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Chapter Text

February 18, 2525, 0600 Hours

Crisium City, Naniwa, Luna

Darius Dirt paced his small apartment in a loop around the same pieces of furniture. Couch, recliner, dinner table, repeat. His mind wasn't in the room, though. It was stuck a week in the past - the day his infant son, who slumbered in his crib, had been born.

It should have been a happy day. A wonderful day.

It turned out to perhaps be the worst day of his life. Not because of anything bad that happened to him, his wife, or his son. No, the terror came from a cause he never could have imagined.

Mere hours after his son's birth, every television, COM pad, and other device connected to Waypoint played a special message from an assembled coalition of the President and every leader of every military branch. This had never happened before, not in his lifetime, and the message was simple: they were under attack. Not Luna, not Earth, but the entire human species.

They were called the Covenant. That was all he knew. Perhaps all anyone knew. They were the first sentient alien species humanity ever encountered. Something generations had dreamed about finally came to pass.

And, for reasons unknown, they had declared total war on humanity. No terms were given, only death. Harvest, some planet he'd never heard of hundreds of light-years distant, turned into a killing field within hours. Since that day, humanity lurched onto a war footing. For example, the sleepy enlistment office down the street never attracted many volunteers to fight the insurrectionists who menaced the Outer Colonies. Now the line was around the block.

He paused and stared at it from the window. It extended over the last few minutes, reminding him of one of those black snake fireworks that stretched when lit. There were children who looked too young to pick up a weapon and adults who looked like they were retired. Every skin tone was represented, and he heard the murmur of a dozen languages through the glass. Maybe it should have been an inspiring moment. He couldn't remember the last time so many different kinds of people banded together. It took all life being threatened, but it happened.

Behind them, beyond the transparent dome Crisium City was housed within, was a blue, brown, green, and white sphere which Darius had only walked upon a handful of times. Ultimately, most of them fought for that. Some must have had other reasons for volunteering, though. More intimate things they wanted to protect.

The soft padding of feet emanated from behind him. He didn't avert his gaze, which made the sound's source shuffle over to him. A hand rested on his shoulder while someone leaned against him. He glanced at Augusta, but only for a moment.

"I see what you're thinking," she said softly. Her eyes were firmly fixed on him, not anything outside their own little world. He tried to look at her, he really did. "Don't do it, Darius. Your son needs you. I need you."

"I know you do." He couldn't believe what he considered doing. He had never picked up a weapon in his life. But now, hearing that the people he loved most were under threat, his mind screamed at him to grab a gun. Maybe it was part of being a father. "But everyone else needs me, too." Everyone needed everyone.

"Sit with me," she pleaded, dragging him to the sofa he walked circles around. He relented, seated next to his wife. On any other day, they might have watched some television, talked about their jobs, or gotten a little frisky. Today, he just felt hollow in his guts. "We don't know anything about these aliens. What if this is a misunderstanding? What if this gets resolved before you can do anything?" She pleaded with him as if he were about to make the stupidest choice of his life. Maybe he was. But he didn't believe for a moment that all this was an accident. And in most wars, things got worse before they got better. "What if you die, Darius?"

"I don't want to," he croaked, taking Augusta's hands in his own. "But I don't want you to die, either. You or our son." He realized one person could only do a little in the face of an alien armada. But a little was a lot more than nothing. If volunteering kept these aliens away from his family a single minute longer, he thought he should try, no matter how insane it sounded.

Darius wouldn't decide anything yet, though. He'd concede that much. Instead, he'd try to spend as much time as he could with Augusta and Julian as he could before needing to choose. Though he had a feeling that, no matter how much time that ended up being, it wouldn't be enough.

168th Unit, Zeroth Cycle, Zeroth Revolution, Ninth Age of Reclamation

Missionary Ship Joyous Discovery, High Charity Defense Fleet

Chur'R Chol Von paced the bridge of her small, dim vessel in a loop around the same pieces of equipment. Command chair, holotank, luminary, repeat. Her mind wasn't in the room, though. It was stuck 168 units in the past - when her infant daughter, who slumbered in the hatching chamber, had pecked free of her egg.

It should have been a happy time. A wonderful time.

Instead, Chol found herself irked. How was it that some other shipmistress had stumbled upon an entirely new species, she wondered as her feathers puffed up! The species itself, Chol didn't care much about, but the cache of godly relics they allegedly sat atop, she certainly did. That was the kind of news to travel, even after Chur'R Yar allegedly got herself and her ship blown up. That kind of thing wouldn't have happened to Chol. Instead, she'd have secured the relics and brought them back to Covenant leadership for wealth and influence. Success wouldn't have slipped through her talons.

It was the aforementioned species that led to the largest congregation of her life. Thousands of ships cut through the void in the same area, all summoned to the capital. This only happened at the beginning of a new age, and even then, not always to this degree, from what she had heard.

"Your clearance code, Joyous Discovery?" the deep, guttural voice of a sangheili sounded from the communications station. Vek, her mate, manned the area. Knowing he had moments to reply, he typed out the code and sent it over. He took a few fearful breaths, likely worried that he'd gotten something wrong, which made Chol subtly shake her head. If only he were more confident. "These are acceptable," the sangheili replied before cutting off, no doubt bothering the next crew in the queue.

One might think that despite thousands, if not tens of thousands, of ships being present, the Ministry of the Hearth would care less about identifying every single one. That would be incorrect. The sanctity of High Charity was of such importance that nothing could be left to chance. Then again, she saw why as she stopped to look out the bridge viewport at the city. Even Chol, cynic through and through, looked at the space station the size of a moon and felt nothing but awe.

A rocky hemisphere trailed a lattice of metal and alloy from one end, itself studded with nearly infinite buildings and forms of life. The entire thing was illuminated by blue and purple light coming from runes the size of cities carved into the hemisphere and beneath the "mantle" where it and the tail-like structure met. It reminded her of soft-bodied sessile creatures which drifted through the oceans of Eayn. High Charity was a place of almost mythical beauty and power. It was something everyone else wanted yet could not have. But was it holy? Though Chol would never admit it, she wasn't sure.

A hum played on all the ship's electronics, as if they vibrated in time with each other. Then it suddenly stopped, and a two-dimensional view appeared above the holotank. This was what everyone present traveled across the stars to see. As expected, three beings floated in anti-gravity chairs before a lavish background of fabric and holy symbols. These Prophets, fragile and wrinkled, were the Hierarchs: the three leaders of the Covenant. She saw them in rare addresses like the one they were about to make, but never outside that, and they were always arranged just so. Though, come to think of it, these didn't look like the ones she remembered.

"Greetings and blessings, fellow servants of the gods," the one in the middle began as her mate, sons, and the rest of the small crew gathered. The audio was so good Chol almost imagined this Prophet was in the room with her.

"Allow us to introduce ourselves. We are Regret..." He gestured to the one on his left, who looked slightly younger than the other two.

"...Mercy..." He pointed at the one on his right, who, conversely, may have been the oldest, frailest person Chol had ever seen. The one now named Mercy glowered for a second before averting his gaze. Despite saying they would introduce themselves, it was clear who had been placed in the main seat of authority.

...and Truth," he finished with himself, looking quite pleased. "You may have heard exaggerated rumors of... turmoil within High Charity." Chol had over the last few days, but she dismissed them as irrelevant. What politicians squabbled about was none of her concern. "While possessing a kernel of truth, matters have stabilized. The venerable Obligation, Tolerance, and Restraint have stepped down from their positions, and the High Council, in its wisdom, has elected the three of us, humble servants all, to shepherd our Covenant into the Ninth Age of Reclamation."

"Now, to business," Truth pivoted after a moment to let his words linger. Vek coughed loudly, and one of her sons shushed him. Chol wondered if any other ship listened to these words in such a state. "A mere 168 units ago, an intelligent species was discovered on a world not far from where this great fleet now rests. A bipedal mammalian folk, not unlike the jiralhanae." As he said this, a holographic diagram of the aliens in question appeared from a different projector on the holotank. She looked it over, finding them unimpressive. She thought they bore more of a resemblance to the Prophets themselves, though perhaps not as... soft.

"Naturally, offers of integration into our Covenant were immediately extended, along with the benefits all citizens thereof enjoy." His tone faltered, and his expression contorted into what she believed was pained sadness - it was always difficult to tell with other species. "Unfortunately, the response was... hostile." Images of destruction flashed across the holographic screen: craters, a crashed corvette, destroyed ground vehicles. She found herself suddenly shocked. All this happened in just over 100 units?

"While diplomatic measures are still being attempted, we Hierarchs have unanimously agreed to declare a defensive war against this species, with the full support of the Ministry of Resolution." Truth's expression turned from sadness to resolve, and the hologram zoomed in slightly. "Allow me to be clear: this is the first time in our history where we face a major external threat. Not one from within, be it ideological or material, but without. This species seems violent, and, based on very preliminary knowledge, they possess a vast empire of their own."

"It was just this threat which required a new age, an Age of Reclamation, to be declared. More decisions will need to be made, but know this, my friends. The gods will protect us." His mouth curved up just a little too far. "And we, your humble servants, will protect you." The message clicked off, leaving the Joyous Discovery in eerie silence before her children began to whisper among themselves.

Truth's voice echoed in her mind; she couldn't bring herself to listen to the words of others. Violence was no stranger to the Covenant, but it was usually heretics or minor uprisings that were handled in a matter of cycles, not contact with a new species. Thankfully, Chol wouldn't be involved in this war. Missionary ships weren't meant for combat - nor were the people who dwelled aboard them. No, she would keep living as she had for most of her adult life. Though she sometimes grumbled, it was her life, and it could have been worse (as it could have been better). And Riin, her only daughter, would grow up to inherit it.

WAYPOINT REPORT: Waypoint

Waypoint is the modern successor of the 20th Century communications technology known as the "Internet." An expanse of data spanning human space via superluminal communications equipment (see Waypoint Report "Communications Relay"), it is free to all citizens of the United Earth Government (UEG). Billions of messages are sent every day across worlds and solar systems. While bandwidth is limited, especially in times of crisis, this is rarely to the detriment of Waypoint.

An alternative to Waypoint, ChatterNet, is considered by some to be an alternative information sharing system, as it is not as susceptible to monitoring and censorship by the Office of Naval [DATA EXPUNGED]

WAYPOINT REPORT: RESTRICTED - UNSC EYES ONLY/Proselytization Network

The Proselytization Network, as near as can be told, is the equivalent of Waypoint used by the Covenant. The name comes from scattered snippets of captured conversations, though it is not merely for religious propaganda. As should be expected given the Covenant's larger population, it contains more data than Waypoint, though it does not appear to be more sophisticated; communications is one of the few technological areas where humanity meets or exceeds the Covenant.

As opposed to Waypoint, it is known to be more compartmentalized, with Covenant fleets and ships maintaining their own networks which only intermittently connect. While attempts to tap into the Proselytization Network's individual military nodes are occasionally successful in battle, the greater volume of it has so far remained beyond our reach.

- B. Giraud

Chapter Text

May 24, 2543, 1500 Hours

Crisium City, Naniwa, Luna

"We're gonna get your asses, you fucking cowards! You hear?!" Julian did, but probably not as much as the assholes chasing him wanted. Because he and his partner in crime were getting away!

