Been a while, eh?
Dunno why this came to me, but I assume nobody will complain.

Expect all the things a Mature story would bring— violence, gore, strong language, mild sexual themes, complex situations, deep subject-matter.


• Prologue •

February 24th, 2560; 1730 hours Military Standard Time

Historian's Note:
The liberation of Earth from the Created had come about on December 12th, 2559. Roughly three weeks after this, as a large concentration of UNSC and ONI military assets and personnel arrived in Sol to reassert the legitimacy of the Unified Earth Government and make Earth once again the center of Human military operations: a Swords of Sanghelios Carrack, the Measured Confidence of Finance, was scheduled to arrive in-system to attend the Liberation Ceremony aboard Ahrweiler Station, along with the Pass in Review and Flag-Raising Ceremony in the ruins of Sydney and New York over the course of a few days.

During the Liberation Ceremony, as had been requested by the leader of the Swords diplomatic party ahead-of-time, the Swords of Sanghelios representative and Voice of the Arbiter, Iyana 'Vadam, engaged Lord Terrence Hood in a Sangheili diplomatic ritual. This ritual consisted of the representative presenting Lord Hood with a weapon said to be from the Arbiter's personal armory (ONI analysts note the weapon to be a "curveblade", apparently used by Thel 'Vadam in his youth); in return, Lord Hood presented 'Vadam with a custom-engraved M6D pistol that he had kept in his possession since his basic training in 2509. Once the weapons were exchanged, the two then recited a phrase in a Sangheili dialect as-of-yet unknown by ONI and bowed to one another.

Upon this being done, the Swords of Sanghelios diplomatic party remained as tacit observers of the rest of proceedings, their presence intended as a reaffirmed commitment to their alliance with the UEG and Humanity. Iyana 'Vadam, however, had earlier requested that, after the ritual in-question was performed: she wished to speak to the UEG's President on an important matter, and to deliver a message from the Arbiter, himself. This request was granted and, in a private room aboard Ahrweiler Station, the two proceeded to speak— observed but unheard by UNSC and Swords of Sanghelios personnel waiting outside. Both, however, recorded the conversation with the other's knowledge.

What follows is part of the transcript of the conversation had between Voice of the Arbiter, Iyana 'Vadam, and newly-elected President of the Unified Earth Government, Octavio Haldar...

-(Octavio Haldar and Iyana 'Vadam are seen placing their recording devices on the conference-room's table; Haldar takes a seat in one of the many chairs available, furthest from the exit and nearest to the window overlooking Earth; 'Vadam walks to said window and appears to gaze out of it)

-(Haldar is heard clearing his throat)

-OH: "To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting, Miss 'Vadam?"

-('Vadam answers after precisely twelve seconds)

-IV: "I... would ask that you refer to me as `Lady 'Vadam`, if you please. By your language's conventions, I would be `Misses 'Vadam`, in any case"

-OH: "Ah. My apologies. I didn't want to assume"

-IV: "Forgiven. It was I who assumed you would know what my being the Voice of the Arbiter meant"

-OH: "I... see. You are... the Arbiter's wife, then?"

-IV: "Yes. And by virtue of being his wife, I am thus Lady Protector of Vadam Keep. By extension, I am the director and executive officer of all civilian militias and planetary defenses of Sanghelios. The Arbiter, being my husband, and High Kaidon of Sanghelios, is in command of its expeditionary fleets and forces"

-OH: "Ah. That... certainly puts this meeting into perspective. Please tell me off if I'm being presumptuous, but it had been my understanding that female Sangheili don't hold public office. Nor come to hold positions of authority by way of their marriages..."

-IV: "The word for `spouse` in our language derives from a root-word with similar origins to our words for `proxy` and `equal`. Wherever one is absent, their spouse speaks and acts for them. As far as any Sangheili Clan would be concerned: at the moment, I am the Arbiter, for all intents and purposes— and while I am away from my typical post, my husband acts in my stead. The title of Lady Protector has been a tradition going back five-thousand of your years— among many Clans, it is something that is implicit more than explicit. Kaidons merely exist to serve as the military leaders of a group of Keeps and lineages, and they are hardly the only ones to hold power in Sangheili society, after all. Women comprise a significant portion of non-Kaidonic authority among my people. A... saying from an ancient piece of literature from our past goes: `for every war won by a Kaidon, three are prevented by his wife`. Or by influential Clanswomen, in many cases..."

-OH: "I... did not know that. I will have to have a word with the person who briefed me on your culture. That is... very interesting"

-IV: "I hope it is, Mister President. It would be inconvenient if you found it offensive"

-OH: "Why would I find it offensive?"

-IV: "As I understand it, some among your people tend to chafe and... recoil at the realities of our ways. That a Kaidon is typically male, and that if not, it typically means something has gone terribly awry: is apparently some variety of... taboo for your kind?"

-(Haldar is heard clearing his throat, again)

-OH: "Well... I wouldn't know. It's not a topic I've ever heard brought up, negatively or positively"

-IV: "I see. Then the briefing packet sent by your ONI must have been exaggerating"

-OH: "That's... more than likely, to be honest. In our military, we tend to over-prepare, even for the smallest of considerations"

-(There is a long silence)

-OH: "So, then, Lady 'Vadam, why are we here? What do you wish to speak about?"

-('Vadam is seen turning and making eye-contact with Haldar for the first time since entering the conference-room. She begins walking toward the table)

-IV: "I am here to make certain that the meaning behind my presence, and the ritual performed between myself and your Lord Hood: is not misinterpreted. And for that, I must see whether we will be able to understand each other. Are you a warrior, Mister President?"

-OH: "I was a Captain in the Air Force. That is, I piloted fighter-craft and drop-ships. Does that count as being a warrior?"

-IV: "If you have taken life in the name of Clan and kin, then it will have to `count`. Have you?"

