A/N: I'm baaaaaack! Had some issues with burnout among other things making it difficult to get the writing process started again, but once again my wonderful beta visitor came to the rescue with the first thousand or so words of this chapter. Thank you all for being so patient—enjoy!


In his time since being appointed as the Warden of the Inquisitorial Bastille, Karaktus had done good work in the gods' names; compelling those who had strayed, criminals guilty of lesser heresies too minor to warrant branding or execution, to return to the path of righteousness upon the Great Journey. He had saved many in this manner, most of whom were unworthy of the mercy, but his latest inmate held a special place in his heart.

From what Karaktus understood, Tam 'Valarmee had been captured alive by the humans some time ago (already a shameful failure, in his eyes), and shortly after escaping back to the Covenant he'd had the extreme misfortune of encountering one of the humans' dreaded Demons. Karaktus wasn't entirely sure if it was the result of trauma or conditioning while he was in human captivity, but it was clear that the boy had suffered a severe psychotic break. Normally, Karaktus would have chalked it up to the inherent weakness of the Sangheili mind and spirit, yet another reason why the Jiralhanae were destined to surpass them, but the boy had managed to actually kill the Demon, which was nothing to scoff at. For this reason more than any other, he was sure, young 'Valarmee was sent to him for rehabilitation rather than slated for execution.

It had taken considerable time to wear down the Sangheili's mental defenses; for a broken man, his conviction in his delusions were surprisingly strong. Still, with patience and skill Karaktus had used all of the tools at his disposal to carefully whittle away at 'Valarmee's will and mold his mind like clay. At first, the Sangheili had resisted quite strongly, but in time the shocks and the narcotics took their toll. With enough time, Karaktus was sure he could convince his prisoner to believe just about anything, and the Sangheili would thank him for it.

After all that effort it almost seemed a shame to kill him along with the other prisoners, but a direct order from the Hierarchs could not be denied. Still, at least it would release him from his obligations here, freeing him to act on his yearning to join his brothers in the fighting. Or so he thought.

He'd just finished relaying the order to the guards to begin executing the prisoners when the alarm sounded and the far bulkhead suddenly exploded. He barely had time to register the squad of SpecOps Sangheili filing through the breach before he was angrily decapitated with a plasma sword.


N'tho 'Sraomee ran through the corridors of the prison with his battle brothers, his hearts pounding in his chest as they raced to reach their lost brother before the guards did. He was angry at the Hierarchs, angry at the Jiralhanae, and most of all angry at himself. After all, his quarry wouldn't be here in the first place if he hadn't sent him here.

When he'd had his revelation about Tam 'Valarmee's true identity, he'd immediately sought out Shipmaster Khor for counsel as he had done before. Impossible at it seemed, it was the only thing that made sense. But as tensions boiled over into open schism, and fighting erupted within the very streets of the High Charity, they'd both realized they were out of time. In a snap decision, Khor 'Taremee had agreed to lend 'Sraomee a Special Operations squad to retrieve their wayward... brother? Spy? Friend? N'tho wasn't sure anymore, but Tam 'Valarmee—Tim Newman—had saved his life more than once now. He'd never forgive himself if he didn't try to repay the debt.

What he'd seen on the security feed in the main office confirmed that that Tim was still alive, but other signs as to his condition were not encouraging. He dreaded to think of the hell he'd been put through on his account.

Nothing could have prepared N'tho for when he arrived.

He'd feared that Tim would be mad at him, but what he found was almost worse. Tim just sat there, glassy-eyed and mumbling incoherently, seemingly oblivious to the forcefield deactivating or even N'tho moving into the cell with him. Where his friend was once hale and hearty—aside from lingering scars that he now knew were from whatever surgery was used to transform the former human—Tim's scales were shockingly pale, his body withered from both malnutrition and the side effects of various narcotics; even his prosthetic eye had been unceremoniously and roughly removed by his torturers, the remaining eye looking at everything and nothing all at once.

"Brother..." N'tho said apprehensively, making physical contact, "I'm here."

For a moment, N'tho feared he would not get a reaction, until Tim took notice of the hand on his shoulder and a faint glimmer of recognition returned to his sole organic eye.

"N'tho?" Tam whispered, as though he didn't believe that N'tho was really there, "What are you doing here?"

"Breaking you out," N'tho replied. "You were right; I'm sorry I didn't believe you before. I owe you my life for saving me that day, Tim Newman."

This had rather the opposite effect of what N'tho had hoped for; far from restoring his lucidity, Tim looked suddenly pained, as if the mere mention of his true name burned like acid.

"No, no, nononono!" Tim shook his head, muttering to himself as his awareness of N'tho became once again distant; "My name is Tam 'Valarmee. I was born on High Charity. The humans are my enemies. I serve the Covenant."

Not for the first time today, N'tho's hearts caught in his throat. Horrified, he worried that he was too late after all.

Tim rocked back and forth as he repeated his mantra over and over. It was uncomfortably like what N'tho had caught Tim saying to himself on the Great Inspiration before he'd turned him over to the Inquisition, just the wrong way around. His hearts sank at the thought that'd he was responsible for unwittingly brainwashing the man he'd come to save.

"We should leave him," someone behind N'tho said, "He's too far gone; we should save those who can still fight."

"No," N'tho answered forcefully, almost roaring as he forced his bile back down. He couldn't accept that. Honor demanded more of him. "We came here for him. We're not leaving him behind. We're not leaving anyone behind."