The high school they attended - formerly attended - was plagued by bullies. Not just people who'd shove someone into a locker or call them names, but actual psychopaths. Julian's classmates ended up in the hospital a few times because of these motherfuckers. Julian himself, thankfully, was never on their hit list; no, he wasn't worth the effort, being practically invisible.

Not much was done about it. Education was a footnote in government budgets with most money going to the war effort, and the parents of these psychos donated generously to the school after each "incident." A reprimand or even legal charges weren't good looks for potential enrollees at Luna's Officer Candidate School. Would future military heroes have been so loved if it came out they almost murdered humans instead of aliens?

Therefore, Julian and his best friend, Mickey Crespo, devised a plan at the beginning of their senior year. How unfortunate it would be if, as they came out the front door on the last day of school (the last time Julian and Mickey were ever likely to see them), an enormous tub of water balloons filled with urine were dumped from the roof directly onto them? And what if cameras had been discreetly set up to record the entire affair? And what if such footage were distributed to everyone these psychos had ever hurt?

Was it childish? Yes. Was it dangerous? Maybe. Was it worth the trouble? Absolutely.

Mickey jumped the chain fence in front of them. The threat of assault, if not worse, kept Julian going despite the burning in his legs. They were almost home free, though. Based on the huffing and puffing behind him, the people who chased them weren't doing so hot, either. It was the two of them against the universe, Julian thought as he hopped the fence, slotting one foot into the chain mesh. His heart went wild.

One leg was over. The other tried to follow... but it snagged on a sprig of barbed wire jutting up from the top. He tried to lift it, but he lost his balance and tumbled over the fence with a yelp. The world whirled overhead, and he found his face pressed against the links as the wire bit into the cuff of his pants. He heard shouting and saw the goons coming at him. The good news was that they couldn't see his face; he was smart enough to wrap a bandana around the bottom half so these assholes didn't know to go after him or his family.

The bad news was that they'd be able to rip it off through the gaps in the fence - right before they got their ugly revenge. Julian tried to lift himself up, but it was no use. Suddenly, he found himself falling to the concrete, where he rolled to avoid hitting his head or neck. This freedom was not because of anything he did, but because of the guy holstering his pocketknife. Mickey held out a hand and helped him back up.

The two ran and ran through Crisium City's alleys, rushing past the open rear doors of kitchens where the smell of cloned meat wafted out and 24-hour clubs whose music never stopped thumping. From one of them came the characteristic moan of someone who just shot up with NTL. Even so, they didn't stop. Enough adrenaline coursing through Julian's veins that he felt like he could run forever.

It wasn't long before the friends found themselves on the roof of a certain old apartment building that nobody ever checked the ladders on the fire escapes of. Just low enough to the ground that someone with good knees could jump and grab the bottom rung. Fear allowed them to scale it easily, and a look back confirmed the two had lost their pursuers. Finally, Julian allowed himself to relax as he and Mickey sat on the roof's edge.

"This is the life," he said, staring at Crisium City, the lunar landscape, and Earth beyond. Despite seeing it every day, he'd only been once: on a family trip to a city called Chicago. His mother had saved up enough money to let his father, his sister, and Julian himself see the place humans came from, and, specifically, at least some of their family originated. It was almost unreal... though he still thought of the moon as his home. "This was the life, I guess." Julian corrected himself.

With school over, their lives would never be the same. They'd completed their mandated government education. Now it was up to them to figure out what to do with that freedom. He cocked his head toward Mickey, who was busy dropping cracked pieces of cement into an open dumpster below. "So, you're still enlisting?" That was what a lot of people did straight out of school, to the point that many places, such as the building they sat atop, had perpetually empty rooms - there weren't as many people as there used to be. They were all busy fighting the good fight. Given what happened to Julian's father, he had never considered military service. Well, he had, but only as a passing fantasy. Mickey, though, had never been in doubt.

"Tomorrow morning," Mickey confirmed with a nod. "My parents would have wanted me to finish school, so I did. Otherwise, I would have done it last year." Well, his foster parents might not have been thrilled by their ward abandoning them at the first chance he got... Julian knew it wasn't like that, but it still must have been difficult.

Then again, Mickey wouldn't be away long, because they were winning the war. Julian knew that much. It was only a matter of time before the Covenant surrendered. It would happen soon, everyone said. They lost planets left and right, despite a few strategic withdrawals on humanity's part. Still, these savages kept picking fights they were sure to lose! Mickey might not see combat before the war ended.

"What about you?" Mickey asked. "Are your plans still the same?"

"I'm still planning to work for Asklon, yeah." AMG Transport Dynamics, also called Asklon, was Crisium City's claim to fame. The car manufacturer shifted to producing war vehicles once that got started, and it was now Luna's biggest business. It made the Warthogs: three-person cars with machine guns on the back which he knew best from recruiting advertisements. They always depicted squads of them riding to victory and mowing down aliens along the way. "I'm putting in my application tomorrow, too."

It may not have been a combat position, but it would still help humanity. So many others chose to enter the field that there was a shortage to fill auxiliary roles. Besides, machines had always fascinated him, so he was interested in gaining practical experience.

"That's great, man," Mickey replied with a cocky smile. "I'm proud of you, I really am." That smile faltered. "I wonder when we'll see each other again." Julian asked himself the same thing. Would they recognize each other if they did in five or 10 years? They'd been friends since the start of high school - Hell, he was Julian's only friend, just about.

It was difficult to imagine moving on, but that was just part of growing up, he supposed. Maybe not how it should have been, but how it was. Neither of his parents still had friends they met in school.

"I'll try to keep in touch," Julian said. They both knew it was a lie the second it passed his lips. Soldiers in deep space were deployed for months or years at a time, and spaceships didn't have the resources to deal with anything other than critical communications. They may as well have been cut off from the rest of the universe, paradoxical though it sounded.

After that, they sat on the rooftop and just existed together on what may have been the last day of their friendship.

213th Unit, Ninth Cycle, 18th Revolution, Ninth Age of Reclamation

Divine Wind Holy Academy, High Charity

Riin rested on the windowsill. Through half-lidded eyes, she stared from her private room at the beauty unfolding beneath her. Billions of lives mixed in the known galaxy's largest city. The spires got taller the closer to the center of the circular station one approached, culminating in perhaps the greatest relic their gods left behind: the Anodyne Spirit. A spaceship the size of a mountain sat on three prongs sat in the center of the city, its core having provided power to High Charity for millennia. The whole thing was bathed in eternal twilight emanating from the dreadnought and structures surrounding it. And she was blessed enough to be here, learning scripture and observing righteous deeds from great men and women.

While seminaries could be found on most of the thousands of inhabited worlds and larger space stations within the Covenant, the greatest were undoubtedly on High Charity, which attracted the best from thousands of planets and moons, stations and ships. While Divine Wind may not have been the most elite seminary among them, it was still one of the best. Top 20, certainly. And Riin had passed the entry exam with flying colors, ensuring her a spot. She was worried about her answers about specific doctrines and deeds, but even that turned out to be sufficient for her to pass into this new life.

A notification beeped on her wrist-mounted data module. This wasn't the time for pondering. No, it was time for dinner! She excitedly put on her trainee vestments, having been airing out her feathers in the privacy of her room, and hurried down to the communal eating area - being late meant missing a meal. Others emerged from their rooms, and she greeted them with the correct, meticulously learned signs, which were politely returned. Not much longer before she entered the vast expanse of the cafeteria, which hummed with activity and the chatter of hundreds. So many different forms of life spread before her as she entered the line. Yet, different though they may have been, all were her siblings through faith.

That being said, the demographics were somewhat skewed, she again noted as she strode through the bodies. When it came to lay religious vocations, the numbers were not equal between the eight species of the Covenant.

Lekgolo and yanme'e, as species with a sort of gestalt intelligence more than individuality (though individuals could have degrees of distinction), needed to only dispatch a few members here for the rest of their community or hive. Huragok, as creations of the gods, did not need to learn about them, though a few floated here and there. Sangheili tended to be more interested in the martial applications of faith, and this was encouraged by holy texts. The Prophets, of course, were so holy that they were born with knowledge and purity. They needed no education.

Therefore, she estimated the mixture of students at 75 percent unggoy and 20 percent jiralhanae with a smattering of other species... including Riin herself.

Her species possessed an unusual place in the Covenant, Riin was educated enough to know. By the will of the gods, the treaties which inducted her kind into the hegemony over a thousand revolutions ago granted kig-yar a greater degree of autonomy. They kept most of their own worlds and operated semi-autonomously. It gave them no special rank - the Prophets, in their wisdom, had placed her people just above the unggoy in the great chain of being - but it did mean their culture remained relatively intact after all this time. That was true of all species. Jiralhanae had packs, and sangheili were still focused around their ideals of honor, but she felt it was especially the case with kig-yar.

She stepped forward in line, being the next to receive her food from the automatic dispenser. It read her genetics, and a gravity beam siphoned up the food prepared for her and plopped it onto her tray. An austere stew of irukan and some unidentifiable meat sloshed in a bowl, along with a cup of some sweet nectar for dessert. Not much, but one didn't live in a monastery and expect luxury. It was important to learn humility - and Riin certainly had. Going from a shipmistress' daughter to acolyte had been a challenge.

While Riin was happy that some of her people's traditions remained their own, there was a dark side to independence. Unfortunately, kig-yar were less likely than the other species of the Covenant to be religious. Even if they professed faith with their tongues, their hearts did not embrace the gods and their teachings. Some did, of course, but not many. It was very unusual for one to seek religious rank, but she was happy to take on the task. Certain events in the past made it... more likely.

Mother, Riin thought, shaking her head. Chol Von tried to talk her out of this path many times, going so far as to threaten to cut her out of the family if she didn't stay - a bluff she was never going to keep. She had always been a vicious woman, particularly now that she firmly reached middle age.

She walked across the bright room, feeling the touch of metal under her feet, and sat at her assigned table with the rest of her class. While mingling was sometimes allowed, she was largely required to stay with the same people for social activities like this. Her little group of new admittees consisted of three unggoy, a jiralhanae (who took up half the table), and a yanme drone. She still struggled to learn their names, but they all seemed nice enough.

"Greetings, Riin Von," the yanme buzzed as she took a seat. Well, they buzzed like an insect, which she heard, but the earpiece she wore translated the noises into her native speech. Most people always wore translation software. That was an issue somewhat (but not entirely) unique to the yanme'e, though, as they lacked vocal cords. Most other species used the Sangheili language for communication; it was the Covenant's de facto tongue, and she learned it alongside her native T'vaoan. "I hope today found you well."

"It did, thank you," she replied, paying all too much attention. This was the first time she'd spent long amounts of time among members of other species after living with an all kig-yar crew for her entire life. She worried she'd commit a cultural faux pas and lose respect in the eyes of her peers. The jiralhanae grunted as he dug into a slab of meat the size of his head. Jiralhanae needed more calories because of their large size, yet Riin felt a pang of envy over the amount of food. That could feed her for half a cycle. One unggoy took her jar of paste and slotted it into a slot on her mask.

While all members of the Covenant were biologically distinct, the unggoy were unique in that they didn't breathe a standard nitrogen-oxygen air mixture. No, they breathed methane. Their rooms, both at Divine Wind and across most of High Charity, were sealed and equipped with methane converters. When outside those areas, they needed to wear bulky packs and respirators, which they couldn't take off without suffocating. Because of this, most of their food was puréed into liquid, ensconced into vials, and attached to a port in the respirator to drink. It must have been a difficult way to live, though they were all used to it. Another unggoy greeted her, as well, and this one's name she remembered as Glibglob. The bolus sat on his tray. Must have been saving it for later - it was much quicker to drink something than eat it, so not as much to savor.