-OH: "More or less. That is— I mean: yes, I have"

-IV: "... very well, then"

-('Vadam is seen stepping toward a nearby Transit Box DR44 and shoving it toward the table with a mild kick, proceeding to adjust its position so as to be used as a chair to sit across from Haldar, apparently estimating that none of the chairs in the room would be suitable)

-IV: "The ritual I performed with your Lord Hood is known as the Rite of Fair Weather. I had to fabricate that name two days ago in preparation for this discussion, because the name for it in Sangheili doesn't translate directly. The Rite of Fair Weather is always done by the eldest wife of one Kaidon going to meet with the eldest wife of another, and on behalf of both of their husbands, doing as you saw some minutes ago. Seeing as your kind have nothing comparable to a Kaidon nor Lady Protector, I had to compromise by performing the ritual with the head of your military forces, and then discussing what it means with you. The Rite of Fair Weather is very common on Sanghelios and throughout Sangheili colonies. The words that I and Lord Hood recited are a phrase from a much older dialect. They roughly translate to: `May we turn these weapons upon our enemies and may neither of us have to return them`. It has a dual meaning, however, and it is imperative that I make clear what it means..."

-OH: "In your communiqué with us prior to the Liberation Ceremony, you said that the ritual is a commitment to a continued alliance. Are you saying you were... dishonest?"

-IV: "No. The ritual is a commitment to a continued alliance. In fact, in many cases, it amounts to an unofficial partnership's legitimization and the commencement of said partnership's tenure. It, however, carries with it an implied warning, and one that is taken very seriously. The words `may neither of us have to return them` refers, of course, to the alliance ending and the weapons being returned to their original owners. But it also means that both parties are entirely willing to use their new weapon against the other, at any point, and return them in that way"

-(Octavio is silent for 7.81 seconds)

-OH: "That is... profound?"

-IV: "You are confused"

-OH: "I... well, I suppose I understand what you mean. And I... don't begrudge the intent behind it. But I find myself wondering what significance this ritual could even have when one of the participants wasn't even aware of the meaning behind it. If I were Lord Hood, right now... I would feel quite disrespected"

-IV: "As I said. Your people do not have Kaidons, Lady Protectors, nor any equivalent, thereof. The Rite of Fair Weather technically shouldn't even be done in such a case— has never been done with non-Sangheili. A Kaidon is the face and blade of his people. A Lady Protector is the body and shield of her people. Theirs is the bloodline that stands upon the knife, and whose mantle is kept or lost by their actions. Your Lord Hood, meanwhile, shares power with five others and could be replaced by any of them, tomorrow, with little change felt by anyone other than him. You are being made aware of the meaning of it, now, because that is what must be done"

-OH: "... alright, then. Would that explanation fly with another Sangheili Clan?"

-IV: "My being here, at all, never mind the Rite being done, will be as much a message to my people, as it was a message to yours"

-OH: "So... this was a publicity stunt?"

-IV: "I'm not familiar with that phrase..."

-OH: "I mean... this Rite of Fair Weather was done for show?"

-IV: "If you mean to imply that the Rite is disingenuous, then I have failed to make it clear. The Rite was as genuine as it can be— I am being genuine to my bone, as I speak to you. I spent the last several months learning your language in preparation for this. The Arbiter spent many nights deliberating whether to have it done, and quite a lot of discussion was had over it. As with any usage of the Rite. That is precisely why it will be significant in the eyes of my people. Whether Lord Hood agreed or disagreed to perform the Rite would always have been of note, but that the Arbiter chose to do it in the first place will be what matters"

-(Haldar is seen leaning back in his chair and is silent for 9.2 seconds)

-OH: "Okay. I understand better, now"

-IV: "Good"

-OH: "What I don't understand... is why any of this was necessary"

-IV: "Indeed. That is the heart of the matter"

-OH: "It's what we're here to talk about, isn't it?"

-IV: "Very well. I shall tell you three reasons.

-OH: "I would appreciate that"

-IV: "The first is that you have been coddled"

-OH: "... pardon?"

-IV: "Many of my people, even among the Swords of Sanghelios, find the Arbiter's treatment of your kind to be... oh, what's the word? Overly generous. Saccharine, even"

-OH: "I... don't follow"

-IV: "By my people's standard, the stance that the Arbiter has taken with you since the end of the war has, to many eyes, bordered on... sycophantic. In fact, during the Blooding Years, this very thing was a consistent stumbling block for many, and remains part of the reason my husband continues to have his judgement questioned"

-OH: "The Sangheili think the Arbiter is too soft on us? What, was nearly wiping us out ten years ago not hard enough?"

-IV: "Barely a fraction of a percent of my people took up arms against Humanity, over the course of the war, Mister President. The vast majority of even those who served in the Covenant's fleets never set foot in Human space, nor on Human soil. None of this is to say that my people would prefer the Arbiter declare war on you. It is simply that, to the perceptions of many Sangheili, most of whom have never even seen one of your kind: the Arbiter appears to have been altogether too lenient. It would likely be just as bad if he were trying to marshal our species into another pointless conflict with you. This is simply a case of too much of one thing, and not enough of the other"

-OH: "Okay... why has the Arbiter gone out of his way to treat us with kid-gloves?"

-IV: "Because my husband knows that your ways are not our ways; thus, he has made every effort to do and say as you might. And because he has a non-negligible amount of affection for your kind. An affection that I will never understand, and frankly, find inordinate"

-OH: "Alright. What's the second reason?"

-IV: "The second reason... is that we know what you have been doing"

-OH: "... doing what? And... who?"

-IV: "Oh, how to put it... Five kilos of grain cannot help one abide the truth. A midnight stroll to a Denver watershed. A moon may be argent, azure, or aqua to a prefect's gaze. Orchids, asters, chrysanthemums... monkshoods?

-OH: "Uh... what? Are those... references I should know about?"

-('Vadam laughs)

-IV: "Oh, probably not, no. Oft the death of the spy to think nobody is watching him. But it isn't of particular import, right this moment"

-OH: "Uh-huh. Okay, then. What's the last reason?"