Surprisingly, this got a reaction from Tim, who suddenly halted his raving.

"Leave... no man.. behind..." Tim said, as though struggling to remember some forgotten memory. Focus returned to his eye, and he looked directly at N'tho as though truly seeing him for the first time. "Help me up."

N'tho carefully helped Tim to his feet, looking over him with great concern. "By the Gods, Ta—Tim," he said, chastising himself mentally for the near error. "What did they DO to you? Where is your prosthetic eye?"

"They... took that out a couple of days ago," groaned Tim between pained breaths. "I guess... just another way of... keeping me disoriented... confused." Alarms sounded, with orders shouted over broadcast about the betrayal of the Sangheili and the Jiralhanae taking their destined place beside the Prophets. Tim looked around and clicked his mandibles. "There seems... to be some sort of... shake-up going on..."

"To say the least," replied N'tho, nodding and smiling as his friend seemed to slowly gain some strength and mental focus back—though he was still far from capable of defending himself yet, and the guarded monotone ironically spoke of how fragile that focus likely was. "But there will be time to explain later. We must return to the Inspiration quickly, while chaos still holds sway. It will not be long before the Jiralhanae are able to restore order. Can you walk?"

"Stand, yes. Walk, sort of. Run, debatable. But I'll try."

N'tho smiled and nodded as more SpecOps warriors arrived with a handful of other former prisoners, some looking nearly combat-ready, others about as poorly off as Tim—but none of them were being left behind. Not if he could help it. "If you falter, I will aid you. Until then, follow me as quickly as you can—the rendezvous point should not be far, but there will undoubtedly be foes in the way."


Tim—Tam—no, definitely Tim—hurried as quickly as his weakened form would allow, trying his best to keep what little bits and pieces of himself he had left in one piece. Both were exceedingly trying tasks; his limbs felt numb, and every breath of fresh air brought pain the instant his body realized it wasn't the narcotic gas it now craved. His mind teetered far more than he wished to let on; some distant part of him, perhaps a vestige of his marine training—or creche training?—told him to keep his emotions at a distance, to focus on logic for now, but that only served as a momentary patch on a grievous wound. He could speak and comprehend and analyze, but anything beyond that caused his thoughts to begin to scatter, his mind to flip this way and that, between one identity and the next. It was the mental equivalent of balancing on a wire above a bottomless pit; the slightest move out of line, and he would be lost forever. As such, he only barely paid attention to N'tho's attempts at conversation, focusing on the strategic details—the distance to the rendezvous, the state of the battlefield, when to hide, when to move—trying his best to shut out anything that might distract him too much and break his focus.

This worked well enough... until a vaguely familiar silhouette of a human warship flew over their heads and crash-landed into a nearby tower just as they neared the rendezvous point. The shock of a human warship making such an entrance added its own complications to Tim's precarious mental situation, but that proved insignificant a few minutes later when shuddering, pulsating masses of twisted flesh appeared—monstrous things he had previously only known from vague reports following the destruction of Halo. Things that stole skin and warped it into unrecognizable shapes. That existed solely to consume and spread. Things that he never thought could exist, and prayed that he would never meet. Things that had somehow taken over a human ship.

Did the humans unleash this?—no, they wouldn't, that was his people, wasn't it—then did that mean humans were all dead?—no, there had to be more, the heretics—no, the humans—no, his fellow humans still lived somewhere—

He struggled to bring the pieces of his increasingly-fractured mind back into order; too much was at stake to falter now. The parasite had arrived, and a large number of its combat forms now stood directly in the path that led to their safety. But the strain was too much. There was just too much sound, too much noise, too much confusion, too much everything. His mind—and reality—exploded into utter chaos. He could feel his body move instinctively, but he knew nothing of what went on, he didn't know who he was or where he was or what he was doing, he heard screaming and shouting and some of it was his own and some of it wasn't but which was which, who was he—

A flash of fire from a familiar weapon. Who was he—

A shout of pain from a familiar voice. Who was he—

A rapid movement towards a monster wearing stolen skin. Grabbing the weapon. Pulling the trigger. several more flashes.

He knew who he was.


N'tho had just begun to breathe a sigh of relief when the world came crashing down—figuratively and literally. No sooner had they arrived at the landing pad where the phantom was meant to pick them up from than waves of Flood thralls—mostly transformed humans—emerged from all around them and began to attack en masse. His troopers quickly maneuvered all those prisoners incapable of combat into the center of a defensive formation, while those who could fight did so as best as they were able. This was sufficient at first, but the sheer numbers the parasite had quickly began to overwhelm them; the phantom was en route, but whether or not they would survive until then was increasingly in question. Suddenly, a thrall wielding a common human weapon got a lucky shot in, bringing N'tho's shields down and grazing his side—providing a distraction that allowed more forms to advance, N'tho's own attacker mere inches from him...

And then, a blur from within the defensive formation moved to intercept. With perfect precision and efficiency, the thrall that had wounded him was dispatched, its weapon stolen, and then turned against the rest of the flood, displaying the sort of mastery that could only come from intimate familiarity with such a weapon.

Tim Newman, it seemed, had reawakened.

This was all the group needed to recover their momentum, and before long the phantom arrived, carrying the survivors to safety. As they sped through the blackness towards the Inspiration, N'tho turned to his friend—human or not, that would never change—and saw a twinkle in his eye and a smile that was at once familiar and different.

"N'tho... thank you. I guess I owe you an explanation, don't I?"