"Riin... I had a question for you," Glibglob timidly posed. He was so soft-spoken that it was difficult to hear him over the low roar of the dinner crowd.

"What is it?" she asked. Excitement made her extremities tingle slightly. This was a chance to get to know her fellows in faith more. She just hoped she had the correct answer.

"Well, I'll be blunt," he said, seeming nervous, too. "Why do you want to be a minister?" His exposed eyes screwed tightly, as if he became physically pained by asking. "Not t-to imply you shouldn't b-be," he stammered, "but, well..." He gestured around the room. There were maybe two other kig-yar enrolled, and she unfortunately hadn't gotten the chance to talk with either. It was a little offensive, perhaps, but she'd just been thinking similar things. If she weren't a kig-yar, she would have been curious, too. She tapped her claws on the table and thought about how to tell this story.

"When I was a hatchling, I lived on a missionary ship: the Joyous Discovery," she began, though she only moved out a few cycles ago! "But in truth, it wasn't joyous. It was very boring for me. Isolated and lonely." She remembered being the only young girl on the ship. Her brothers were all several revolutions older than her, and nobody else on the crew had children, since it wasn't a great place to raise them. "That's not the way most kig-yar live, but my family did and still does." No, most lived on planets, moons, asteroids, or space stations. Aside from High Charity, dwelling on a mobile space vehicle was something of an anomaly. "In fact, my mother is the shipmistress," Riin added without really thinking.

The word "shipmistress" turned heads, even the jiralhanae's. The slab of meat plopped from his hand back to the tray, flecking its juices onto everyone seated. Suddenly, Riin was mortified.

Shipmistresses (or shipmasters, the male equivalent) were essentially captains with fancier titles. They commanded crews and sailed the stars. The difference was that, unlike captains, they were considered the ultimate authority on vessels and not bound by the regulations of the Covenant. It gave them more latitude, and this honor needed to be bestowed by one ministry or other. Some shipmistresses thought of themselves as minor royalty - her mother among them. And it was widely known that among kig-yar, the title went from mother to eldest daughter. In this case, Riin. She saw the dawning realization that she may not have been a backwater yokel. Instead, her family may have been somewhat important.

"It's, uh, not a large ship. Only a few dozen people. Certainly fewer than 100!" She tried to downplay her heritage (and it really wasn't impressive to her, having carried this legacy her whole life), but it seemed her new friends were somewhat awed by her position. She only hoped it didn't permanently change things between her and these people she'd just met!

"That's not the point, though," she continued, trying to say what she wanted. "I'm trying to say that I didn't have much else in my life, strange as that sounds." What use was eventual power when power never interested her? She didn't have friends or even much respect from her brothers. "Religion was one of the few things I did." Riin remembered watching holographic stories for children her father must have gotten somewhere. Very simple versions of foundational acts of the Covenant and the great men and women who helped build it, presented almost like fairy tales. She watched them again and again, fascinated by the idea of people being able to touch the divine if they only reached for it.

Of course, as she got older, she realized there was more to history and religion. Some of it was violent, but always for a good cause. The Covenant was a force for good that needed to end evil. It could be brutal, but she wanted to focus on the good it did, which was great.

"When we put into port, be that on a planet or space station, I was most excited to hear hagiographies and see sacred sites. The former, at least, was easy." According to an ancient decree from the Ministry of Conversion, the crew of any vessel without a dedicated minister or deacon was required to either attend a regular service at a temple, shrine, etc., or secure a qualified representative to hold a service on the ship at least once while they were in port, with fines levied upon failure to comply. This was only mandated once per cycle, but the Joyous Discovery docked less frequently than that, which meant a service waited for Riin every time they did.

"My mother always discouraged it, but it came naturally to me. I learned as much as I could, and I felt called - still feel called - to share this with others." Sure, every citizen of the Covenant could enunciate the very basic tenants of their religion, but that wasn't the same as experiencing it. Riin wanted to be a moral example and to help people when she could. "So... now I'm here."

The table remained silent for a moment. Then the jiralhanae broke it. The silence, not the table - though he could have shattered the latter with a few good strikes if he wanted to. "I hope you find what you're looking for." After that, he launched into his own story about how he came to faith, which Riin listened to just as intently as everyone else had listened to her. She had a feeling everything was going to be all right.

September 22, 2548, 0600 Hours

Unified Combined Military Boot Camp, New Mombasa, East African Protectorate, Earth

Julian lay on his cot, stewing in the pain coursing through every muscle fiber and most of his organs. The only part of his body unaffected was his brain, which was sharper than it had been in years. Attention and focus had been drilled into him. Unfortunately, that just made the physical burn more intense. He groaned into the pillow covering his face after the barracks' alarm went off to signal a new day. Tried to stay still, but he knew there would be Hell to pay if he rested more than a few seconds.

The last 11 weeks were among the most miserable of his life. It felt as though his body had been shattered and rebuilt from the ground up. He had cried in the corner because the pain was so great. There were times he wanted to quit and curse out his instructors, saying and doing every nasty thing he could think of that wouldn't warrant his arrest. Even now, with one week of basic training left, he dreaded what lurked in the next hour. A five-mile run? 100 crunches? An obstacle course filled with barbed wire? Those could all be interesting, even fun, in isolation, but here, they just led to more work.

And basic wasn't the end of it! As a Marine, he and Navy crew needed to undergo an extra six weeks of training in microgravity and vacuum. There was always a chance the Covenant needed to be fought on the hull of a ship.

Even so, Julian tried to tell himself that this was worth it. That he didn't regret it. And that was mostly true, for there were some positives. He'd never been in such good shape (when he wasn't throwing up). He would get to see far more of the galaxy than he ever thought possible. It paid better than any job he'd ever worked. And, most importantly, he got to help humanity in its darkest hour.

"Up, maggots!" The drill instructor burst into the barracks like a wild animal sooner than Julian expected, and he would indeed be punished if the guy saw him in his current state. Thankfully, his bunk was near the back of the hall, so he was able to pretend like he'd always been up. Stripped down along with the rest of the co-ed crew. The entire place reeked; everyone sweated constantly with all these bodies pressed together. The woman from the top bunk - Chelsea - and him pulled on their clothes next to each other. A more juvenile Julian would have dropped his jaw and felt his heart flutter at the idea of getting naked alongside beautiful women from across the solar system. As it was... well, he of course appreciated the aesthetics as a straight man (and really, there was something for everyone here), but it wasn't much of a distraction.

That was beaten out of everyone after the first few days. It became difficult to think about fucking when your body was on fire and you were being bashed in the head by people screaming in your ears. Besides, fraternization was against the rules. When sex could get you discharged before even leaving boot camp, it became much less enticing. And he didn't want to get kicked out of a job. Not again.

Julian had been laid off (a strange thing for a 23-year-old to be) after several years of working for Asklon. The company had replaced many of their workers with machines. Not as good as the human touch, in his opinion, yet he understood. The economy wasn't doing the best, and the company needed to remain solvent. That meant he needed a new course in life. The answer was obvious: humanity required soldiers as much as ever.

The only people who disapproved were his family. His mother, Augusta, and his sister, Livia, were proud of him, they just didn't want him to die. His father, Darius, brought the wrath of God on him, though. He shouted and flipped over furniture, going so far as to threaten to cut him out of the family if he enlisted. Julian had never seen him like this, and it scared him. Julian knew he disliked the military, but he never realized just how much. It wasn't part of his life he wanted to talk about, nor was it one Julian remembered.

His father enlisted right after he was born; he didn't meet the man until he was five years old... after he had been honorably discharged when an Elite's energy sword ran him through. Missed his spine by two inches, but it permanently killed the nerves in part of his body, rendering his left arm too weak to do much of anything other than hang limply and occasionally spasm. It had since been amputated and replaced with a cybernetic one. Meeting this person who should have been dead was his earliest memory.

Darius probably could have worked a desk job at the recruiting office or transferred to another local military-adjacent position. Instead, he quit outright, able to use his pension to enjoy retirement. Or he should have. Instead, he spent most of his time out on a slice of lunar regolith he'd purchased for a song, using his own two hands (well, one hand and a replacement) and construction knowledge to spend the last two decades building a doomsday bunker for when the Covenant inevitably found Earth and wiped every trace of humanity from the solar system. According to him.

Julian thought he was a paranoid veteran and tried to get him to take his pills. True, the war lasted longer than Julian expected when he graduated high school, but victory was coming. It was inevitable, despite a few Covenant triumphs. They were on the back foot. That was what everyone said, from new recruits to officers he'd met, from experts to pundits on every source of news. He had no reason to be skeptical. The only people who disagreed were old soldiers who had seen too much, like his father, and troublemakers who wanted to spread fear. While he felt bad for the former, of course, it irked him that they played into the hands of the latter. It was like some people wanted the Covenant to win.

He had been hesitant about joining the military before, but it became clear that putting his body on the line could help save innocent people. Therefore, he called his father's bluff and enlisted, anyway. His family could take care of themselves for a few years. He already felt a hole in his chest from leaving them - this was the longest he'd ever gone without seeing them, for they all lived in the same city for Julian's whole life. He didn't know when he would see them again or how different they'd be. Would Livia be married? Would his parents recognize him? Even as he asked these questions, he tried to push them aside and tell himself he made the right choice. He could save children from being eaten alive by these monsters, which they were known to do.

It made Julian so angry. How did such savages ever figure out space travel? They should have been stuck on their backwater worlds, banging sticks and rocks together. Humanity would return them to that state soon enough, though. The only question was which military branch would be the best to do that from. Darius had been part of the Navy, but Julian thought that getting to go to ground at least sometimes would be better than perpetually hurtling in a giant box through the void. Luna lacked a standing army or air force, and he wasn't going to join either on Earth, which left the Marines as his last, best option. Besides, they were the ones who saw the most combat. He was aware that Marines used to be considered a somewhat elite division, but now, they were the group with the highest population by quite a bit.

So now he was here, slipping into his boots on a hot morning on a hot continent during a hot time of year. It would have felt like he was on fire were he not so wet.

Fully clothed now (but no drier), Julian slid into the roll call line just as the drill instructor reached him. Snapped a crisp salute at the DI, who eyed him carefully. Those eyes went wide, and he knew something had been done wrong. Was one button undone?

"You put your pants on backward, you rotten son of a bitch!" the DI screamed so loudly it made his head ring. Julian's eyes shot down. In the rush, he'd slipped into his battledress pants the wrong way. The entire row snickered at him. This was like the nightmare many kids had of being at school naked, yet it somehow came true. He felt his cheeks heat up as more sweat poured down his face, aggravating his burns. "You are a disgrace to that uniform you so casually molest, and you are lucky that I let you wear it at all! As punishment for this incredibly moronic oversight, you will be adding an additional 20 percent to your workouts today! Dare I assume you can mentally calculate basic arithmetic?!"

He worried about a five-mile run and 100 crunches? Well, now it'd be a six-mile run and 120 crunches. If he so much as made a sound, he knew additional fines would be levied, so he simply said, "Sir, yes, sir." He slouched the slightest amount out of shame, yet he tried to tell himself this was OK. He'd never see this asshole again after one more week. Or these other recruits, for that matter. With tens of millions in the military, it was beyond unlikely any of them would be assigned to the same ship or world.

