The station's traffic was anything but fair in ratio of those exiting the ship and those ready to board. The Sanghieli wished to return to the planet on which his responsibilities lie. Not a common sentiment, apparently: the world, dubbed "Babyl" at a time he knew not when, had reportedly collapsed in on itself after the UNSC militia entirely pulled out to fight for the Ark.

He suppressed his memory of the place: it had given The Sangheili nothing but pain, fear, depression… and insanity.

A good thousand sapient creatures, mostly humans, but with several noticeable Sangheili, funneled out of the cargo doors to In Heaven's Vein. The repurposed Cruiser of Captain Greg Hillen, an open loyalist to the deceased John Watts. The most violent kind of Insurrectionist. The Sangheili knew the man personally.

His vessel was the only one left on Babyl with a slipspace drive, meaning he was the only one with the ability to evacuate civilians from what had broken out into a near-planetwide civil warzone. The Sangheili, who now watched the crowd below him from an indoor balcony, had coaxed this knowledge out of a Human woman who had sat eagerly awaiting her daughter and grandchildren.

In the balcony with him was a handful of Humans and 2 Sangheili. He didn't feel particularly inclined to make eye contact with any of them, and much to his thanks they didn't either, despite The Sangheili's unusual appearance. Of course, he surely had eyes on him whenever he looked away. Even his very skin, oil black as it was, had a genetic chance of occurring once in every two and a half thousand males born, and for females it was significantly less common.

But beyond that the grey-stained Human gauze wrapped so nearly entirely around his body he wore nothing else. His left hand was evidently severed above the wrist, even with the gauze wrapped round it. The two mandibles on the right side of his mouth were nothing but stubble and purple-black coagulation which seeped down his neck and chest. The left second knee down was dislocated, which shewed as a pronounced limp when he walked. And his forward protruding head had yet more gauze wrapped vertically around it.

While The Sangheili had no intent on socialization, he had "grouped" next to the other two of his species away from the Humans. Blood was thicker than water. But he noticed the other two were sticking just as far away as he was, one of them a young woman. He cringed when he'd eventually realized this, she being entirely alone during this panic, going to a warring planet. It didn't seem right. But at this hour he hardly got himself to care. The other of his species was a hulk, bigger than most he had seen, the Sangheili himself being rather large.

The Humans conversed, but the Sangheili sat silent until the crowd beneath them dispersed and over a loudspeaker their company, exiting station, was called out.

Down stairs and across a bay and onto a ramp and into a vacuum chamber, the company set foot on In Anthem's Vein, an incredibly unimpressive starship, accompanied by a station worker who rolled in a shelf containing enough tasteless food to feed the company for five years, then exited in a hurry. Over a loudspeaker on the ship's interior Captain Hillen announced that the ship was unlatching from the station.

"Everyone onboard are the one's coming. Let's get out of here."

The sound of space engines firing began, the rolling shelf began moving with the inertia, and the boarders were left perplexed. They had simply stepped aboard and were suddenly leaving the station? No staff had come to greet them and they were left standing in an entry bay with no idea what to do.

The Sangheili was not wholly surprised at this, as the Captain was evidently the sole crew member, as well as in a tremendous hurry to return to Babyl. He could only imagine the scene that played out when In Anthem's Vein inevitably ran out occupancy and had to leave tens of thousands to a warzone. His lack of surprise meant he made the first steps out of the entrance bay. A physical map of the ship's layout shewed him his first destination: the bridge. The rest began struggling with their items, something the Sangheili had not, and made for the map.

The Sangheili limp-walked up two flights and down a thousand-odd meters of tunnel before arriving at a door that wouldn't slide open for him. He tried knocking, with his right hand. There was no answer, so he decided to crouch there and wait. While his dislocated second knee made crouching in the manner he was trained to highly awkward, he found a comfortable position and counted Unggoy until the unmistakable hum of Cherenkov radiation rang through the hull.