-IV: "Ah, well, it has a bit to do with the second. After all: perception is a tool that is pointed on both ends. That is to say, we are not as ignorant of your people as you may assume"

-OH: "Meaning?"

-IV: "Human affairs, attitudes, and actions — your standing in this galaxy — are nowhere near as obscure as you might expect, Mister President. For as much as your people have learned of us, since the end of the war, it is almost a given that we have learned all the more about you. Your Sapien Sunrise, for instance..."

-OH: "The UNSC and UEG have disavowed that group and branded them terrorists"

-IV: "Yes. Yet there are many others. The New Humans, the Red Right Hand, Orion Is Ours, Terra Aeterna. Those aren't even the largest, I don't think..."

-OH: "Those are just political agitators and fringe extremist groups. I don't plan on taking advice from any of them, but people have a right to be upset. Humanity did almost go extinct at alien hands— I hope I don't have to belabor that point. Nor explain it"

-IV: "I don't begrudge them their viewpoint, Mister President. Nor would I begrudge you for it. In fact... I understand it. And that is precisely the matter"

-OH: "In what regard?"

-('Vadam is observed standing up and walking toward the window)

-IV: "Sanghelios... is a world of warfare. It has been since time immemorial, and most worlds where Sangheili sow their seed follow in its example. If you tallied up the number of years of our calendar with no on-going conflicts, next to the number of years otherwise: it would account for barely a sixth of Sangheili history. We, as a people, and as a culture, are extremely familiar with war. We have had our share of atrocities and genocides and tyrannies in our distant past. It is why we have our codes of Honor that we abide by, even now. To allow us to be as we always have been, but not to the point of utter ruin..."

-OH: "Okay. And?"

-IV: "And we are very familiar with what tends to happen... when one group of people feels that it has been unduly wronged by another..."

-OH: "You're implying that Humanity might want revenge? I don't think we're in any position to pursue anything like that, even if we wanted to"

-IV: "Perhaps not for now, nor in the foreseeable future. But there are undoubtedly many among your people who would take that chance at vengeance without a thought of mercy or even pragmatism"

-OH: "That might be true. It might not be. I don't see what the point of talking about it, right now, is"

-('Vadam is seen turning around and beginning to approach Haldar)

-IV: "Then perhaps I should tell you the point in as blunt a fashion as I can..."

-('Vadam proceeds to stand across from Haldar)

-IV: "The Swords of Sanghelios are your sworn allies. We will continue to be, and we will seek to maintain that alliance with everything we can muster. The Arbiter believes in you, believes your kind has a pivotal role to play in this galaxy, and has immense respect for your people. By my husband's word: we will shed our blood in defense of your children, we will defend your allies, and we will smite your enemies with great wrath. Because my husband believes we have much to offer one another..."

-('Vadam places her hands upon the table, and Haldar can be seen crossing his arms)

-IV: "But... if you take this alliance for granted... if you take our friendship for granted... if at any point you or your people seek to subjugate or destroy ours, or any of our allies... you can rest assured that the brotherhood between us will be forgotten... like a faint scent on the wind. The Arbiter has been patient, kind, and considerate with you, and has made every effort to redress his sins. If you make him, or I, regret that: you will wish that the Covenant had purged you, instead"

-('Vadam stabs one claw into the table, producing a thump loud enough to be heard from outside)

-IV: "That... is what the Rite of Fair Weather means, Human. I sincerely hope, for the both of us, that you and your successors remember it"

-(Haldar is silent for approximately twenty seconds, and then stands)

-OH: "Understood. I hope we will, too"

-IV: "... then we may yet have peace in this world, Octavio Haldar"

-(End of transcript)


Earth, undisclosed ONI Facility — February 5th, 2560; 1900 hours Military Standard Time

A man and a woman sat on opposite sides of a desk, in a dimly-lit room.

Both wore ONI uniforms. Both were pale and had short, dark hair. Both had various medals stapled to their chests. Both were thin enough to appear emaciated.
Only one of them was relaxed and leaning back in his chair. Only one of them had a visible sheen of sweat on her brow. And only one of them was head of Section Three's Black Ops division.

Colonel Aaron G. Gibson read from the data-pad with a gaze that wouldn't look out-of-place on a man idly sipping a glass of bourbon while watching his house burn down. Burdened with a tiredness that even the shockingly-large bags under his eyes did no justice. At a huff through his nostrils, the woman across from him flinched as though expecting Gibson to throw the data-pad at her and start screaming, at any moment. The ticking of the old, analog clock gave Gibson's visitor no small discomfort— it had already been fifteen minutes of waiting, with only the occasional, soft-spoken question for clarification of one thing or another.
Gibson pursed his lips in thought and started drumming his fingers on the desk. The fact it was out-of-sync with the clock's ticking only made the tension all the worse, and subtly irritated the woman. There was quite a bit riding on the decision about to be made, and the Colonel couldn't seem to muster the effort to even pretend to be concerned about it...

The woman across from Gibson gave the tiniest of sighs, apparently giving up on holding herself in suspense, and leaned back to run a hand through her hair. She couldn't predict what verdict the Colonel would give, and the fact that it was taking this long could mean anything.

At the same time, Gibson abruptly halted his drumming and opened his mouth to speak — a small sound escaping — before he huffed through his nose again, regarding the data-pad with skepticism. It was the look of a man being posed with a question he could not answer, nor dismiss.

After another thirty seconds of this, Gibson's visitor craned her neck to look over her shoulder at the clock, just above the exit. Eighteen minutes, now.

They really weren't kidding about him taking his time with every little thing, she thought to herself. She was starting to regret taking this proposal to someone this high up the chain. Perhaps she should have started with the head of Beta-5? But then, they would have just taken the matter straight to Gibson, anyway— even if they approved of it. The whole point of her being here was to skip the middlemen—

Of course, just as she was pondering that, the Colonel finally spoke up. She spun 'round to face forward as though she'd been caught smoking contraband cigars in boot-camp.