Sometimes his luck was good. And sometimes it really, really sucked. Though in this instance, it may have been him not paying as much attention as he should have. At least he didn't assign everyone else extra, Julian thought while a shiver ran up his back in the hot plywood box. Otherwise he, some of the other guys, and a piece of rebar would have a very serious meeting behind the latrines.

In the meantime, the entire dormitory piled into an adjacent room constructed of crude ceramic, which was a major source of the moisture that polluted the connected wooden box. This was the bathroom... kind of. No toilets, but there were showers and sinks and some hygiene amenities. Anyone who wanted to relieve themselves either needed to covertly piss in the shower or walk across the yard. They had five minutes to freshen up before hitting the green.

Julian went in to brush his teeth, with the rest of the recruits behind him. Boots squeaked on the tile, tracking in more dirt, mud, and other things which would have to be washed away by water and disinfectant (if any of the latter was even around). As he brushed his gums with toothpaste that may as well have been drain cleaner, he heard a commotion.

He spat in the crusty sink and turned to find two fellow recruits picking on one a little smaller and thinner than the rest of them. Pushed her against the wall, telling her she should drop out, that she'd be nothing more than cannon fodder. Nothing out of the ordinary - this was just how some people in the military got off. The DI probably would have said the same thing. But a woman being shoved around by two men... Julian knew it wasn't going to go there with so many people around, but he couldn't help but think of some very ugly possibilities if this happened in another time and place. Does it count as hazing if we've all been there the same amount of time?

He was suddenly years in the past, being chased by a certain group of bullies. The same thing played out. Julian couldn't stand by. There wasn't much he could do, either. Was he supposed to tattle on the big, bad bullies like he was still in school? His superior officers weren't going to do anything unless something serious happened. They had other problems to deal with, and he knew this place was supposed to turn them into killers. But did people have to be such assholes about it? They were supposed to be on the same side.

"Hey, that's not all right," he said, walking over and straightening up as much as he could. Honestly, he wasn't afraid of these two. Not after he'd already made a fool of himself for the day. He had gotten just as strong as these jackasses, and the whole dorm watched. Were these guys going to pick a fight where everyone could see them?

That was what Julian thought until a fist met his face. He staggered back.

For a second, he felt like a hero. A hero who bit off more than he could chew, but a hero, nonetheless. He probed his mouth with his tongue, finding all his teeth to be intact, so that was another victory. The only damage was the faint metallic taste of blood. Through bleary eyes, he saw it gave the victim time to slip away. The other guy stood defensive, ready to take a swing. Everyone else backed off. Julian wished he could hit back. But, again, that might get him kicked out. If he hit back, it would be their words against each other; the crappy dorm didn't have cameras, and he wasn't sure which of them their comrades would support.

"Are we done?" Julian asked, and the asshole and his accomplice suddenly looked rather meek. Perhaps they didn't expect him to be so reasonable about it. Now they looked like weirdos instead of the badasses they wanted to be perceived as.

The other cursed at him before getting back to business as usual, yet Julian felt he should sleep with one eye open that night. Then it was off to the training field.

The African morning sun warmed his skin as he shuffled across the yard. More than warmed it, actually. It burned it from his body. Though low now, it would soon roast off whatever was left. The constant sweat got more saltwater in the raw skin, creating a constant loop of subtle pain. He winced. His ancestors came from a much more northern climate, and the dome Crisium City was housed within blocked nearly all UV radiation. In other words, he had been quite pale, which made him turn red as a stop sign when outside without much protection for 10 hours or more per day. At least it was just his face and lower arms. He might have died if this happened to more of him.

He arrived at the drills right on time, so he didn't receive more punishment than he already dealt with. The next few hours were an agonizing blur. More than usual, as there was more he needed to do. He sweated more water than could possibly have been in his body, with only copious hydration and electrolyte supplementation keeping him on his feet. Microscopic biting insects from the grass latched onto him and burrowed into his legs. Superficial cuts were rubbed in mud and dirt - he idly wondered what kind of germs entered his body and if all of them could be fought off, or if he'd end up back in the medical tent. He'd almost prefer it if it meant skipping another week of pain.

The only thing to draw his attention away from discomfort was the skyline of New Mombasa in the distance. Though miles away, it looked like it was just over the wall. He'd never seen its like. It was the biggest city in Africa, and one of the biggest in the world. Tens of millions of people were all packed into it. Skyscrapers 10 times taller than the ones in Crisium City poked through the atmosphere. The mesa of Uplift Nature Reserve was like a table. But the crown jewel, the reason the city had ever gotten so big, was a series of vertical rings linked by concrete and carbon nanofiber. The Mombasa Tether was Earth's biggest and busiest space elevator, ferrying cargo and people from the ground to the stars. He wanted to go one day. It teased him all these weeks, yet he'd only been there once, when transferring to this camp.

Like all things good or bad, the work ended. Julian didn't know how it ended or how many people yelled at him, only that, despite not having anything to eat, he'd vomited. Can I get breakfast? If he was out 20 percent longer than everyone else (and it was probably longer than that because things took longer the more tired he got), probably not. Which meant he'd need to wait several more hours.

As he sadly limped away, he caught snippets from some of the conversations others had - how wasted they were going to get after graduation, etc. He felt a smile form on his face despite the pain. This was almost like being in high school again. Thankfully, he didn't think they had been paying attention to him for the last... however long he'd been at it. The sun quickly rising told him it was longer than he would have liked. Well, maybe he'd at least have time to -

"Hey." Julian turned to find a woman with honey skin, sable hair, and nearly as much battle damage as he did addressing him, one hand on her hip. She almost looked out of place here, though he didn't know why. Maybe because she was the only person looking at him. It took Julian a moment to realize this was the recruit he'd defended earlier. "Thank you for, um, 'saving me', I guess." She didn't mince words. "Look, I could have handled myself, but I didn't want to cause a scene."

"I wasn't trying to be condescending," Julian said, feeling a little defensive. Sure, she thanked him, but she almost implied she wished he didn't help. "I saw them picking on you, and I wanted to let them know that's not all right."

"I appreciate the effort," she replied, cocking her head. "It's just that, well, I figure we all have to learn to stand on our own out here. Nobody else is going to do it for us."

"I disagree. We're supposed to pick each other up when we're down," he said, barely thinking about the answer. If they didn't help each other, who would? The Covenant wasn't going to lend a hand. Speaking of hands, he extended one of his own. "My name is Julian. Julian Dirt." Seemed like an appropriate way to greet someone of the same rank as him.

"Zhao Lopez," she replied, extending a hand back.

Well, he finally got someone to talk to him. Maybe, he dared to think through his burning body, he could survive the rest of the week. And for a long time after.

222nd Unit, 20th Cycle, 23rd Revolution, Ninth Age of Reclamation

Military Training Facility 195, Malurok, Greaw-Jomel

Riin felt the twin suns of Greaw and Jomel beat down on her feathers and flesh as she marched down the firing range. Beads of condensation rested on the tips of those feathers, occasionally dripping onto the saturated nanolaminate, where it would either evaporate or meet dirt.

This was the perfect environment for rainforest to thrive, and thrive it did. Wild jungle raced up in a cacophony of life at the edge of the range. The facility she stood in had been carved from this jungle - it stretched around them for interminable tracts in all directions. Of the hundreds of military training camps scattered across the Covenant, Riin didn't know how this one ranked. As she hailed from a location without such a camp, she was assigned to one at random. By chance, that ended up being this one, the 195th on Malurok. It was a planet she'd never heard of, but it sounded fascinating based on the research she'd done.

It was a world jointly colonized by sangheili and yanme'e long ago, but it had enclaves of other species, kig-yar included. This was far more diverse than seminary had been. Members of all species milled about, excepting the Prophets, of course. Many from across the Covenant heard the call of war. As had she.

Riin's faith had developed over the last several revolutions. While ministering to and helping people of different worlds had been a blessing, it almost seemed insufficient. Every cycle, more news came out about how the human empire invaded outlying Covenant colonies. Billions were killed with nuclear orbital bombardments. What happened to the survivors... well, there were very, very few of them. Some of these planets were annihilated outright with unholy weapons called "NOVA bombs."

It maddened her. These animals may have been on the defensive, but they weren't defeated quite yet. Riin remembered her time in seminary, when she wanted to help others before all else. She still wanted to do that. But only after this war was over, she decided. What was the point of healing when humanity constantly tore open fresh wounds? Therefore, after two revolutions working in the dregs of High Charity and aboard the Joyous Discovery, she decided to take the natural next step.

Again, her mother tried to talk her out of it, saying she threw away so much potential. That wasn't true, at least not the way she meant it. Riin didn't waste a prestigious career. As a kig-yar, the higher ranks of the ecclesiarchy were barred to her: only Prophets and occasionally sangheili could hold these ranks. That was fine. Those were positions with a more political application of spirituality, which never interested her. But it was the kind of life her mother falsely assumed she wanted. The kind Chol wanted, certainly. But Riin believed watching as innocent people were slaughtered would betray the gods she worshipped. Therefore, after much prayer and preparation, she applied to the Ministry of Resolution. Now she was on this planet.

Many of the same qualities a deacon needed were useful in the military: discipline, faith, and fellowship among them. In fact, personnel ordained at certain seminaries, such as Divine Wind, were fast-tracked into the military, should they wish to volunteer. She still had to complete training, of course, but the vetting process was minimal. She had the Covenant's best interests at heart, so she got to skip about four cycles of paperwork.

Doing that extra work may have allowed her to miss Malurok's wet season. Above, another storm brewed. Getting wet wasn't her favorite thing, but she hoped to be inside before too long. There was just one thing she needed to do here before the next meal. Her stomach gurgled just thinking about it, but she pushed the discomfort aside.

She stepped up to a railing facing the forest. Other recruits stood to her left and right. Rifles sat on a ledge in front of them, and Riin grabbed hers, feeling the slick, wet material nearly slip from her hand. It was a Vostu-pattern carbine: the same gun she'd used yesterday for this test. While she knew that this was one of several midrange rifles the military used, the camp stocked this one. She brought the gun close to her body and aimed it down the field.

Dozens of metal plates had been engraved with rough outlines of humans... though she thought more of Chol at that moment. It was easier to do that when she'd never seen a human in the flesh before. That would change soon. One, hers, was directly down from her current position. At the sound of a gong, she started firing. One after another, carefully aimed. She breathed deeply through her nostrils. While her eyes were open, she almost didn't see through them. She relied more on instinct.

Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Riin didn't know how much recoil a semi-automatic rifle was supposed to produce, but the knockback on this one was manageable. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. To both sides, the same whizz of ammunition buzzed in her ears. It wasn't overly loud, but it sounded annoying when dozens of people did it simultaneously. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. Pull. She looked through the 2x scope. She saw the target, but also practically through it.

Click.

The clip emptying snapped Riin from her trance. She held the gun away from her, almost feeling vertigo as she looked at the results.

Green radioactive needles jutted from the plate. The radiation level was low enough to pose no threat unless the projectiles penetrated the body, she was told. Even if it were a concern, anti-radiation treatments were standard for any spacefaring species, so she did think she'd be all right.

As she looked at the placement of projectiles, she felt a strange sense of pride. "Strange" because she knew she hadn't trained or put effort in. Pride should have been reserved for things that took effort to accomplish. This simply happened.

