Chapter 2
Oni: Sword Base
The Falcon's engines roared against the howling winds as Prophet sat quietly, his DMR cradled across his lap once again. The sky was lit faintly by the glow of distant fires, a reminder of the battles now raging across Reach. Around him, the ODSTs remained silent, their weapons locked and loaded.
Ahead, the outline of Sword Base loomed into view, its angular structures stark against the rocky terrain. But it wasn't the base itself that drew Prophet's attention. His visor zoomed in on the dark shadow hovering above the base—a Covenant corvette, its sleek hull illuminated faintly by the steady stream of Phantoms and troop transports flying toward the base like an unrelenting tide. The corvette's plasma turrets pulsed with ominous energy, each burst lighting up the ground below with deadly precision.
Prophet's gaze lingered on the corvette, the sight igniting a storm of conflicting emotions. This was not a battle he had foreseen, but he knew to be one of many pivotal moments in the fall of Reach. The Covenant's overwhelming presence was a stark reminder of the grim future that loomed over the planet. Yet, as always, he pushed the weight of those visions aside. There was never room for hesitation.
"Approaching Sword Base," the pilot's voice crackled through the comms, jolting Prophet from his thoughts. He glanced over at the ODSTs. They were ready—their discipline and expertise unmatched for unmodified humans.
Not far from their position, Two Falcons flew in formation, carrying Noble Team toward the same destination. Through his HUD, Prophet caught sight of their silhouettes—the towering figure of Jorge manning the turret, the ever-calm Carter giving orders, and Noble Six seated quietly, their posture tense with anticipation. It was a reminder of what lay ahead: two teams, separate but unified in their purpose, converging on a singular objective.
As the Falcons approached the base, the scale of the Covenant assault became clearer. Below, the ground swarmed with alien forces. Elites led squads of Grunts and Jackals toward the base's outer defenses, while Hunters lumbered forward, their fuel rod cannons firing with devastating force. The Phantoms landed with clockwork precision, unloading waves of reinforcements before lifting off to retrieve more troops.
Prophet activated the comms, his voice calm but firm. "Stay sharp. Here's the plan: our team will provide cover fire for Noble Team while clearing out Covenant forces around the base. Noble will push deeper while we clean up any lingering hostiles near Sword Base's perimeter."
The ODSTs gave quick acknowledgments, their helmets reflecting the dim interior lights of the Falcon. The aircraft shook slightly as it veered to the left, angling toward the base's northern perimeter where Covenant forces were concentrated. Prophet's HUD updated with real-time data, marking high-value targets and strategic positions.
"Eyes on the corvette," one of the ODSTs murmured over the comms, their voice tinged with a mixture of awe and dread.
"Ignore it for now," Prophet replied. "Focus on the immediate threat. That corvette's not our fight—yet."
The Falcon descended rapidly, its engines flaring as the pilot maneuvered toward a rocky outcrop that provided partial cover. Prophet stood, steadying himself as the aircraft hovered just above the ground. "Go!" he barked, leading the charge as he leaped onto the rocky terrain.
The ODSTs followed, their boots hitting the ground in unison as they fanned out into defensive positions. Plasma fire streaked through the air, the telltale whine of Covenant weapons piercing the night. Prophet raised his DMR, his visor locking onto a squad of Grunts moving toward the base's northern gate. His first shot dropped the nearest Grunt, the suppressor muffling the crack of the weapon. The ODSTs opened fire alongside him, their coordinated bursts of gunfire cutting through the alien ranks.
Above them, Noble Team's Falcon swept toward the base's main entrance. Prophet caught a glimpse of Jorge unleashing the turret's full fury, the heavy rounds tearing into a group of Jackals attempting to breach the gate. The Spartans disembarked moments later, their movements fluid as they joined the fray, clearing paths deeper into the base's interior.