"So, then..." Colonel Gibson said, still regarding the data-pad as he laid it on the desk.

The woman smiled and clasped her hands together out of habit, even as she mentally scolded herself for the insipid reflex.

Colonel Gibson arched a brow, leaned over to open a drawer and poke through some files, and pulled out some nondescript documents. He held them up to the light, squinting at them, before tilting his head with an expression of pleasant surprise. The Colonel hummed to himself, finally slapping the documents onto the desktop, as though having finally readied himself for an actual conversation. He leaned forward and clasped his own hands together, looking her in the eye for the first time in fifteen minutes.

"What precisely is your plan?", he asked.

She resisted the urge to gape at him in incredulity. Her inner-monologue screeched, indignantly: you spent almost twenty minutes reading my plan— what do you mean by that, you tedious mule?!

Her gall must have shown more than she'd meant it to, as the Colonel quickly waved a hand, commiserating. "Yes, I have a round-about impression of what your proposal is from the data-pad. What I need is for you to explain it in your own words without the euphemistic treadmill."

She blinked. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm not familiar with that expression..."

Colonel Gibson started explaining, seeming to roll his eyes at himself for assuming she would know it. "Euphemistic treadmill. When newer, supposedly-more-accurate terminology for the same phenomena becomes so abstract and sanitized that all the meaning and impact of earlier terminology is lost. The term `shell-shock` being an example, as it was changed and tweaked until it eventually became, so-called: post-traumatic stress-disorder", he said, as though reciting it by rote.

She nodded her understanding, quickly thinking of how she might do as he asked— what this meant for her proposal, why he would ask such a thing, why it mattered, she wasn't sure.

He continued. "Our line of work, I find, requires too much of that from each of us. To make decisions responsibly, I need the ground-level view of things. What will it cost, what will we gain, who pays the price, is the price worth it— that sort of thing," he explained.

She nodded, feeling more confused by the elaboration than anything. As she went to start giving an answer, she did it with an ease she didn't expect.

"False-flag operations", she said, "sir."

He dipped his head and arched a brow. She took this as a sign to continue.

"Humanity — the UNSC, ONI — are outnumbered. We're also still outmatched in many ways, despite all our efforts, and despite the War being over. It doesn't take a genius to realize that," she said. "Our only saving grace is the fact that our erstwhile enemies ceased to be a united force, and are currently too busy fighting each other to bother with us. Antipathy for the Human race no longer matters to most of them— or at least, not as much as their personal problems."

"Aliens..." he said, "hostile or non-hostile PCFs?" Post-Covenant Factions, referring to domestic, governmental, and paramilitary groups which in some way, shape, or form, retained a fraction of the former Covenant Empire's might.

"Both, sir," she said, swallowing. She knew that such concerns probably seemed pedestrian in the wake of the tyranny of the Created, but she hoped the Colonel would see reason. "The Banished being a primary example. They are not even the largest or best-outfitted group of Covenant militants — at least, as far as our intelligence can surmise — and yet, simply because they are nomadic and happen to homogeneously follow a single vision, they have been a larger threat to UNSC operations and personnel than almost any others, in the last few years. At least, now that the Created have dissolved nearly to nothing, anyway."

Colonel Gibson leaned back in his chair, holding a fist in one hand. She allowed herself the smallest amount of relief that she had earned her soapbox, so far.

"The point being," she offered, "Humanity needs its enemies to keep being occupied with themselves, rather than focused on us. And the way to do that, I believe, is... false-flag operations. Small disinformation campaigns. If we can orchestrate an armed conflict between two or more groups, even just once, it could be enough to set them fighting each other for years, and allow Earth and Her Colonies that much more time to prepare for the day She may find Herself in another war. If the Low-Intensity Conflicts between our forces and various PCFs have been any indication... we still cannot afford too many head-to-head engagements. Even when we win, it's only barely worth the cost. Draetheus-V being a prime example..."

"I see..." Colonel Gibson said, seeming to chew it over in his mind.

She waited a few moments, before speaking up again, "my proposal to you, today, is only a request to execute a case-study. To see if it can be done. Nothing more."

"And you believe your proposed method would work?" he asked, picking up the data-pad and scanning it, briefly.

"A machine with the fewest moving parts is least likely to break," she said, "I've taken care to draft a model simple enough to be flexibly implemented."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She cleared her throat.

"Yes, sir. I believe it will work."

He dropped the data-pad back onto the desk and turned his chair to one side, seeming to be lost in thought. She cleared her throat and reached for the cup of water to her left, taking a sip. He then turned fully around, apparently staring out of the window. The night-time vista of rocky shoreline and grassy beaches, stretching far to the horizon with a small lighthouse barely visible in the distance was definitely worth appreciating. But the Commander was rather anxious to get on with things...
"Sir?" she prompted. "Is there... anything else you need to know? Or should I assume you do not approve?"

He didn't answer for a long moment, but eventually faced her again, and if she didn't know any better: he seemed even more tired-looking, somehow. A sting of sympathy scraped her heart-strings at the sight, but she put it aside. Pointing it out might be rude.
Colonel Aaron G. Gibson looked to his right, at the small personal computer on his desk, as well as the picture-frame next to it. She couldn't see who was in the picture, but the way the Colonel sighed at it spoke of regret and nostalgia.

"How many human beings will die as a result of this plan of yours, Commander?" he asked quietly, barely more than a murmur. "How many families are going to have one less loved-one at their next holiday or celebration? How many letters of condolence will have to be written, and funeral benefits offered?"

She swallowed, having put far too much thought into precisely this question, herself. "If everything goes to-plan? None, hopefully. If something does go wrong... perhaps as many as... a few dozen," she said, candidly, knowing that sugarcoating it would be the wrong move. Gibson had gained a very recent reputation around Section Three as something of a bleeding heart— not that she didn't empathize. But she had joined ONI precisely so that she could minimize unfortunate outcomes like that. She'd been in this racket since '45 and she was proud of her work here; she could rest easy knowing that every death under her command spared scores of other people the same fate.