But counting Unggoy was hardly what he was doing, then. The Sangheili fought with his mind, trying to hold the barricade keeping it out of his memories. It had proven to bring only further pain. He attempted, atfirst successfully, to distract himself with nostalgia. To reminisce about the days of his youth when his whole life was ahead of him: a great swordsman, sure to become a Zealot atleast someday, ready to become R'Shanee and fight for the will of the Prophets; wild dreams forged by the goodwill of everyone around him that he could one day become the Arbiter. A beautiful mate picked out for him who he did truly love- and he stopped. His strongest memory of her was nothing but a void. Ripped from his very memory. A potentially crippling depression set in, but he continued trying to distract himself. He remembered her, nonetheless. Or did he? The thought that all of his conscious recollection of his wife had invested itself into that single memory slowly spread through his mind like a poison.

But no! In fact, the very refutation of such a feeling was what sunk him, reduced him to once again reliving the same memories over and over.

A Human prison cell. Oh, the stripping of every last ounce of honor! The Demon stood in the back of the room. But his wife stood at the front. Fesa R'Shan. Her face had grown old, and at that moment even ugly, scarred by distress. But even still she had her moment of joy, and the Sangheili had his. His joy truly was great, but it was so very difficult to recall now. Her son. Soon to be great warrior, doubtless. Only it wasn't his son. It wasn't The Sangheili's, and it wasn't R'Shan.

He might have killed it. Maybe not, but… it's arm was torn off once he was able to grab on through the bars. It was a moment of senseless rage. But no, no, it wasn't simply senseless. That was a bastard child. Maybe it died, maybe it didn't.

And it was all the fault of that damned Demon. He screamed in a way he had never screamed before at it, and it only stared back through its unflinching visor, before coldly uttering a few words that almost appeared to be an attempt at reconciliation. At sentiment? Never in all his life, nor any other life, could he imagine, did he ever find a more despicable, rightfully Demonic being. Even the Flood were outshined.

It then grabbed a pistol from the wall and pointed directly at him. All hope, all anger even, drained from The Sangheili's existence in that moment as he looked down the barrel of a gun, and past it at the helmet he failed to take off. At the machine.

In hindsight The Sangheili realized that he had not until this moment sunk to rock bottom, as far as honor reached: he asked of the Demon. Pleaded to it to remove its mask. And of its own will, it actually did so. When The Sangheili saw the face of an old, pale, bald Human man staring expressionless down at him, he closed his eyes, ready to die. He didn't even hope, but only wondered wether the gods, were they truly real, would give him a life after death.

A great calmness had just begun to settle over The Sangheili when the Demon shot.

Why? Why had he not died? Either to wake up in the next life, or not wake up at all, but to be in eternal sleep; would be leaps and bounds better than waking up in a hospital bed, a bullet wound miraculously careening, tiptoeing even, around his brain. Breaking in through his temple and out through his throat but not hitting his brain, and not even killing him.

The Demon, that 117, thought he was as good as dead. The Sangheili would have agreed.

But waking on a table, lying down as he did, he knew it must be the will of the gods that kept him alive. Perhaps he was their instrument, their weapon to kill the Demon. Once he had found the strength to do so, The Sangheili ripped out a series of wires, half-fell off the bedside, and wrestled with a group of Doctors before being shot by a tranquilizer.

When he awoke there were no doctors around, and sirens screeched. He stood up, and in trying to click his mandibles, found the two which were broken in his previous fight with the Demon to be as good as shedding skin. With an incisor he cut them off himself, less painful to him than simply breathing in his current condition.

There were only a few other beds with bodies in them in that med bay. Two unbeating, one unbreathing. Every other bed had the bloody or sweaty stains of someone who was recently moved. He was among those left for dead, and understandably so.

The Sangheili struggled to walk through the corridors of a seemingly never ending ship, nearly passing out when trying to speed up. No one he ran into tried to stop him, but many jumped at the sight. He was too weary to uphold his sentiment of hatred against all Humans. 117's death was the object, but the more he thought about it the less likely he realized finding it would be.

The Sangheili at last stumbled down in another of endless corridors, pain hitting him in the head. He tried to rest, but lack of rest was not his problem. After a moment a man running through his hallway stopped to take notice.

"What are you doing, fella? You're hurt bad, you can't stay on the ship!" The man's voice was eager, himself evidently here longer than he should have been. "Do you speak English?"

"Where is 117? Spartan 117?"

"What?" He was inquisitive as he tried to help The Sangheili up, an attempt not complied with.

"Do you know where he is? The Spartan?"

"Not here, fella. But it's okay, we'll be safe if we get off the ship."