Prophet refocused, his mind shifting to the task at hand. His team advanced methodically, sweeping through pockets of resistance and ensuring no Covenant reinforcements slipped through the cracks. The battlefield around Sword Base was a chaotic mix of gunfire, explosions, and the cries of the wounded.
As they moved, Prophet's visor scanned the environment. Fallen Marines were scattered across the terrain, their bodies a stark reminder of the cost of the defense. Some lay slumped against shattered barricades, their rifles still clutched tightly in their hands. Others were sprawled across the rocky ground, caught in the open by devastating plasma fire. Prophet paused briefly near one Marine, his helmet shattered and his lifeless eyes staring into the sky.
Plasma fire streaked past Prophet as he slid into cover behind a concrete barrier. A nearby explosion sent debris flying, dust and shrapnel pelting his armor. He spotted a group of Covenant Jackals advancing in formation, their shields locked in a phalanx. Prophet vaulted over the barrier with fluid precision, landing in the midst of the aliens. A swift melee strike shattered the nearest Jackal's shield before he delivered a bone-crushing blow to its head. Pivoting, he fired his DMR at point-blank range, taking down two more in rapid succession. Blood and sparks flew as the Jackals crumpled to the ground.
Above him, an Elite barked orders to a squad of Grunts who scurried toward a cluster of UNSC crates. Prophet's HUD marked the Elite as a high-priority target. "Focus fire on the leader," he called to his ODSTs, his voice calm despite the chaos. Within moments, concentrated bursts of gunfire tore through the Elite's shields, and Prophet finished it off with a precise shot to the head. The Elite collapsed, its energy sword flickering out as it hit the ground.
The ODSTs moved with practiced efficiency, covering one another as they cleared each sector. One ODST hurled a grenade into a dense cluster of Grunts, the explosion sending bodies flying in all directions. Prophet turned his attention to a pair of Jackals retreating toward a Phantom's landing zone. He sprinted forward, weaving through cover, and delivered a devastating shoulder charge to the first Jackal, sending it sprawling. Before the second could react, a well-placed burst from his DMR dropped it instantly.
A Hunter pair lumbered into view, their massive frames casting imposing shadows in the flickering light of nearby fires. "Heavy ordnance incoming," one of the ODSTs called out. Prophet didn't hesitate. Sprinting to a fallen Marine, he retrieved a grenade launcher from their body and turned to face the Hunters. The first shot struck the leading Hunter square in the chest, staggering it backward, while the second round exploded against its exposed orange core. The beast roared in defiance before collapsing in a heap of shattered armor.
As the second Hunter charged, Prophet dropped the launcher and dove beneath a sweeping strike from its shield. Rolling to his feet, he unleashed a hail of bullets into its vulnerable back. The ODSTs joined in, their combined firepower overwhelming the hulking creature. It fell with a thunderous crash, the ground trembling beneath its weight. Prophet stepped forward, placing one final shot into its exposed core to ensure it stayed down.
Prophet's comms crackled to life. "Noble Team is engaging heavy resistance near the base's main entrance," a voice reported. "They're pushing hard, but they need support."
"Understood," Prophet replied. He signaled to his team. "Let's move. Sweep the area for stragglers and regroup at the northern gate."
As they advanced, the team encountered more signs of the brutal fight. A Warthog's turret was still smoking, its gunner slumped lifelessly over the controls. Prophet took a moment to retrieve ammunition from the wreck before moving on. Nearby, a pair of ODSTs cleared a barricade, only to discover the charred remains of a supply depot that had taken a direct plasma mortar hit.
Overhead, the sky was a battlefield in its own right. Pelicans and Falcons screamed past, their engines straining as they wove through volleys of plasma fire. Banshees pursued them with predatory intent, their fuel rod cannons unleashing emerald blasts that painted streaks of destruction across the night sky. Some UNSC craft burst into flames, spiraling into the ground in plumes of smoke and wreckage. Others broke free, hounding the Covenant fliers with missile salvos that lit up the darkness with explosions.