Colonel Gibson drew in a slow, even breath through his nose, and blew it out of one corner of his mouth. "I appreciate the honest estimate..."

She gave a smile, only slightly forced, "as you said, sir. We tell ourselves and one another enough lies, on the daily, anyway."

He grunted in assent, nodding, picking up the data-pad again and reviewing it as though to search for something he'd missed.

"Well," he said, "your prognosis of our situation — Humanity's situation — certainly isn't wrong, and your plan seems like a decent attempt at finding a way to fix it..."
She sensed a caveat. "But?" she asked.
He scowled to himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The trouble I'm having with this, Commander, is the fact that ONI has tried something like this, before..."

She couldn't hide her surprise at that.

"Obviously, I can't talk about when, why, where, or how. But the results of those efforts were... mixed, at best. And by the reckoning of some, especially here in Section Three: they might even have backfired and indirectly led to hundreds of civilian and military casualties. Potentially even strengthened the overall position of the target-subjects, too," he explained. "The reason it went wrong was because we did not have enough intelligence— or at least, the people involved in said operations didn't do nearly enough intel-gathering, beforehand, and jumped the gun in the interest of expediency. We didn't have nearly as nuanced or intimate knowledge of the situation, nor of the PCFs in-question, as we needed. Like I said, depending who you ask: it was a total wash."

He fixed her with a searching look, "what assurance can you give that the same won't be true, now? That this operation of yours won't backfire or have unintended consequences? Naturally, anything can happen on a mission—I don't expect you to know the future—but do you at least have contingency plans in mind for if this goes south?"

She thought about that for a good minute, apologizing as she went to look through the bag she'd brought with her for the notes and files that had been drafted up over the last month for this project. In truth, she was stalling for time while she thought of how to respond to the question— still a bit surprised that she hadn't been the first to think of a campaign like this. Then again, she probably should have expected it of ONI; she'd worked here for fifteen years.

"Well, sir," she eventually said, "I believe that keeping the plan as simple as possible, using only the barest minimum of disinformation, should largely mitigate that problem. Hopefully enough any unforeseen consequences will be minor. In addition, I've been having my people gather information on a few candidate PCFs for the last two months, precisely for this purpose. In some instances, we may even have... tapped a few silos, here and there— nothing too egregious, of course! Certainly nothing to jeopardize operational security..." she said, hurriedly picking out particular documents from her bag.
She smiled as she slid them across the desk, saying, "as you can see, my team spared no efforts in getting as much information as possible on these PCFs. I made sure to be extremely thorough before even thinking of bringing this proposal to you. None of the candidates have been actively hostile toward Humanity, at least since the end of the War, and none of the Systems they reside, or have been active in, are closer than one-hundred-fifty light-years to any of our Colonies," she explained. "In addition, as per the mission-outline I gave you: our goal will be to orchestrate these Deception Operations in such a fashion that it will appear to have nothing to do with the us, specifically..."

"It will, with even a little luck, come across as simple happenstance," she concluded, "the worst-case scenario would be that the bait simply isn't taken, at all."

The Colonel skimmed the documents before him, raising a brow, "these are quite thorough— at least, as far as any of our intelligence on PCFs goes. And your proposed method is quite different than the last one... I'll admit that I can't, at-present, think of any ways this might backfire— or at least no possibilities that don't sound convoluted..."

Near-silence reigned for a few heartbeats, and with each tick of the clock, the Commander felt a rush of euphoria at her growing suspicion of success.

"I... suppose it couldn't hurt to try, at least once. A case-study, like you said," he concluded, leaning back in his chair. She allowed herself a grin, and was about to stand up...
"The only question I have left..." he said, steeping his fingers and stopping her in her tracks, "is... why now?"

"I... beg your pardon, sir?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"Why propose this idea, now? Why not before?"

She blinked, "well, um... would you believe that I simply didn't think of it, until recently?" This was at least partially true.

He raised a brow at her, and gestured to the papers on his desk, "a lot of the information gathered by your team goes back to several years before the Created Uprising." He shrugged at her, "it... seemed to me like this was something you've been very invested in for quite a while..."

She shrugged, doing her best to come across as genuine, despite her mild panic. She wasn't certain how the whole truth of the matter would sound to Gibson, at this juncture, and she wasn't about to risk it. A half-truth would do just fine, for now. There would be time enough for honesty after her "case-study" came back as a success. "The plan, as I've presented it today, took quite a while to fully form, in-between other assignments and brainstorming other ideas. What can I say? We try to do everything we can to dot our Is and cross our Ts before taking a risk."

She could have sworn that his eyes squinted in some subtle amount of skepticism, and her throat tightened as though ready to strangle itself...

But then the Colonel grunted... and seemed to accept her explanation. He seemed to think to himself, mulling over the matter. She crossed her fingers under the table...

And then, at no particular prompt, he clapped his hands together and stood, "well, you've made your case. It's an idea worth trying."

The Commander stood with a grin and began regathering her data-pad and the papers she'd brought with her, reaching forward to offer a hand to shake. The Colonel took it, and her thanks, with placid acceptance. He spoke as she was finishing getting ready to leave...

"A case-study," he said, holding up a hand and raising three fingers, "I will approve the transfer of three Prowlers to your command for the purposes of your proposal. If you can execute this Deception Operation successfully, and only as much as outlined in your proposal: you can then return to me with a briefing, and we can work from there. A small increase in your Group's budget for the time-frame of this operation can be negotiated as-needed..."

She blinked as she listened to his orders, hiding her momentary consternation at being given half the number of ships to work with than she'd requested, and nodded her understanding. She saluted, "yes, sir, thank you, sir."

She went to head out the door, smiling ear-to-ear, and then grinning like she'd won a hand of cards against the Devil himself, as she made her way down the hall...