Of the 18 rounds, only three missed the metal sheet, instead nailed to the wall in the back. Of the 15 which hit, 12 impacted the human silhouette. Of those, nine were in the torso, one was in the left leg, and two were situated squarely on the head. That was double what most others in her row had gotten, kig-yar or not. A similar distribution as yesterday, which was the first day of marksmanship. It surprised even Riin. She had always been good at games which required coordination, but she never thought much about it.

Kig-yar naturally had good aim, but not generally to this degree. They evolved from flying creatures, which needed pinpoint accuracy to land on a branch or snatch prey from the ground. The dregs of those instincts remained more strongly in some kig-yar than others. She seemingly had those instincts. And that was a rare thing.

From the research she'd done before enlisting, kig-yar could be put on one of two tracks: minor or sniper. Minors were the iconic kig-yar with the point defense gauntlets. They were standard infantry. Snipers hung back. They pointed. They shot. And the distinction was made based on tests like this one. While Riin made no assumptions, she would have greatly preferred to be a sniper now that she suspected it might be possible. It just felt more... prestigious. Riin also figured it made her somewhat less likely to perish. Though she was willing to die for a good cause, that didn't mean she wanted to! She bounced once on her feet before willing them to be still.

She patiently waited for the instructor to return and tried not to seem too excited when he did. A sangheili, silently stalking behind his charges, eventually made his way to her. He was, perhaps, a little portlier than the average specimen, though Riin had no doubt he could kill her just as easily, given the powered armor he wore. She dipped her head in a sign of respect - an almost ubiquitous gesture in Covenant cultures, particularly in the military. He looked at the target, then turned to her. His mandibles twitched.

"This is your target," he said, more a statement than a question. Riin nodded, casting a glance at it again to ensure none of the needles had moved when she hadn't looked. "It is... adequate." That was likely the closest thing to praise she'd receive. "Rest assured, your skills will be evaluated in the future," he said, almost reticent to offer compliments. "But do not become complacent. You will be beaten into the dirt and rise anew, woman."

Though irked, Riin again dipped her head. This sexist asshole - seriously, calling her "woman" like a proper noun - looked to give her a hard time. Sangheili were a very chauvinistic species, along with jiralhanae. Now that she thought about it, women from both species were not allowed to serve in the military - and many men would have preferred if they were completely subservient. It was a matter the Prophets had been petitioned about hundreds of times over the ages (she remembered a big protest some of her female peers attended while she was in seminary), and they, in their wisdom, said that change on that front must come from within.

Every species in the Covenant had its own sins, and those cultural failings needed to be solved from within, not by an outside force... so long as the sin was not that of outright heresy. And Riin agreed. The Prophets, in their great wisdom, knew that perfection was many revolutions in the making. It would take massive effort for other species to live up to their effortless perfection - though Riin tried. Even though sangheili were forbidden from imposing that sexist mentality onto other members of the Covenant, there was often an undercurrent of dismissal that was not present for her male peers, even unggoy. It was a far cry from her native culture, which saw women as the more natural leaders.

Their shared faith bridged many gaps which could otherwise have been insurmountable. The Covenant's many species coexisted... for the most part. There were exceptions, sadly, on the path to the Great Journey. Some shirked the Mantle through their actions. Some of Riin's own kind bullied the unggoy because of their lower position in the caste system. Less than 100 revolutions ago, there was an attempt to sterilize the ones aboard High Charity over nothing more than a racist grudge! That was wrong, and it would be her duty to correct such sins in every species... but particularly her own, given that she was one of them.

Right as she thought that, Riin found just such an act occurring in front of her. Two kig-yar, a Ruuhtian and an Ibie'shan, harassed an unggoy. His data module had been taken from him - the Ruuhtian held it over his head while the Ibie'shan goaded the little unggoy, short even by their standards, into jumping for it while he pleaded for it to be returned. The sheer casualness, as if this act should be in direct response to her thoughts, made her grind her sharp teeth together.

"Brothers, this is beneath you," she said, trying to insert herself between them and the object of their harassment, "and it's not what the gods expect of us."

"Shove your concern up your vent," the Ibie'shan grumbled, referring to the hole through which kig-yar excreted both liquid and solid waste. His thick jaw snapped as his gaze shifted from one potential target to another. "This shit-sucker thought he could get around us without paying our fee, and we're teaching him a lesson." Methane, the gas unggoy breathed, happened to be produced by bacteria in the guts of other species. This led to some particularly cruel nicknames for them. She glared at them, and their slitted pupils met her own with more annoyance than indignation. "Your words mean nothing."

They were careful, of course, to insult her and not the gods, even though it was clear they also meant to spurn the latter. Blasphemy was a crime, but insulting the messenger was fair game... if the messenger wasn't anyone important. There wasn't much Riin could do. Nobody else intervened. According to military mentality, this unggoy needed to toughen up, pay the arbitrary toll (which would only encourage this), or drop out.

An idea formed in Riin's mind as she went over the options. Sure, nobody in charge of them now was willing to stop them. But that was about to change.

"Placement is in less than a cycle... and that's my target." She pointed over her shoulder to the target, which started to be rolled away for recycling as the next batch of trainees entered the field. "Do you want to be on the bad side of someone about to be ranked higher than you?"

Her brethren squawked out curses before hurrying off. One thing bullies feared was someone with more power than they held. Riin exhaled, supremely satisfied. The data module had been dropped, so Riin picked it up and handed it back to the unggoy, who still shook.

"Thank you," he squeaked, and Riin wondered how old he was. Unggoy learned and reached maturity faster than other species, but even so, he almost seemed too young to enlist. "I didn't think anyone would stand up for me."

"I'm glad to help. To show that we are not each other's enemies." Riin didn't have the heart to say that she wouldn't always be present. They'd likely never see each other again. But, in this moment, she could help someone else, like she felt called to. She wondered how often she'd get to comfort someone in a career filled with shooting humans.

August 9, 2552, 1800 Hours

Outskirts of Mount Haven, New Jerusalem, Cygnus

Private First Class Julian Dirt sprinted up the hill. Each breath was full of dust. His eyes watered, his legs ached, and he felt the impending sense he was about to die.

While fording a pass, he'd gotten separated from the rest of his platoon by a massive rockslide caused by Covenant bombardment. Wasn't sure how many other soldiers were injured or killed. Probably not all, but they didn't have time to help him. No, they were focused squarely on retreat. That meant Julian needed to be, too. However, going around the range of small mountains or tall hills (he wasn't sure which was a more appropriate title) brought another encounter. Outside a Pelican crashed in a tussle of alien grass, he'd found a wounded old ODST by the name of Gage Yevgenny, who told Julian about his long and tragic life as he tried to help the guy with getting the fuck out.

Yevgenny rambled at him about being alive when the war started, his adventures, how he almost lost hope, how he'd found it again, and how he and some other ODSTs had planned to rob the city of Mount Haven's bank for its abandoned gold reserves until it came out that children were hiding in the main vault. Julian had no idea how much of this was true and how much came from the mouth of a man who was clearly concussed and had lost a lot of blood.

Regardless, the Covenant was coming. He saw the faint outlines of at least 100 infantry, probably with more on the way, marching across the plain to the east, coming to scavenge the Pelican and to execute survivors. Gage told Julian to not worry about him - or the SHIVA nuclear bomb the Pelican carried that he held the trigger to.

Julian had until the Covenant got to Gage to escape. To run. Then the surrounding mile or more would turn to ash. At the very least, the hills between would stifle the shockwave and prevent him from being pulverized.

So he ran. He ran back up the mountain, occasionally looking over his shoulder to see if anything followed. Nothing did. Julian wasn't going to try to stop Gage when he held the detonator! Sweat ran down his body, all pooling in his boots. The distant white sun seemed to engulf him despite setting, for he ran into it. Almost everything he once carried had been dropped to move faster; the brass hated it when Marines lost equipment, but Julian told himself that his life was worth more to them than inanimate alloy and polymer.

He crested this grassy hillock after perhaps 20 minutes of sprinting. Those drills in boot camp saved his life. Turned around one final time, taking panting breaths during this moment of respite. Based on the position of the hundreds of dots in the meadow below, he guessed he had maybe 10 minutes - but probably closer to five. The Covenant might have been slower than usual because of the expectation that they'd already won. Julian felt his body, particularly his face, redden. Yes, they did win. But these bastards, at least, would never live to celebrate it. That complicity, at least, likely saved his life.

Then he kept running. This was much easier, as gravity helped him along. Despite the terror, some crappy song he heard once played in his head. Except he couldn't recall any of the words, so it was more a jumbled collection of sounds and pounding rhythm.

Then he was knocked off his feet by a blast of air and a great roar.

Julian didn't feel any burns on his flesh. No ringing in his ears, and he still heard fine, so he hadn't ruptured his eardrums. Still, danger remained. The fallout would hit him within minutes. Tried to radio in again, as he had during his run up the hill, but there was nothing. Not even static. The nuke's EMP must have fried the electronics. Fuck, he thought, though there was an alternative. He slung his small rucksack down and rooted around. His hand wrapped around an inch-thick tube.

A flare remained lodged in despite his best efforts, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Julian held the active end away from his body and yanked the cap off. A red flame, too bright to look at directly, shot out, along with reams of roiling red smoke. He dropped it, where it rolled a few feet before hitting a rock. That would last a good 20 minutes - but he really hoped aid arrived before then, because the nuclear dust would start falling like snow by that time.

His rotten luck turned around. A Pelican swooped out of the sun, coming to ground about 50 feet away. It kicked up dust as the rear hatch opened, revealing half a dozen weary troops, some ODSTs and some regular Marines, cobbled together from different units. It wasn't lost on him that this was only half the Pelican's capacity.

"You're lucky we saw you, Private! We were just doing our last sweep," the commanding officer, a lieutenant, shouted as Julian jumped in. It wasn't a scream of frustration (though no one was happy); one needed to be loud to be heard over the engines. One of them may have taken a hit, based on light scorching he'd seen on the hull, but the pilot handled it admirably. "What the Hell happened down here?"

"I - I'll give a full report, sir," Julian stammered as he observed the nascent mushroom cloud. "Well, I'll do my best." Then something the Lieutenant said made him squint. The hatch closed, and he knew he'd never see New Jerusalem again. "Last sweep, sir?"

"Sensors show those Covvie ships are warming up faster than bitches in heat," the Lieutenant gravely said as he sat. "Glassing starts in a few minutes." Julian should have figured. Now that ground defenses had been overwhelmed, the Covenant ships could move into range and unleash their most devastating, insulting weapon. Besides a few guns that shot crystal shards, nearly all their weapons, both personal and vehicle-based, fired superheated ionized gas: i.e., plasma. That included WMDs - they didn't use nukes. The Covenant equivalent thereof was worse.

Air from the atmosphere was sucked up by warships, excited into highly energized plasma, and expelled in a beam at the planet below. The heat was so great that anything nearby was roasted, and inorganic minerals in the earth melted. When cooled, these minerals formed glass, hence the term "glassing." Not clear and smooth like windows - it was akin to the primordial glass volcanoes sometimes belched up. Nothing organic was left. While the Covenant normally didn't get all of a world (it would take months to go over the entire surface with the normal number of ships they threw at a planet), they hit major population centers and surrounding areas.