On the ground, the chaos was no less intense. Prophet's team moved as a unit, clearing out Covenant forces from trenches, bunkers, and makeshift defensive lines. "Point cleared," Prophet's comm crackled after one such engagement, his voice strained but steady. "Moving to the next." The ODSTs followed him, their weapons blazing as they fought through another wave of Grunts and Jackals. Each fallen enemy was replaced by two more, and yet they pushed forward, their resolve unwavering.
Noble Team, meanwhile, drove deeper into Sword Base, their path marked by destroyed Ghosts, shattered energy shields, and lifeless Covenant bodies. Carter's calm orders rang over the comms, his team moving with Spartan precision. Jorge manned heavy weapons, unleashing devastation on clusters of enemy reinforcements, while Noble Six flanked through the chaos, eliminating high-priority targets with brutal efficiency.
Prophet and his team paused briefly to regroup in the cover of a collapsed wall. Around them, the signs of battle were everywhere: scorched earth, the twisted remains of a Warthog, and the bodies of Marines who had made their last stand. Prophet knelt by one of the fallen soldiers, retrieving spare ammunition before giving a silent nod of respect. There was no time for mourning—only for fighting harder.
Another comm burst brought them back into action. "Sword Base main gate under heavy fire. Noble Team requesting suppression on Covenant artillery!"
"Understood," Prophet replied. "ODSTs, we're moving out. Target that artillery and clear a path for Noble Team."
Prophet scanned the battlefield, his visor highlighting a cluster of intact Warthogs lined up against the inner wall of Sword Base. "We're taking those," he said firmly, pointing toward the vehicles. The ODSTs moved swiftly, covering one another as they made their way through enemy fire. Plasma bolts sizzled past, and the ground shook with distant explosions, but the team reached the Warthogs without incident.
Prophet climbed into the driver's seat of the lead vehicle, his DMR secured on his back. "Mount up!" he barked. The ODSTs quickly took positions, one manning the mounted chain gun while the others filled the passenger seats of two additional Warthogs. Engines roared to life, and the convoy surged forward, tearing through debris and Covenant patrols alike.
As they sped toward the artillery positions, the mounted gunners opened fire, the chain guns shredding through Grunts and Jackals who scrambled to form a defense. Prophet veered sharply to avoid a crater, his Warthog narrowly missing a fuel rod blast from a nearby Hunter. "Focus fire on that Hunter!" he shouted over the comms. The rear Warthog's gunner obliged, unloading a hail of bullets into the creature's exposed back until it fell.
Ahead, a Phantom hovered low, dropping reinforcements to block their path. Prophet accelerated, smashing through a line of Grunts before skidding to a halt behind cover. The team spread out, their coordinated fire quickly neutralizing the Shade turrets guarding the artillery.
Prophet led the charge toward the emplacements, using the terrain to shield their approach. He sprinted across open ground, dodging plasma fire, and delivered a devastating melee strike to an Elite officer attempting to rally its troops. "Plant the charges!" he called out, covering his team as they set explosives on the massive plasma cannons.
"Charges set!" an ODST reported. Prophet signaled the retreat, and the team scrambled for cover as the emplacements erupted in fireballs, the shockwave rippling across the battlefield.
In the distance, Noble Team pressed forward, their path now cleared of artillery fire. Overhead, Falcons and Phantoms clashed in the skies, their battles painting the night with streaks of fire and explosions. Prophet glanced at the towering corvette above, its ominous presence a constant reminder of the battle's stakes. "Let's move," he said, guiding his team back into the fray.
Prophet's team roared back into Sword Base, the Warthogs screeching to a halt inside the perimeter as Marines and rushed to reinforce the faltering defenses. The battle still raged, but the Covenant's artillery was silenced, and their ground forces were beginning to falter. Prophet dismounted, signaling for his team to regroup near the base's central command structure. Smoke hung thick in the air, and the distant thrum of plasma fire echoed off the walls.