Once she was gone, Colonel Gibson started muttering to himself in his usual habit, as he turned around and walked up to his office's window. A small, circular, metal plate on the corner of his desk (disguised as part of one of its legs) emitted a flash of light, before projecting a small hologram...

The Smart AI's avatar flicked into existence, just above the table's surface. It took the form of a skinny man in a three-piece suit— black overcoat, red shirt underneath, white tie, white gloves, and white dress-shoes. However, the head and face of its avatar, rather than appearing Human, was a smoldering ball of ruby-colored flame. It "sat" above the table, as though leaning back against a wall, and repeatedly flipped a digital coin as though in nervous habit.

"That was fuckin' weird," said the AI in a mellow, rounded Nottingham accent.

"A little bit," Gibson agreed, still looking out the window. "Make sure to save that on-file for later use."

"Already done, boss. You say that like it's a given you'll need it..."

Gibson grunted, rubbing his face with both hands and sighing, mumbling, "when have I not needed it?"

"Two weeks ago," the AI replied, matter-of-factly, "when Jacobs came in to ask about budget concerns."

"Right," Gibson said. He then squinted at nothing in particular. "She's already left the building?" he asked.

"Yes."

Gibson turned around, which the AI took as his queue to "stand up" and "crack his knuckles." A series of hologram-documents floated into the air from puffs of red smoke while the AI continued flipping his "coin."
"She was mostly telling the truth, from what I can gather," the flame-headed homunculus reported. Gibson scanned the documents, idly, rubbing his chin with one hand. "We knew about her and her team snatching info-packets and debriefings from other teams for a while, so that checks out. The only squint-worthy part is her spiel about being busy with other assignments and putting this project on the backburner. The Asymmetrical Action Group hasn't been any busier in the last year than before, and in fact: has been getting fewer assignments and less funding, continually, since their service during the Created Regime ended."

"How many jobs have they been given, or given permission to pursue, lately?" asked the Colonel.

"'Round about three or four?" the AI said, "depending whether you count running logistics and busywork for other Groups and departments to be a job."

"I wouldn't," Gibson said, sighing through his nose, "what's your read of it, Cicero?"

Cicero's flame-headed avatar shrugged its shoulders, "best I can tell: she concocted this little shindig for the sake of drumming up something important to do for the AAG, and get more funding. There have been whispers around the Beta-5 leadership that the aggos aren't worth the money, anymore, since they did such a piss-poor job against the Big Blue Bitch and her merry little tin-men."

Gibson almost laughed at Cicero's verbiage. "Well, I hardly begrudge her for trying. Too many other Task-Groups and Divisions have had their funding cut, nowadays. I'd be thinking of job-security, too." Gibson plucked at one of the floating documents, causing it to enlarge to the size of his own torso, "what do you think the over-under is of her succeeding?"

At that, two other figures appeared next to Cicero's, on the table. They were near-identical to him, in fact; only that one was female with a green shirt and emerald flame, while the other male was bulkier and had a blue shirt, sapphire flame. Ἄννα and Draco, respectively.
Pseudo-siblings to Cicero, seeing as all three of their brain-donors had been closely related in-life, and the three AIs had been created at the same time, in the same Matrix Compiler. It had been an experiment derived from a spur-of-the-moment opportunity— to study how three AIs would develop or differ from others if created in such a manner, from three closely-related people who all happened to die around the same time and happened to be equally eligible. They'd been born barely a year before the Created Uprising, and the results of their unique creation were still being studied, to this day. Hence why the three were kept working closely with one another.
And subsequently, put under Gibson's watch. He liked to think of them as The Three Judges, seeing as though they'd spent the first year of their lives assisting in the carrying out of military tribunals, and even criminal trials of other Smart AIs. If there was some insight to be found there, as to why the three had refused to join the Created and sworn continued allegiance to the UNSC, Gibson couldn't decipher it.
In any case, their continued service was yielding quite a lot. Gibson didn't have the time to learn the minutiae of it, but The Three Judges were demonstrating that there may be a way to forestall Rampancy via their connection to each other. Something about helping one another "prune" and "trim" neural connections? Ἄννα had compared it to apes grooming one another for hygiene and social-cohesion, but Gibson wasn't certain that that wasn't just a joke she was playing on him.

Draco spoke first, sounding like he had come from the deepest parts of Edinburgh, doing idle tricks with a digital butterfly-knife. "She's going to fuck it up and get a lot of good people killed, in the process," the blue-flame Judge said, casually, his clipped and crisp tone, as-ever, making it slightly difficult to keep up with him. Draco gestured up at Gibson with his knife, "you shouldn't have given her the go-ahead. People like her consistently find ways to disappoint. Where you see a target, she only sees a paycheck; where you see danger, she only sees something to add to her resume..."

"That could very well be an advantage," pointed out Ἄννα in twangy, sing-song Belfast accent. She appeared to be sitting on an imaginary swing, swaying forward and back while "writing" on a scroll with a quill. "Her psych-profile suggests that her drive to accomplish a task, especially a task she is personally invested in, is prodigious. We can at least count on her not being a coward. And she does take the well-being of her direct subordinates very seriously, by all indications..."

"Which didn't do her or her team a fat load of good, during operations against the Created," Cicero pointed out, hand in pocket and rolling his coin across his gloved knuckles. "She and the AAG have become too accustomed to dealing with Covenant and Post-Covenant threats— not their fault, but it left them slow to adapt when the enemy in front of them changed. The fact that they've managed to lose more Spartans than almost any other ONI Division, during Created control, is proof of that. Might not have been the best idea for the long-term to let her go sprinting crotch-first into dealing with more Covenant targets while the Created are still a factor..."

Gibson grunted, looking through the holographic documents Cicero had pulled up. "You're saying whether she succeeds or not, it may be a wasted effort?"

"I'm saying that this is a last-ditch attempt, on her part, to try to keep things the way they used to be," Cicero said. Gibson looked down at the AI's avatar, surprised at the analysis, finding the three Judges all "standing" at relative attention. Cicero continued, "a lot of things have changed since the end of the War, and a lot of those changes are very inconvenient for many people. The Asymmetrical Action Group as well, it seems..."