"He… isn't on the ship,?" asked the Sangheili in a tone of clarification as he stood up himself.

"No, we're far from danger right now, just come on! Or I'll leaving you here!"

The Sangheili complied, and was able to keep up with the man as he made his way to a large docking bay where a crowd of people shuffled out. Over the loudspeakers came the voice of the Infinity's Captain.

"Okay, we're closing doors in 30 seconds. All nonmilitary persons ought to be off ship by now."

The man with The Sangheili left him in a mad dash for the exit doors, which he followed to and made it out just in time. The crowd of people outside was a thousand-odd in number, among which he noticed his wife as the immense Infinity lifted off from its grounded position.

He could not extend the lifetime of his anger. His heart once again melted like it atfirst had in his cell, and as the memory of her existence came back to him, so did the fact that he had more to live for than killing the Demon. He pushed his way through the crowd to reach her, a good seventy meters off.

At a certain point he saw her face transform from awe at the Infinity's takeoff, to notice of him. Horror showed in her face, and she pulled her armless son close as slow backing away turned to running through the crowd faster than The Sangheili was.

A newfound sense of guilt would go on to play close second fiddle to his passion.

The Sangheili finally got a grip and swallowed down the memory. For a moment atleast.

What was this foolery? Am I not Valarad R'Shanai, known for his unmoving will? Where is my will to hide this memory? The voice in his head, which spoke in his native language, hesitated at the word hide, or Yokyon. Was that his true goal?

A voice which was not entirely incorrect told him that his will's only "strength" lie in the power over him which his emotions held. And so, when facing, confronting against those very emotions he was a helpless fool whose will was weak, and already near broken.

But he had rebuilt before, remembered The Sangheili. Before the Spartan Locke arrived and stirred up once again the remnants of what was almost a past life at the time; his Sangheili superiors, and brothers, and subjects. The Ascetic and the Sangheili of Babyl.

The Sangheili scolded himself for being so much weaker than he'd expected of himself. The mental scolding continued for some time before the door before him slid open.

2

Greg Hillen was hardly the type to be at loss for words, but this was one such occasion.

The Sangheili spoke first. "I am Valarad Kaidon'Sek."

"R'Shanai? What the ever loving hell are you doing here? What the fuck happened to you?"

The Sangheili let himself into the bridge room, not speaking.

"You look fucked up."

"I am aware. Looks do not deceive."

"Well, what happened?"

The Sangheili paused, before offering a scapegoat. "Silent Shadow happened."

"Holy shit. Should we be worried? Should the Ascetics be worried?"

"They should, their planet is at war."

Hillen didn't press any further.

"Did my men take a side?"

"Atleast some of them did… against the Humans, of course… shit, you've been gone for a while then. I never heard about it."

"Good. I don't remember you ever being in such a position to know the goings on of my clan."

Hillen grunted, then awkwardly moved over to the Captain's seat.

"Your undertaking is a noble one."

"What would it make me if I didn't, undertake it?"

The Sangheili attempted at settling back into an uneven crouch, acknowledging Hillen's words.

"I mean, I'm the only one with a ship back there. Predictably, the UNSC doesn't give a flying fuck about the people it controls. It would be up to the common folks to save the day, but Babyl's such a controlled little bubble I'm the only one with space faring agency."

The Sangheili had many emotions churning within his gut, but stood unfazed.

"Well, I guess I oughta go introduce myself, and help out the passengers."

"Surely."

"How many are there,?" Hillen asked, making for the door.

"Around seven."

"That's two more than I expected. Still, I ordered enough food brought on ship to feed eight people for, like ten years."

Even now, with Hillen the Captain of the ship The Sangheili stood on, and him being covered in bandages, the Human feared him. The two occasions on which they had met before The Sangheili stood secure above the man, be that when he was still climbing the Ascetic ranks or after achieving Kaidon'Sek. Despite his wounds, Hillen was still unaware to how pitifully The Sangheili had been defeated.

A thought came to him: his story to be told was not one of complete shame. He had overpowered his enemy, even if the Unggoy then attacked him from behind. He had defeated a Demon. That alone was a feat few Elites could claim they had accomplished honourably, but it was 117 he defeated. The most dangerous Human who had ever lived and the one who first knocked the Covenant into the habit of using "Demon" as a term. Perhaps, even, it was the injury dealt the Spartan by his own blade that obstructed his survival when he did eventually die.