Above them, Noble Team's Falcon circled around the base. Prophet's visor picked up their positions as Carter's calm voice came over the comms, speaking directly to UNSC Command. "This is Noble One. Airspace over Sword Base is swarming with Banshees. We're moving to engage and clear the skies."
A static-filled response followed. "Acknowledged, Noble One. Prioritize eliminating air threats to allow Longsword entry."
Prophet listened in silently, his HUD tracking Noble Team's movements as their Falcon shifted position. Carter's voice continued, resolute. "We'll clear the way. Noble One out."
Without a word, Prophet turned to his team. "We hold here and keep the Covenant off their backs. Stay sharp and focused."
Noble Team deployed swiftly, their movements precise as they disembarked from the Falcon and began targeting the Banshees that dominated the skies. Jorge's heavy machine gun barked relentlessly, tearing through the agile Covenant fliers with bursts of armor-piercing rounds. Emile's grenades sent shockwaves rippling through clusters of enemies, while Noble Six maneuvered with deadly precision, picking off targets with their rifle.
From Prophet's position, the air battle was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Falcons weaved through the chaos, dodging fuel rod blasts while unleashing their own payloads. Marines cheered as Banshees spiraled out of control, crashing into the ground in fiery explosions. Slowly but surely, the Covenant's air superiority was breaking.
"They're thinning out!" one of Prophet's ODSTs called, his voice tinged with hope.
Prophet raised his DMR, firing at a Grunt that had wandered too close to their position. "It isn't over yet."
As Noble Team continued their assault, a formation of Longswords roared into view from the north. Their sleek forms cut through the sky, their engines leaving contrails against the smoke-filled horizon. With the Banshees occupied, the Longswords had a clear path to their target: the Covenant corvette that still loomed ominously above Sword Base.
"This is Longsword One," a pilot's voice came over the comms. "Engaging the corvette."
The Longswords unleashed a barrage of missiles, their trails streaking toward the Covenant vessel. The corvette's shields flared brightly, absorbing the impacts but beginning to falter under the relentless assault. The ship began to ascend, attempting to retreat from the escalating fight.
"It's running," an ODST muttered, watching the massive ship rise higher into the sky.
"Not fast enough," Prophet replied.
As if on cue, a thunderous roar echoed through the battlefield. From the far distance, the unmistakable streak of a MAC round hurtled through the atmosphere, its velocity unmatched. The projectile slammed into the corvette's center, the force of the impact splitting the ship in two. For a moment, the battlefield went silent as everyone watched the flaming debris rain down, the Covenant vessel obliterated.
Cheers erupted from the Marines and ODSTs scattered around the base. Even Prophet allowed himself a moment to exhale, his visor still fixed on the fading remnants of the corvette.
"Sword Base is clear," Carter's voice came over Noble's comms, calm but resolute. "Five, Six... get down to the science wing. Doctor Halsey wants a debrief, and command's saying we're all hers."
Prophet turned to his team, nodding at the exhausted but victorious soldiers around him. "We've got time to rest for a bit," he said, his voice steady but low. "Noble Team's gonna take a while."
Some time later, the barracks became a rare oasis amidst the chaos that had engulfed Sword Base. Tucked into a corner of the sprawling complex, this section had somehow escaped the devastation that marred much of the facility. The walls were unscarred, the lights steady, and the air, for once, free of smoke and plasma scorch. Prophet and his team were directed there by Command, granting them a brief reprieve from the relentless fighting.
Prophet leaned against a steel support beam, his DMR resting beside him as he surveyed the room watching his ODST. They moved with the sluggishness of exhaustion finally allowed to surface. Smith sat at the edge of a cot, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through sweat-matted hair. Hale leaned back against a wall, his chest rising and falling steadily as he sipped from a water pouch. Torres was quieter than usual, meticulously inspecting his rifle despite the visible fatigue in his eyes. Raven, the team's sniper, perched on the edge of a supply crate, her gaze distant as she cleaned her weapon with mechanical precision. Beside her, Mendez, the team's demolitions expert, leaned against a locker, absently tapping his fingers against a grenade casing. His usual humor was absent, replaced by a solemn focus as he inspected his gear.
