "This blade has killed two demons, and now it will taste the blood of a heretic."

Ya'kai breathed in slowly, "Mort'ang, when this is all over and we both stand at the gates of our former brethren I want you to know one thing; you were like a son to me."

The Golden Zealot paused for a moment, resting his blade near his master's old and heavy frame.
"Then it is time for me to gain my inheritance"

And without another word, the Zealot thrust his blade right through the frame of his master; letting purple blood seep down and splatter against the floor in a traumatising balance.