But this at the end was self flattery. A Sangheili warrior knew better than to fall back onto happenstance and probability. The true measure of an Elite, and a duel, was the victor, and, he supposed, the honourability. But when dealing with a Demon, and just in general it seemed more and more, an honourable encounter was a privilege rather than a right.

Making for the main lobby where everyone was expected to be, Hillen and The Sangheili spotted a Human walking around.

"Hey, it's your Captain speaking!"

"Oh-"

"Yeah, follow me. Sorry for the sudden takeoff."

"Oh, I… I won't hold it against you. Speed is very important."

"Yep."

After a moment of walking The Sangheili knew the man was staring at him. "What is it?"

"Oh. I was just wondering if… you were doing, if you were okay, there?"

"I will live, given normal circumstances ahead."

Sure enough, the other few passengers were still standing at the front lobby awkwardly.

"My apologies for the urgency," Hillen attempted a degree of grandiosity. "Is this everyone who came on?"

"Well," said a Human woman, "those two walked away."

"I believe that was all," spoke the large, metallic-gray skinned Sangheili, who towered high over every passenger except the one covered in bandages, who was still half a hand-span shorter. His voice was fittingly deep, almost Jiralhanae in nature.

Captain Hillen grasped the M6C pistol on his belt, and asked in whisper to The Sangheili, "is he a Silent Shadow?"

The Sangheili had no care to the Captain's assumptions based on his lie. "He is no Silent Shadow, fool. They never show their faces among their own race."

"Are you speaking of me,?" asked the bulky Elite, clearly assuming flattery at being compared to the Prophets' former assassins.

"I am being followed by the clan. This human knows nothing of their operations, and suspected you one of them."

The Elite looked surprised.

The Sangheili cared not to continue this ruse. "Hillen, please?"

"Yes, I am the Captain of this ship."

"Why are they after you,?" the young Sangheili woman asked?

"It is not relevant- I am Kaidon-Sek of the Ascetic clan on the planet we jump to. Silent Shadow have been at war with my clan since the Great Schism."

"Anyways, allow me to help you all get acquainted with In Anthem's Vein… I did not name it that, for the record."

"Yes, he stole it," The Sangheili exposed, though no one seemed to be incredibly surprised.

Blushing slightly, Hillen continued. "I hope you Sangheili won't die, but all the bunks and general living things, umm, faculties, are designed for Humans. I'll get you your own rooms regardless, and whatnot."

"We are sure to be more at comfort than those on Babyl," said the large Sangheili.

"There's look'in at the fuck'in bright side! Of course, on the return journey, if any of you sick fucks are hitching the ride back, you won't… have the privilege. Of your own spaces. Fuck, the first trip leaving the planet I had a good two hundred people in here, and they were all sleeping on the floor except for the most injured among 'em."

Captain Hillen led the six, yes, six passengers out of the maze of corridors and down into the ship's living section. He showed them to the bridge, told them only to look for him there if it was an emergency, showed them to two of the bathrooms as well as the place where they would get their food packages and the gym room. He even repurposed one of the rooms into his personal physical-copy library, which despite having been moved into a bunched-up corner, was quite extensive. One couldn't walk anywhere on board without seeing Eventually they were led to a line of sixteen bunkrooms, before returning to the entrance to put the food packages into stock.

The Sangheili, upon entering his own room, found it in disarray, with coagulated Human blood staining the floor and all four bed mattresses.

The next time the captain walked by the rooms The Sangheili was using the backside of a hammer which was left in there to scrape the blood off the walls.

"Oh, you can take a different room, I guess. Uh, over here-"

"It is no trouble, rather a gain to myself as well as the passengers on your return journey. That is the least I should do."

"Oh. Good idea, maybe I ought- that oughtta be my fee for all the passengers. And you're able and willing to do that work?"

The Sangheili nodded sharply, then turned back to the wall, hoping to busy his mind while also avoiding contact with the other passengers. He was not afraid of being seen by them, surely. Of course he hadn't allowed himself to slip down to a hermit's mind? It was simply that he had no care for what the Humans did. Or the other Elite for that matter.

He fell asleep at some point and before he knew it days had passed. He went around the ship looking for tools to fix up his personal space.