Prophet knew he could keep going. His Spartan augmentation made endurance an afterthought, his body conditioned to sustain far more than what the human body could handle. But his team—unmodified, mortal—had limits. Those limits were approaching fast. They had fought hard, moving from engagement to engagement without pause, and it showed in the way their shoulders slumped and their movements lacked their usual sharpness.
He straightened, stepping toward the center of the room. "Take the time you need," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Command's given us a window, and we'll use it. Rest, eat, clean your gear—whatever you need to be ready for what's next."
Smith looked up, his face drawn but grateful. "Didn't think Spartans rested."
Prophet offered a small smile, faint beneath his visor. "Not quite true but I can understand why you'd think that. But you're not Spartans"
A faint chuckle rippled through the group, a momentary lightness cutting through the weight of their situation. The room fell into a quiet rhythm after that, each soldier finding their way to decompress. Torres eventually set his rifle aside and stretched out on one of the cots, his eyes closed but his hand still resting on the sidearm at his hip. Hale took a seat by one of the storage lockers, his water pouch discarded as he began sharpening a combat knife. Raven continued her meticulous work, though her posture relaxed slightly as the silence settled in.
Prophet moved to the far end of the room and spotted a weapons case near the corner. With a quiet sigh, he sat on it, the heavy weight of his armor creaking slightly against the reinforced container. Slowly, he reached up and unclasped his helmet, removing it with deliberate care. As he set it down beside him, he exhaled deeply, the sound almost imperceptible amidst the quiet hum of the barracks.
The face beneath the helmet told its own story. Prophet's features were rugged and angular, his skin weathered by years of battle and sacrifice. The most striking detail was the scar—a deep, jagged line that ran diagonally across his face, starting above his left eyebrow, crossing the bridge of his nose, and ending near his right cheekbone. The scar's edges were rough, the result of a wound that had clearly been neither clean nor kind.
His short, dark hair was damp with sweat, and faint lines creased his brow, evidence of the weight he carried daily. His piercing blue eyes, though weary, still burned with intensity, scanning the room as if constantly assessing the next threat. Despite the scar and the exhaustion etched into his features, there was something steady and reassuring about him, a presence that inspired trust and confidence in those around him.
Prophet let his head tilt back slightly, resting it against the cold wall behind him. For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He could feel the weight of his visions pressing at the edge of his thoughts. But the most recent vision stood out, vivid and intrusive. It had struck him as he and his team made their way to their short-term accommodations, his stride faltering momentarily as the imagery consumed him.
He had seen Noble Team, their forms distorted through the haze of his mind's eye, conversing with Doctor Halsey in a stark, sterile room. The meaning of their conversation was faint but undeniable—they spoke of the Covenant's Zealot teams and their purpose.
The vision grew sharper, showing these Zealots targeting Noble Team. They were searching for something. Artifacts, data, research.
Prophet knew these predators weren't just a threat to Noble Team; they were a weapon aimed at humanity's most vital defenses. And they were still out there, hunting.
The vision had shifted, showing a specific Zealot team hunting Noble Team. The vision sharpened as Prophet saw Carter aboard a Pelican, his calm determination unwavering even as he piloted the dropship directly into a Scarab, sacrificing himself to destroy it and protect his team.
Kat's demise came swift and sudden. A single shot pierced through her head, the Zealot sniper disappearing before anyone could react. The vision lingered on the stillness of her body, her work unfinished, her brilliance extinguished.
Jorge stood within the confines of a Covenant ship, his massive form towering over the aliens he fought to keep at bay. The Zealots descended upon him, but Jorge held his ground, detonating the ship's core in a fiery blaze that consumed everything, including himself. His sacrifice was as heroic as it was devastating, a final act to ensure humanity's survival but ultimately in vain.