Some people, like the children Gage rambled about, had been evacuated. Most weren't so fortunate. There was only so much space and so much time. Julian never got used to it. Every time this happened, he imagined the pain and terror of those who weren't so lucky. Who weren't deemed "important" enough to save. It was truly an impossible choice, since not everyone could be rescued, yet it made him burn. Though externally calm, he raged internally at the monsters who made them make it.

Unlike the civilians they didn't have time to evacuate, Julian got to live. He got to live because he was about to throw himself at the Covenant again on another world. This was maybe the sixth time he'd done it so far. They all blended together. A weeks-long burst of fighting punctuated by milling around on a spaceship was occasionally stopping at a far-flung colony for what could generously be called shore leave. This was punctuated by training aboard whatever vessel he was stationed on, if it could even be called training. A full year of his life was spent in cryo. Though chronologically 27, he was biologically 26.

It wasn't long before he found himself back on his home ship: the Pillar of Autumn. The Pelican docked, opened, and he wandered into the transport bay. Home sweet home, he bitterly thought, though he never forgot his real home many light-years away. Along with the other survivors, he wandered to the armory to deposit his weapons before hitting the showers and getting some goddamn sleep. The cavernous space could house the ship's 1000 Marines easily, but it was eerily empty. They might have been on the last flight back. Not all these troops necessarily belonged on the Pillar of Autumn, but deployments could be sorted later.

It and a half dozen other ships were still in orbit, but there must have been talk among the leadership of whether to withdraw or if there were any parts of the planet that could still be salvaged. Were there any damaged Covenant ships which could be attacked? Perhaps HIGHCOM on Earth had something to say about it, but probably not - the odds of getting a signal out here, especially as the communication centers on New Jerusalem had either been annihilated or would be in seconds, seemed extremely low to Julian. If they waited too long to leave, the Covenant would follow. The "good" news, disgusting as it was to think, was that the Covenant focusing on glassing often gave human ships time to escape.

The ship's stale air and sterile halls were a nice, if bland, respite from the heat and chaos of the planet below. It wasn't often that he preferred being in this overgrown tuna can. It didn't heal the aching, though, nor did it distract him from the people he passed, their faces grave from greatest to least. Another world lost. There couldn't have been too many left.

He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about anything as he returned what little of his gear was left to the armory. A report would have to be written on why almost none of it came back. Little went on to distract him from paperwork. Not that day. On the other hand, there was one bright spot. He hadn't been hit, which meant none of the armor pieces needed to be replaced. That meant less upkeep for him, so it wasn't the absolute most work he could be doing. Of course, his BDU stayed with him. Unlike the weapons, which were identical and interchangeable within others of their type, his armor was fitted to him specifically, as well as embroidered with his name, rank, blood type, and so on.

As Julian wandered out of the armory in search of a shower, he heard something nearby. It almost sounded like... whimpering. His interest was suddenly piqued. Somebody had recently found a wild Earth animal called an "opossum" in one of the bilges that must have lived there for years. It became a minor attraction before being sent back to Earth on a returning transport - protocols for invasive species were strict. Curious, he investigated if this noise was produced by another animal.

Turned out to be far less exciting. It was made by an animal... in the sense that humans were biologically animals. It was a noise he'd only heard grown adults make at their lowest moments. A man paced in an outlying area of the crew deck. This ship was nearly a mile long and riddled with decks, so there were always places to go where it wasn't easy to be found.

"What's going on?" Julian asked, trying to see if the guy was in trouble. He didn't look injured, so the problem was likely inside his mind. Julian understood, but he still wanted to help. He could at least get this guy to medical.

"You didn't hear?" the man sobbed, which took Julian aback. People in the military were supposed to suppress these feelings. Not to say they didn't leak through - Julian was guilty of that. They were still human, but there was something to be said for putting on a brave face. And this man openly wept on the deck of the ship. Well, maybe not openly. He tried to hide before Julian interrupted. Casual dress didn't have one's name or rank attached to it, so he couldn't address this man by name. He wore his tags tucked inside his shirt, where Julian couldn't see.

"I just got back," Julian replied, another knot already forming in his stomach. His intestines must have resembled a corded rope more than any organ with how many loops were in them.

"Captain Keyes just came on the comms. Said that the Covenant found Reach. They found Reach!" he blurted out like it was the end of the world. And it may just have been. "We're going there, along with more than half the Navy, but we're probably going to die, just like - "

The Lieutenant from the Pelican came out of nowhere, a predator waiting to pounce. He slapped the man in the face, then barked in that face about. Julian had heard it before. At best, this guy would come away with a stern warning about lowering morale and agitating brave soldiers. At worst, he'd spend time in the brig for cowardice. Most likely, he'd be sent to the infirmary for a dose of sedative and a prescription for more. The UNSC must have been the pharmaceutical industry's biggest client. Julian excused himself and slipped away, but the news stuck in his mind like a plasma grenade clung fast to the body. Well, he would have heard about it soon.

The Covenant were mortal, he knew. He'd killed two dozen or so over his career. Mostly Grunts and Drones, but also a few Jackals, and even an Elite... though that one was along with the rest of his fireteam, so he couldn't be sure who landed the killing shot. While he considered himself a good soldier, a lot of that came down to luck. Whether good or bad, he couldn't tell. But there were so many. Their technology was better than anything humanity made, and their population was clearly high. Or all the troops were clones or something. But they felt fear, he knew, from having seen Grunts break ranks and flee at times. They bled. None of them bled red (most of them had purple blood, matching the rest of their aesthetic), but they still died to bullets.

That meant they could be beaten with the right strategy and enough firepower. There were exceptional men and women who could do it. Julian hoped he and a lot of others ended up being that kind of people, too.

But hope became more slippery with each lost battle. He demanded that he see the bright side and take the few victories when they came. And he'd only been around for a few years. Some lifers had been around triple that time. They were the most miserable people he'd ever met. Maybe his father had been right, he dared to wonder. Maybe the government lied to keep people on Earth and the rest of Sol - where most of the population lived - from panicking.

And now Reach was under attack. Humanity's biggest fortress world, a mere 10 light-years from Sol, most likely burned. It was their largest extrasolar colony, and it produced most of the military's ships and equipment. If they lost it... it may have been over. The good news, if it could be called that, was that they'd fight like Hell to hold every inch of ground. It must have been more defended than any other world the Covenant attacked. Surely Captain Keyes would iterate all this when they arrived, yet it almost didn't need to be said. Everyone knew the stakes.

They would leave soon, then the ice would consume him as they shot through the stars. Julian knew all he could think of until then would be of burning worlds and the end of his species.

144th Unit, 16th Cycle, 27th Revolution, Ninth Age of Reclamation

Seeker of Truth, Fleet of Particular Justice, Reach

Riin hustled to the Seeker of Truth's armory, feeling a knot in her stomach. Or maybe that was the ship lurching as it slid through this planet's atmosphere. The call had gone out for her to mobilize. While most population centers of this human planet, one called Reach, had been cleansed, a small pocket in the center of a continent remained intact. A great swell of humans had gathered there as a fallback point, surrounded both on the ground and in orbit by formidable defenses. And she and her lance were going to help flush them out.

This was one of her relatively few ground deployments. Human worlds were found every few cycles at this point; it used to be less frequent. But to the finder go the spoils. Many semi-independent fleets sailed under the Ministry of Resolution's banner, and it usually took but one to wipe out a world. It was rare to claim such a prize when another fleet got lucky.

This time was different. During a patrol of an uncharted system, scout ships from the fleet Riin served aboard, the Fleet of Particular Justice, stumbled upon a tumor in need of abscission. It was by far the most populated human world she'd yet seen, perhaps that anyone had seen. Runes representing different aspects of faith, such as love, charity, and redemption, were burned into the planet's surface via plasma. She saw such through the windows; a once-vibrant world had been half-reduced to a burning pile of slag hurtling around its star.

It was a shame, of course. The creatures that swam through the seas and flew through the air did nothing to deserve death. Though beasts, Riin's heart went out to them. But humanity was a disease, infecting everything it touched. Their worlds were unfit for habitation, and it was even discouraged from spending too much time walking upon them. Its influence needed to be purged, and if other organisms were collateral damage, that was an unfortunate necessity.

Especially after what these ones did, Riin thought. Her hands trembled as she reached the armory's door. She stepped out of the way of a lekgolo - well, a collection of them called a mgalekgolo - which almost barreled through her. A yanme'e wasn't so lucky as it was swatted out of the way by a force stronger than any sangheili or jiralhanae. Its bond brother followed closely behind the first. She'd once seen a poor unggoy get trampled and killed by one! An accident, but one needed to be careful around them.

Riin, already dressed in her combat harness, walked over and grabbed the standard loadout for a soldier of her species and rank: a Vostu-pattern carbine (the first gun she'd ever held) and two Anskum-pattern plasma grenades. Along with the standard medical equipment, rations, and communication gear her relatively robust armor was loaded with, she was prepared for insertion. They wouldn't be the first to go to ground, though.

The Seeker of Truth and the ships accompanying it arrived later. Another detachment was sent ahead while the rest of the fleet organized. It was supposed to soften Reach. Instead, one of the Covenant's largest ships, the Long Night of Solace, ended up destroyed shortly before the rest of the fleet arrived. Riin remembered the crushing blow she had felt looking at the wreckage. Tens of thousands of her brothers and sisters died, perhaps more. It may have been the single largest loss of Covenant life since this war started, though she couldn't be sure. Therefore, she cheered when the ship's plasma beams had been let loose - it was normally a more morose, somber process.

Against any other species, this would have been an abomination, Riin thought as she hustled to the rally point. But humanity wasn't any other species. Accounts of their depravity were well-documented, recorded by scribes and in video evidence. Their firstborn children were raped and thrown into ditches to die. The weakest among them were flayed alive for sport... while claiming they deserved it. She couldn't begin to get into what they did to corpses, but at least her brothers and sisters weren't alive to experience it. It seemed to be a biological imperative intrinsic to their very being rather than cultural values which could be trained out. Killing them was a moral imperative, and, despite what it did to a planet, glassing provided instantaneous oblivion to anything it touched. It burned a body faster than the mind could process pain.

Every species had cultural failings when they diverged from the path the Prophets had set. Her own people, for example, were prone to selfishness and avarice. But this wasn't morally equivalent. These people were evil through and through, even those who did not fight for their rotting empire. Nothing good was in them. If it were, none of this would have happened. Some of her less-educated siblings even thought humans were spirit beings from the Lower Worlds made manifest in the physical universe. While that belief may have been a superstitious overreaction, there was no question that they were far more inherently evil than other species. They rewrote everything the Covenant thought about redemption. Some people, even entire species, may not have been worthy of it.

It wasn't long before Riin found the rest of her lance. It was five strong, herself included. Three unggoy served as infantry, though they were equipped with different weapons for distinct roles. She was the sniper. And Zuka 'Zamamee, a sangheili dressed in matte black armor, was their fearless leader. She almost shook her head at the thought, but she had enough sense not to when her superior looked directly at her.

"You are late, Von," he growled through his mandibles.

"There was a line at the armory," she replied, trying not to incur his wrath, which he expelled when he felt slighted or inconvenienced. Whatever she thought of him, 'Zamamee was a good soldier. If he were not, he would be dead. A sangheili didn't reach the rank of Special Operations Officer without the body count to prove it.