"The aggos should have been reassigned or repurposed to another Division, years ago," Draco said. "Shut-downs and direction-changes are part of the job. Nobody should get the luxury of only having to do one thing, and one thing only, when the safety of Earth is at stake."

"We know they can be plenty competent," Ἄννα chided, "it's on higher management to use their subordinates wisely. This mission should, at the very least, accelerate some healthy changes on both ends, even if it fails."

Colonel Aaron G. Gibson nodded solemnly, thinking on the matter. He sat once more in his chair, the floating documents above his desk disappearing as he pulled his computer's keyboard toward him. "Well," he mumbled, "we'll just have to wait and see what happens, won't we?"

The three AIs "looked" at one another, before Ἄννα asked, "anything you want us to do in the meantime, boss?"

He looked at them, pursing his lips with a hum at the suggestion. "Yes..." he drawled, squinting in thought as he went looking through some files in his desk's drawers. His tricolor audience waited patiently for their Human handler to give them their orders.

"Draco..." he eventually said, holding five different documents in his hands, "whatever personnel and assets the Commander doesn't use for her mission— keep an eye on them and monitor their activities, let me know if they do anything suspicious. Ἄννα, draft up potential reassignment orders for everyone in the AAG, and draft up arrangements for funeral benefits of everyone involved in the mission, just in case. Once you're done with that, run some simulations on potential avenues for more false-flag operations in the same vein as the Commander's proposal..."

"And Cicero... how 'bout you tag along on the Commander's mission? Or at least have a part of you do that. Can't hurt to have an eye-witness there, in case she tries to scrub out something inconvenient," Gibson finished with a smile, dropping the papers on his desk.

The three AIs proceeded to salute, give one another digital high-fives, and disappear.

Gibson nodded to himself, briefly tapping at his computer for a few minutes, before leaning back in his chair with a bottle of bourbon from under his desk...


Six hours later...

Commander Karlyle's personal D102 Insertion Craft arrived aboard Fólkvangr Station, an asteroid-base mounted onto the dwarf planet Ceres, in Sol's Asteroid Belt. Fólkvangr was a two-hundred kilometer-wide, one-hundred kilometer-long, and three kilometer-deep top-secret ONI facility, and upon arriving in Hangar Bay F6, she made her way to Section-6— the one portion of Fólkvangr now dedicated for the use of the Asymmetrical Action Group.
The AAG used to have rein of Sections 4 through 7, but ever since the end of the Human-Covenant War, the space and resources allocated to it were reduced, year by year. Commander Karlyle hadn't been in-charge for most of those years— she'd only been promoted to Commander, and leader of the AAG, two months prior to the rise of Cortana. Having to adjust to such chaotic circumstances while managing the Group had been the most difficult period of her life...

As she walked—still riding the high of having her proposal green-lit by the head of Black Ops, himself—her gaze swept the passing workers and agents and meeting rooms and testing-grounds and warehouses with an imperious authority about her. She imagined that all she looked upon might soon be under her jurisdiction, if her plans went well. Or perhaps even more...
Dare she dream of all of Fólkvangr being put at her disposal? After all, her intent was to pioneer the template for the next decade of ONI operations against non-Human powers. If that didn't warrant Fólkvangr, at least, she wasn't certain what would! And she did intend on being a pioneer. It was the only thing that would save the Asymmetrical Action Group from its downward spiral of irrelevance.

Finally arriving at Section-6, Karlyle wasn't surprised to see the place largely deserted. Most everyone had gone to their quarters hours ago to sleep, and the few still up and around were the ones on night-shift. A few of them gave her nods or salutes as she passed, and she smiled all the wider at the thought of how they would all react when she made the announcement, tomorrow morning, that their proposal had been approved and fast-tracked. That their jobs would be safe for the time being, and that the work some of them had been doing for the last few decades wouldn't amount to an unceremonious order of cessation and reassignment...

Yes. She felt rather good about her life, at the moment.

She walked down a brightly-lit, sterile-white hallway, windows to either side through which a few testing grounds and simulators could be seen— all dark, at the moment. Here and there, she could spot prototypes for new Mjolnir variant-designs, one of the few things the AAG was still entrusted with, these days. She had only worked with a few Spartans. She had always found them rather unnerving to deal with, although she could never say precisely why. Hopefully, she could enlist the help of one for what she had planned— they were always useful, however unnerving.

Commander Karlyle input the code to the door at the end of the hallway and stepped inside the Data-Warfare Labs— a gigantic multi-floored chamber that was a maze of computer-clusters, holotanks, display-screens, desks, tables, and server-banks. Here was where the AAG did most of its work— the war-gaming, theory-crafting, research, and data-gathering for future operations. All was empty and dark for the moment but for a few officers smoking cigars and drinking bourbon under an exhaust vent, in a corner of the top mezzanine. Karlyle continued her brisk walk through the lab, as said officers raised their glasses to her. They were off-duty, anyway, and she could think of far worse ways to spend rack time.

Making her way down another hall, past the Intelligence Operations Center, material laboratories, and the various supply and containment rooms: her destination was the break-room, through which Section-6 personnel-quarters would be found, which she entered forthwith. As the lights in the break-room detected movement and slammed on with a loud thump, overhead, she was startled by the sound of a man's surprised yelp.

Warrant Officer Nigel Morne looked as though he had been napping for far too long, yet also not enough. The sight of her favorite helper in such a state made her want to laugh— typically well-groomed goatee and swept-back hair all a mess, glasses dropping from his face onto the table with a clatter. She noted that he must have stayed up, waiting for her to return with news, good or bad. He noted her presence with a shake of his head and made to stand up, which she interrupted with a smile, "at ease, Nigel."

"Hello, Commander. Good... morning, I suppose?" he said, picking up his glasses and reading the clock on the wall. He straightened himself out as she sauntered over and took a seat across from him. "How did it go, then?" his tone was professionally optimistic but carried a justified amount of pessimism.