Prophet's vision painted the Zealot team as the Covenant's ultimate predators, relentless in their pursuit of Noble Team. Letting out another quiet sigh, Prophet was thankful that Noble Team's next mission wouldn't be happening for a couple of days. It gave him a rare opportunity to gather his thoughts.
More importantly, it allowed his team the chance to rest. Slowly, Prophet began removing the rest of his armor, piece by piece. It was an arduous task without the help of technicians, but Spartans were trained for self-sufficiency, even with something as cumbersome as their armor. Each segment came off with a faint hiss, the weight of the plating a stark reminder of the battles he carried with him. As he worked, he reflected on what to do with their downtime.
The thought of reaching out to Noble Team crossed his mind. With this latest vision weighing on him, it seemed unwise to delay contact any longer. Establishing a working relationship with them might not only help mitigate the danger posed by the Covenant's Zealots but also align their efforts in the larger fight for humanity's survival. He considered the task ahead carefully, already planning how he might approach Carter and his team.
Prophet finished removing the last piece of his armor, left standing in his black combat undersuit. He stretched, the movement drawing faint pops from his joints as his muscles finally relaxed from hours of tension. His eyes wandered the room for a moment before settling on one of the nearby bunks. A neatly folded set of standard-issue clothing rested on its edge.
"Sorry about this," Prophet murmured under his breath, glancing at the empty bunk as he grabbed the clothes. The apology felt odd, but he respected the space, even if its previous occupant wasn't present. Draping the shirt and pants over his arm, he made his way toward the showers.
The sound of water running echoed softly through the barracks as Prophet stepped inside. Stripping off the undersuit, he turned the handle, letting the stream cascade over him. The warmth seeped into his skin, washing away grime and sweat. It was one of Prophet's guilty pleasures—the sensation of being clean, free of the battlefield's dirt and blood. It was ironic, considering his role as a Spartan, a soldier bred for war and survival in the harshest conditions. Yet, whenever the opportunity presented itself, he made it a priority to shower and reset.
For a few minutes, the noise of the outside world faded. The rhythmic patter of water against tile became a reprieve from the chaos that awaited them all. Prophet leaned his hands against the wall, letting the heat soothe his aching muscles and the steam clear his head. The visions still loomed at the edge of his thoughts, but here, they felt manageable, contained.
After what felt like too short a time, he turned off the water, letting the steam linger around him as he grabbed a nearby towel. Wrapping it around his waist, he paused to glance at his reflection in a fogged mirror. Scars crisscrossed his muscular frame, each one telling a story of survival against impossible odds. A deep gash along his ribs spoke of a plasma blade that had come far too close; another, jagged and discolored, stretched across his right shoulder where shrapnel had torn through. His chest and arms bore countless smaller marks, pale and uneven against his skin, the remnants of burns, cuts, and brutal impacts.
Despite the scars, his physique was imposing. Years of augmentation and relentless training had sculpted his body into a machine of precision and power. His broad shoulders and thick, corded arms radiated strength, while the subtle definition in his core showed the balance of agility and endurance. Yet, amidst this physical prowess, the scar across his face remained the most striking feature—a reminder not just of battle, but of his mortality.
Taking a deep breath, Prophet exhaled slowly, letting the steam and the moment settle around him. He quickly dressed in the clothes he had borrowed, the standard-issue shirt and pants fitting snugly over his broad frame. As he stepped out of the showers, the faint hum of his ODSTs' conversations reached his ears. They were decompressing, as they needed to.
The barracks were quiet save for the low hum of the base's environmental systems and the occasional faint laughter of the ODSTs gathered in a loose circle. Smith leaned back against a supply crate, his helmet off and balanced precariously on one knee. Hale sat cross-legged on the floor, his knife in hand as he idly sharpened its edge. Raven perched nearby on another crate, her sniper rifle disassembled and laid out in meticulous order. Torres and Mendez rounded out the group, the former absently flipping through a data pad while the latter tapped rhythmically on an empty grenade casing.