As for Riin, she didn't consider herself SpecOps despite being part of his lance. In the Covenant, placement of unggoy and kig-yar - species with an honorable, yet still primarily support role - was more fluid. She'd been with 'Zamamee for half a revolution, yet she could be shifted out of his command and back to regular operations without it being considered a demotion. As a sniper, her job was virtually the same: point and shoot.

Any bickering between them was ended by artificially loud footsteps emanating from a balcony overlooking this chamber. The person who stepped there didn't naturally sound like an earthquake or a stampede. It was merely an effect to capture their attention. It succeeded. A sangheili, large even by their standards, came into view over the lip. None of his flesh could be seen: he was clad from head to hoof in golden armor. It was the garb of a leader, but one ready and willing to lead from the front.

This was Thel 'Vadamee. Save the individuals on the High Council, he was perhaps the single most powerful sangheili in the Covenant. His exploits, even before this war, had been legendary. In fact, he was one of the exemplars of faith she had been so enamored with as a child. She couldn't think of a higher honor than serving under him aboard the flagship of his fleet. She believed it to be luck, fate, or a blessing rather than a reflection of her own paltry skills, yet she wouldn't have traded this for any other position.

"At ease." One of the Covenant's most powerful, righteous soldiers gave her an order. That order was to relax, so tried to obey, even as her muscles remained tense. He seemed to look directly at her despite Riin barely being able to see his eyes.

"I will be brief. You all know your roles and duties, fine warriors that you are," he began, resting his hands upon the balustrade. "All evidence points to the planet below being a major hub for the humans. One which we have attempted to locate for several revolutions. It may be among their final strongholds." The disgust in his voice for their enemy was clear, as was the pride in how the battle had progressed. "You fight for both the Covenant and for glory in the Great Journey. But you also fight to end this Age of Reclamation. The destruction of this galactic blight will usher in a better galaxy for us and all our children."

The crowd roared their approval, as did Riin. She couldn't imagine how many times he must have done this over the previous units, though. Between rallying his troops, overseeing operations, and communicating with the Prophets to divine the best course of action, it was a strenuous position. A glorious one, to be sure, and one which would guarantee him a place in the Great Journey. But Riin didn't envy him. Enduring these trials seemed a crushing task, especially alone.

With those words, she went to war.

The hustle to the dropship felt like it took a unit. She was afraid. She didn't want to die, she never had, but she took comfort in knowing that if she did, it would be for a noble cause. Fear was no sin, so long as it was overcome. Even with victory all but assured, she had a feeling she'd need both faith and the favor of the gods to survive the next few units.

PROSELYTIZATION NETWORK REPORT: Religion

While there are enough facets of our faith, such as spiritual metaphysics, histories of heresies, and the lives of saints, to fill libraries, the basic beliefs are simple. We believe - nay, know - that long ago, our galaxy was inhabited by a race called the Forerunners.

They were the first sapient beings to evolve, and they shepherded our ancestors in the distant past, as the relics they left behind on many inhabited worlds prove. Theirs was the Mantle of Responsibility: a charge to govern, care for, and cherish all life, as well as to protect life from what meant it harm. Everything we are, we owe to them. Taken together, the Forerunners were a wise and noble people. But they were still merely people. This was something to be rectified.

The Forerunners plumbed the depths of their souls, purifying themselves however they could, while also exploring the mysteries of science and forces beyond. In the end, they created seven planet-sized rings of unimaginable power, which were scattered across the galaxy: the Halos. The combination of their own worthiness and the metaphysical and scientific powers of the Halos allowed the Forerunners to transcend reality. They are now gods inhabiting higher planes of existence filled with endless bliss and harmony. But they still watch and influence us all, desiring that, when they are ready, sapient beings will find and activate the Halos. They still speak to us through their most chosen people, the Prophets, particularly the Hierarchs.

We members of the Covenant have no doubt proven our worth over the centuries. From many species of disparate origins, we have united in shared faith, and we hold fast to each other in duty and fellowship. We are the inheritors of the Mantle. Now our existence is an odyssey through the unknown as we quest for a Halo and purge everything evil from the galaxy. When these are complete, we will begin our Great Journey by activating the Halo. The worthy will become gods, while those found wanting will remain in this universe.

WAYPOINT REPORT: United Nations Space Command

The United Nations Space Command (UNSC) is the military arm of the United Earth Government (UEG), itself a successor of the United Nations. While countries still exist, almost all secede global and interplanetary policy to these organizations. Some rogue nations, particularly on more distant colony worlds, contribute to the Insurrectionist faction that disputes rightful UEG rule. As such, the UNSC proved a vital force in fighting for Earth's security. It was, however, a purely military entity.

That changed near the beginning of the Covenant war. The UEG, realizing it did not have the ability to govern in the face of a threat that menaced the human species, peacefully surrendered political power to the UNSC Security Council, forming a necessary wartime government headed by the different branches of the military: Air Force, Army, Marine Corps, and Navy. This interim government is headquartered in Sydney, Australia, in the illustrious Facility Bravo-6.

The UNSC has several organizations within and beside the aforementioned military branches. The most notable of these is the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI), the information gathering and analysis branch of the Navy. Their projects, most of which are classified, assuredly keep humanity safe from the alien menace of the Covenant.

If you have questions about the government, your rights as a citizen, or the enlistment process, please contact your local UNSC outpost or government office. They will provide the information you need. Stay strong and loyal - the war is nearly won!

Chapter Text

August 30, 2552, 1700 Hours

Asźod Ship Breaking Yards, Reach, Epsilon Eridani

The world ended.

Well, another world ended. Hundreds of worlds had been ended over the past decades, so this wasn't too unusual an occurrence. Julian had just seen one end three weeks ago. But considering he'd spent several days in cryo, it was more like one week. The last seven days (Earth days, which the military used for timekeeping no matter what sort of light cycle a planet or moon possessed) were spent watching another end in slow motion as he futilely tried to stem the tide.

Pillars of fire plunged from on high in the distance, slicing through the haze of annihilated cities to scour the last vestiges of life from this region. Hot, dry wind in the dead of winter buffeted his exposed face. Some parts of the planet must have survived, but it felt like the entire biosphere was roasted, joining the rest of the black cloud cover. Humans hadn't created all this; millions of years of evolution was undone. But, of course, the human toll was even more important.

Julian hated the Covenant. He hated it with every fiber of his being, as all humans who weren't psychopaths did. But at that moment, he hated the UNSC more. He hated that they couldn't be effective, that they couldn't save billions of innocent people. He hated that he had just about lost hope that things would get better. He didn't know its population, but Reach was by far the largest human colony outside Sol. The Covenant might have killed more people here than in all their previous attacks combined. He just... he couldn't imagine.

The city of New Alexandria alone, where he and thousands of other Marines fought for surviving citizens to make it to an evac zone, had a population rivaling the metropoles of Earth. Now it was slag. Despite the massive casualties these fucking aliens took, with probably millions of their troops dead and over 100 ships blown out of the sky over weeks of warfare, they kept coming. At least they paid a high price. Every inch of ground was bought with a bucket of their blood.

Focus, Julian told himself, taking a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. One of those little techniques he had been taught to manage the anxiety of warfare, though it never worked for him. He didn't know if it worked for anyone - it might have been a placebo - or if he was broken. But he turned his attention back to the present.

They weren't even supposed to be on the ground anymore: the planet was lost. But Captain Keyes had one more excursion planned before they fell back. After docking at Reach's last unconquered or unglassed piece of land, their mission was to link up with a group of "fellow soldiers" delivering a "critical asset" to the Pillar of Autumn. It was oddly vague, but they had been assured that these soldiers would be difficult to miss. Secondarily, they cleared a path for any workers here to fall back. Julian hadn't seen any civilians, but it was possible some were left behind after the initial retreat.

He wasn't alone. Corporal Garner, Lance Corporal Chase, Private First Class Brown, and Private Espinoza were with him. This was his fireteam, the same one he had been assigned to for the past three months or so. They'd all survived the rockslide on New Jerusalem... but not everyone had been so lucky. A quarter of the platoon had been crushed to death, and a few others killed by a Banshee during the withdrawal. Regardless, he was glad to be back with his team.

Garner had her fist raised in a "hold" position as she peeked out the open doorway of the garage they stood in. No vehicles, sadly; the ones here had already been smelted and recycled into scrap. Only chains and sheet metal remained, the former clanking because of the sirocco whipping through.

He took the opportunity to make sure every member of the team held what they needed, as if they wouldn't know. Garner, their leader, held an M392 DMR, perfect for midrange engagements. A headshot could put any Grunt or Jackal out of their misery. Chase, the grenadier, had an M319 grenade launcher, as well as a few extra frag grenades. He and Brown were the riflemen, each packing an MA5C assault rifle; Julian's had all 32 rounds of the magazine ready to fly. Espinoza, only a private, was the sniper; the kid held an SRS99D-S2 sniper rifle (it was amazing that all these designations had been drilled into his brain).

Kid, Julian thought with a slight shake of his head. She really was only a kid. Most soldiers these days enlisted right out of school - he was a late bloomer when he enlisted at 23. Garner, his superior, was a year younger than him, he knew, before factoring in cryo.

All four figures were surrounded by a faint green glow through his visor, marking them as allies, which was confirmed by four green blips on the small map at the bottom left of the visor. This incredible technology meant he wouldn't accidentally shoot them or other allied troops.

Almost every piece of UNSC military equipment possessed electronic tags that synced to a soldier's visor. When he picked up a gun, internal computers put its ammunition count to the top right (Covenant weaponry was even able to display this information if their weapons were salvaged). If a component was damaged, a warning would pop up and provide instructions on how to fix it. A suite of sensors monitored his biometrics and averaged them into a "health bar" at the top of his field of view. The motion detector emitted quick bursts of radio waves, like a personal version of radar. Nearby moving individuals or vehicles equipped with active UNSC gear were designated as friendly green dots. Large moving objects without the IFFs were flagged as hostile red dots. He imagined the Covenant had similar mechanisms.

It wasn't foolproof - he'd heard civilians were occasionally accidentally mistaken for Covenant soldiers and gunned down because civilian clothing rarely had such IFFs implanted - but accidents were few and far between. For the time being, no enemies were nearby... or if there were, they moved slowly enough that the system registered them as static objects.

Taken together, it gave Julian more information about his equipment, his surroundings, and even himself than any other soldier in history. It still often wasn't enough to ensure victory, yet without it, they would have lost much more.

Garner pointed forward at long last - she may have feared something was out there, though Julian saw no red icons on his motion tracker. His assault rifle was at the ready, and he felt the subtle motion of the M6G magnum on his hip. The pistol was nothing compared to his rifle's stopping power, but it had saved his hide in a pinch once or twice. He fell into position and ducked out, hustling at a slight crouch.

His nose was immediately filled with dust upon exiting, though he did a good job of not coughing his lungs out. It wasn't just sand - the stuff must have been the vaporized remnants of cities, a good chunk of Reach's biosphere, and, God help him, human remains. He took death into himself. He'd never smelled it this bad before, but the Covenant had been here a while and roasted more of the planet than they normally bothered with. This was Reach's last stand. His hands tightened on his gun, which was the only way he had to impose his will onto the universe. If these were the final moments of a proud planet, the planet would go down swinging.

"Latest intel is spotty, but command believes the people we're looking for are coming from this way," Garner spoke as they continued their advance. The words flowed directly into his ears from speakers in his helmet. These also translated Garner's French. While English was Julian's native tongue and the most common human dialect, it was by no means the only one spoken. It really depended on the world; he believed people on Reach mostly spoke Hungarian. Distant automatic fire all but confirmed command's notion, unless one of the other fireteams got ahead - there must have been dozens along the miles-long front.