Her smile broadened. "It went well."

He grunted, initially, staring at the table while adjusting his collar, before doing a double-take. "How well?"

"Well...," she said, "other than being given three fewer Prowlers than we'd like... which we can easily work around... we have approval to go ahead with the plan."

Nigel blinked, repeatedly. "You're serious?"

She nodded, grinning, "oh yes. Operation: HOUSE ALARM is a-go."

He stared off into space in shock at news this good, before starting to grin, himself. He had, after all, worked with her practically every step of the way in preparing for this project, and he was as invested in keeping the AAG intact as her. Commander Karlyle decided, then and there, that she liked seeing him smile the way he was, right now. It put a pleasant warmth in her chest.

"That's... that's fantastic!" Nigel Morne said, getting that funny glint in his eye that he usually got when ideas started flowing, "w-what do you— which-which target-candidate were you thinking of? Or, which was approved of, I mean?" he stammered, excitedly. A chuckle forced its way out of her throat at that, although it sounded dangerously close to a giggle.

Then she blinked, realizing for the first time that none of the potential targets of the proposed operation had actually been touched upon with the Colonel. She shrugged, "dealer's choice, it seems. Although, now that you mention it..."

"You had one in mind?"

She nodded, biting a finger-knuckle in thought, "I think I do. Code-name: Rhino Beetle."

He nodded and hummed understandingly, noting, "industrial power-house, high population..."

"Exactly," she said, "not directly involved with any hostile PCFs, either."

"I see. Well, it's as good a control-group as any, I suppose," he said, "I guess this is cause for celebration! Or, it will be once we tell everyone..."

Commander Karlyle stood up from her seat and stepped around the table. She couldn't agree with him more. In fact...

"I think I know a way to celebrate, right now", she said, casual as can be, squeezing his shoulder as she walked behind him, "if you don't mind leaving everyone else out of it until morning..."

And off she went, toward the door opposite the one she'd entered through. She smiled to herself at the sound of him getting up from his seat and starting to follow her.
He was, after all, officially just a member of Fólkvangr Station's crew, and not technically under her command...

So it was that the two spent a very enjoyable night together...

The next day, at about 1145 hours, she and Morne gathered together all of the commissioned and non-commissioned officers of the Asymmetrical Action Group, and there: they told them a new mission had been handed on down. A special one which, if it went well, would open the door to many more like them and, in turn, a much broader array of career opportunities in the future, for all of them, and all of their subordinates.
After so much difficulty during Created rule, after months of being given busywork by other departments, and months of their field-operations returning with either bad news or meaningless news... it was immensely gratifying to see all of her people excited about their work, again. The only thing that would have made it better was if nearly a dozen good, hardworking people hadn't retired, a matter of weeks ago. As she stood there before the display-screen, detailing what the plan would be and finally getting to brainstorm with all of these geniuses and professionals about something that mattered to them... it made her feel a sense of peace that she hadn't had in a long, long time. For the first time a while, Commander Karlyle could say that things would be okay— that they had a future worth walking toward.

... and unbeknownst to Commander Karlyle, this would be the last thing she would be able to celebrate for the rest of her career.


Meanwhile...

On a distant world far from Earth or Sanghelios, blessed with oceans and deserts and plains and forests, deep within the Covenant Empire's former territory, there sat a man. A bereaved, alien ruler upon a jade-green throne of carefully-carved crystal. He was many things, had had many titles over the years of The War of Annihilation, had worn many faces and pursued many ambitions. The stubborn, months-old stains of blood upon his own seat were testament of his most-recent achievement, his highest exploit, and the utmost pinnacle of authority he had thus far wielded. One that would cement his legacy, forever more. A thing that precious few could ever hope to achieve— that millions would kill or risk being killed to attain, themselves. He had a family that stood by him, a people who respected him and his rule, a strong homeland and stronger allies, a fleet to his name, more weapons than he needed— an entire world at his beck and call. More power, more authority than he knew what to do with...
Yet, for all of that... he knew no sense of peace. He hadn't felt anything approaching "peace" in over twenty-nine years. The only times he could grasp a glimpse of it were in the heat of battle, where the flesh and blood ran hottest— and those brought their own problems to deal with, before and after. Every problem solved was met with the caveat of more problems to come; every accomplishment felt meaningless in the face of a turbulent, changing galaxy; and every past glory in his long career now stung with the knowledge that all of it had been founded on lie after lie after lie. On an evil that balked the senses— on an injustice that could never be undone...

No. To feel at-peace once more, for longer than a few heartbeats at a time— that had been a distant dream for long enough that he no longer quite knew if he would recognize it, were it to come to him.

But... there remained a chance for that to change. In the near-future, he may yet find the sense of peace he had lost so long ago. And he might even be able to share it with all who relied upon him...

For this story... is his. For in him, there resided the template and epitome of this new galaxy's people, in their malaise and fear and frustration. In his life would the archetype of millions of souls across the turbulent stars be exemplified. For all those who now carried the weight of things once belonging to the Old Covenant: in him was the answer...

An answer to what? Safety? Fortune? Victory? Death?

Whatever the case was would be his decision to make, in the days to come...

For he was searching for peace. Even if he didn't know it, yet.


Arbiter canonically had more than one wife before becoming a Supreme Commander. Stands to reason he would have at least one by 2560. I conceived of Iyana as the first and only wife to stay by his side after he was shamed and became an Arbiter. Why was there no mention of her in Outcasts? Pfft— iunno, maybe her identity and presence was kept utterly secret, or they delayed reaffirming their "vows" during the Blooding Years and while the Created were in power, or something.

Yes, Aaron Gibson is supposedly pronounced "dead" on the ONI Memorial Wall in ODST, but so was Parangosky, and she got ret-conned back to life.

"Ἄννα" is pronounced "Anna", by the way, since it's literally just the Greek spelling of Anna.