"You know," Smith started, his tone light but contemplative, "I still can't figure him out. Prophet, I mean."
Hale didn't look up from his knife. "What's to figure? He's a Spartan. Built different."
"Yeah, but he's not like the ones you hear about in the stories," Smith continued. "You know, the ones who barely talk and just wreck anything in their path. Almost human, if that makes sense."
Torres snorted. "Human? Did you see him during that last push? Vaulting over barricades, snapping a Jackal's neck, and taking out a squad of Grunts before we even knew what hit us? That's not human. That's something else."
"But he doesn't act like he's above us," Raven chimed in, her voice steady and thoughtful. "I've worked under COs who treat ODSTs like we're disposable. Prophet's not like that. He's always watching out for us, making sure we're not overextended."
"That's true," Mendez said, his rhythmic tapping halting for a moment. "Remember the second engagement at the relay? Plasma was raining down like hellfire, and he dragged Torres out of that kill zone without hesitation. Didn't even flinch."
Torres glanced up from his data pad, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly light, either. Must've been the adrenaline."
"Or the fact that he's a walking tank," Hale added, finally looking up. "What gets me is how he always seems to know what's coming. It's like he's got some sixth sense or something."
The group fell quiet for a moment, each of them reflecting on that peculiar quality. Prophet's ability to anticipate ambushes, predict enemy movements, and make split-second decisions had saved them more times than they could count. It was uncanny, almost unsettling, but none of them would trade it for anything.
"I think," Raven began, breaking the silence, "he feels the weight of all this more than he lets on. You see it when he thinks no one's looking—that moment where he lets his guard down, just for a second."
Smith nodded. "Yeah. Like earlier, when he sat on that weapons case and took his helmet off. For a second, he just... looked tired."
"Tired or not, he's the best damn Spartan we've got," Mendez said firmly, his tapping resuming. "And I'd follow him through hell if it came to it."
"You're not wrong," Hale muttered, sheathing his knife. "Here's hoping it doesn't come to that."
Torres shifted slightly, glancing toward the door. "What about Noble Team?" he asked, his tone hesitant but curious.
Smith groaned, rolling his eyes. "Come on, man. One we've got. Noble Team's doing their thing. We're doing ours."
The group chuckled softly, their laughter a brief respite from the weight of the war. Though they didn't say it outright, each of them knew they shared the same thought: as long as Prophet was with them, they had a chance.
The door hissed open, drawing their attention as Prophet stepped inside, his broad frame momentarily filling the entrance before he strode into the room. His calm gaze swept over them, his recently donned standard-issue clothes still clinging to his imposing form.
"Evening," he greeted, his voice steady. The ODSTs gave quick nods and murmurs of acknowledgment as he moved toward the center of the room.
"We've got a couple of days to relax," Prophet said, his tone firm but carrying a rare note of reassurance. "I highly recommend you all take advantage of it. Get some rest, eat, do what you need to do to be ready for what's next."
The group exchanged glances, the weight of his words sinking in.
Prophet continued, "If you've got any questions, ask me later. I'll be back soon."
With that, he gave them a curt nod and turned to leave, his steps measured and deliberate as he disappeared back into the hall, leaving the ODSTs to absorb the momentary respite he'd granted them.
For a moment, the room was silent, until Smith broke it with a low whistle. "That's the first time I've ever seen a Spartan in normal clothes."
"No kidding," Hale said, shaking his head. "Still terrifying, though."
"And that scar on his face," Torres added with a grimace. "Sheesh. You don't see stuff like that unless someone's been through hell and back."
Raven leaned back on her crate, a sly grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That's a man's man," she said, her tone teasing just enough to break the tension. The group chuckled softly, the brief levity cutting through the weight of the moment before the barracks fell quiet again.