"We find the friendlies, link up with them, and fall back? Sounds simple enough," Espinoza said. Her... well, not cheer, but optimism reminded Julian of his own early military days, back when he believed the bullshit the UNSC peddled about humanity driving the Covenant back. There was no way people in Sol would be allowed to know aliens destroyed Reach and were now on Earth's doorstep. If it didn't happen for the hundreds of worlds before, it wasn't going to happen now.

"Being simple doesn't mean easy," Chase growled. Even through the speakers, he sounded more like a woodchipper than a man. It may have been the smoking. Despite centuries of research proving tobacco, genuine or cloned, was unhealthy, people kept using it. Sure, cancer could be cured with a few injections and maybe a round of chemotherapy if it was particularly aggressive (and Julian only knew this because his mother's clinic saw some patients occasionally), but it still brought a host of other health consequences. Then again, it probably didn't matter for the average soldier's life expectancy.

"If it did, Espinoza would be a quick score," Brown added with a whistle.

"You're a pig. It's a wonder Dirt hasn't shot you yet," Espinoza retaliated, sounding both genuinely angry and a little amused.

"All right, everyone lock it down... especially you, Brown. If you want to bicker, do it once we're back at the Autumn," was Corporal Garner's response. Steely eyes looked at them through her visor.

"Yes, ma'am," came out in a chorus. Even from Julian, despite not saying anything. He kept his mouth shut on missions unless it was important. What was there to say at a time like this?

To the right was a great cliff face emptying into a basin, where beams of plasma cut swathes through the crust. To the left was a craggy, impassable range of peaks. Behind them was the landing platform where the Pillar of Autumn had precipitously docked, the bow hanging uncomfortably over said cliff. Ships almost a mile long weren't supposed to touch a world's surface, but a rare flash-dock made today an exception. The engineers must have worked frantically to attach the thrust couplings that'd provide the boost needed to achieve orbit. At least the air defenses seemed to hold - MAC railguns intermittently fired to make sure nothing got too close, and Julian thought he saw one nail an errant Phantom in a spectacular display of overkill. Magnetic accelerator cannons were meant to bring down spaceworthy ships, not troop transports.

Ahead was a small rise and a pass through the mountains. That was where the battle unfurled like a war scroll, one where every ounce of spilled blood was another line making history.

They fell from one piece of cover to the next: a broken forklift, a shipping crate, a building whose roof had been blasted off. The battle was closer, but it was not yet joined. One final obstacle came in the form of a building larger than the others they'd crept through. Instead of a garage, storage shed, or something more logistical, this was clearly one of the main facilities for scrapping and smelting.

Metal doors hung limply on their hinges, and slats of light from high, narrow windows paint the concrete floor. He saw the bottom of a great tub hanging from the ceiling that perhaps was used as a cauldron for molten metal. They'd need to go inside to learn more.

Julian's stomach fell as Garner gestured to him, then the door. It needed to be opened a little more, and he was chosen as the one to do it. He silently sighed before looking back and forth for any sign of life, human or alien. Aside from scuffed footprints in the dust, it may as well have been the surface of Mars. Well, Mars before it had been colonized several hundred years ago.

He bolted forward and pressed his gloved hands against the rough metal. Started by exerting as little pressure as possible, ramping up every second the sheet refused to move along its rusted track. His palms sweated against the fabric. Every second they spent waiting was one where others died. Judging by the screams on the other side of the building, his allies needed all the help they could get.

At last, he reached the minimum amount of pressure he could apply to move the door another two feet. It made a slight grinding noise, nearly imperceptible above the sounds of combat and whipping wind. The second it was wide enough, four bodies pushed past him into the main chamber.

Aside from a few catwalks and the large bucket hanging from the ceiling, the space was completely empty. It gave Julian a strange feeling, though one completely overwhelmed by the normal jitters of being in the field. It felt... liminal. That was the right word, he thought. But they weren't going to remain here long. More identical closed doors to the one they entered through were on each side of the room, but it was obvious based on the noises which one they'd exit through. With little immediate danger this time, the fireteam approached as a group.

They didn't need to worry about opening this door, because it exploded open when they were only 20 feet away.

Julian almost shat himself. Two beings clad in gunmetal gray armor as thick as that of a starship rushed in, looking back and forth with eyeless heads. More than two, actually. These beings were hundreds of alien worms, each the length of a human, fused into a bipedal shape. Each worm was a sapient being, it seemed, but they could interface their minds and bodies to fight as a single, lethal unit.

He didn't know whether this was a trap the Covenant set or if they were just unlucky. Either way, they were all going to die. Hunters were the Covenant's strongest ground troops. Eight feet tall on a good day (though these ones looked more like 10), They were a match for a tank, not troopers. Certainly not ones without heavy artillery while in a literal kill box. Where the fuck was intel on this?! They knew to go in this direction, but not that they walked to their deaths?!

Someone screamed, and Julian didn't know if it was him. The Hunters quickly focused on the prey which provided itself to them.

Still, maybe not all hope was lost, Julian thought a quarter second later. A shot to the back, the primary unarmored segment of these things, might be enough to bring one down as a bullet originally designed to kill Earth megafauna shredded the core. Barring that, Chase needed to put down every single explosive he carried between them and these monsters. Their sniper, in one of the most heroic acts Julian had seen a private take, rushed around the side while the aliens were distracted and tried to do just that. The Hunters didn't allow Espinoza to make a shot after the first one, which ricocheted off one's chest and out through a window. Instead, two shots were fired from the fuel rod cannon that was one Hunter's entire arm.

While not literally nuclear fuel rods, the cylindrical shape, green glow, and toxic liquid these projectiles dispersed upon impact evoked images of them from popular culture. Espinoza never stood a chance. Two shots. If the room had been larger, maybe she could have dodged. As it was, the fact they missed hardly mattered. In fact, it prolonged her life enough to feel what must have been one of the most agonizing executions in the Covenant's torturous arsenal.

Espinoza was engulfed in emerald fire. She and her gear melted before Julian's eyes, collapsing mid-stride and becoming a puddle of burning slime between two craters. She hadn't even screamed. As this happened, Chase lobbed a grenade at the other Hunter, and it returned the gift before detonation.

The force of a frag being kicked by an entity strong enough to lift a Scorpion tank was nothing short of astonishing - as was the Hunter's aim. Chase's head was gone, blown through by a grenade moving as fast as a bullet. The explosion as it hit the wall was completely incidental to the corpse already falling to the ground.

With the main threats dead, the Hunters were rendered essentially impervious. They could easily clean up these lesser threats. Faced with impossible odds, Garner didn't flee. She fired into the few exposed parts of the first Hunter as it rushed toward her. They hit, against all odds, but she may as well have hit it with pillows for all the good it did. Julian couldn't blink. Both arms, one with a gun and one equipped with a battleplate shield, were raised and brought down, cracking the ground like an asteroid impact. She never stood a chance.

"Dirt, we have to get the fuck out of here!" the other last man standing screamed. Brown tried to run, but it was too late. In fact, a moving target may have extended Julian's life by a few more precious moments. The second Hunter ran up to Brown, using strides twice as long as a human's to keep pace... and just kept running a few more steps. It didn't even bother to hit him when trampling him to paste worked just as well.

In less than five seconds, Julian stood alone. He hadn't moved a muscle or done anything to preserve himself. It was just luck. But now that luck turned around as both Hunters fixated on the last puny human. His life didn't flash before his eyes (it never had), but he felt a crushing, cold loneliness, more intense than deep space, settle over him. He would never see his family again. He was going to die on a dying planet.

Then an angel came.

Julian wasn't particularly religious, not like his mother was, yet he believed there was a God somewhere out there, perhaps one who even cared about humanity in some small way. Not enough to save them from destruction, but perhaps not willing to entirely damn them. It wasn't an angel of this deity who answered his prayer. No, the angel that came to save him was one of humanity's own making. And they had a gun.

They dropped from one of the catwalks above behind the first Hunter. One blast from the shotgun they held made it lurch forward. During this loss of balance, the defender's arm shot out almost faster than Julian's eye could perceive. The Hunter tried to reach around with an arm as thick as Julian's torso, but they weren't long enough. A muffled explosion came from within the monster, and orange gore shot from every seam. The Hunter fell in a pile, now a mass of sludge held together by armor. A live grenade had been shoved into the mass of worms that made up its freakish body, Julian realized.

The second Hunter lost all focus on Julian and, the way they always did when the other member of their pair was killed, shifted to killing this angel. A bellowing sound emitted from deep within its bulk. Julian had to imagine it was a cry of anguish, and that brought him a modicum of joy. Some speculated that pairs of Hunters, for they always traveled in twos, were family members, others that they shared a technological connection. All he knew was that when one died, the other always went berserk, totally focused on the object of its rage.

The angel stood its ground as the Hunter charged across the unbroken expanse of concrete. They didn't shoot at the beast, though. They shot up.

The smelting cauldron was still anchored to the roof by chains, which all converged on a single massive hook. An expert shot shattered those bindings. It fell 30 feet onto the rabid bunch of worms, pinning it to the floor. It tried to get up, but the tub must have weighed even more than it did. The angel found an exposed segment, pressed their shotgun against it, and fired until the Hunter stopped struggling. Julian felt like this was a scene from a movie, but it was so painfully real. In less time than it took them to kill his team, this person dispatched two of the deadliest creatures known to mankind.

The angel walked toward him through the fog of war. Or, rather, the greatest warrior of all time. A Spartan.

They stood almost seven feet tall, dwarfing most humans, though still much shorter than the monstrosities they'd just killed. Skill was more important than size. Their armor was deep blue with rust red highlights - colors which were meant to draw the eye. Spartans, from what he knew, didn't often rely on stealth. Instead, they wanted all the attention on them. More aliens could be killed that way. Even its composition of shining metal was unlike the matte black and gray BDU he donned. An envelope of energy around them finished healing from their long drop: a personal energy shield. The rechargeable barrier was the same thing Elites used to deflect fire, and Julian heard rumors each unit cost as much as a starship to produce. A silver visor on a helmet like that of an ODST's hid their face.

"Are you hurt, soldier?" While he couldn't tell before, the voice let him know that Spartan was a woman. Her voice sounded kind, but she didn't talk down to him. She just... sounded like a regular person.

"I - I think I'm all right, ma'am." Didn't feel any wounds in him, though he might notice something minor once the adrenaline died down. He added a polite nod. Bad practice to salute superiors on the battlefield; if any Covenant saw, they'd know the more important target… not that they had to guess. Nor did Julian. There was no indication of rank on her armor, but it was safe to guess she was far, far higher than he would ever ascend to.

"Are you the one we're..." He looked around at the chunks of his team, and reality suddenly hit with the force of a Warthog. The people he'd worked with for months, the people he was closest to in the depths of space, were gone. "The one I'm looking for?" he choked out. He'd seen so many people die in horrible ways, including people he'd worked with for weeks or months. Somehow, he was the one to make it out of these debacles. But this was the first time his entire fireteam... the first time all of them died at once. It took every ounce of training to hold himself together. He could cry once he was somewhere safe. Is anywhere safe now?

"Yes. I've been dispatched to deliver a critical package to the Pillar of Autumn. You and any other soldiers we find are to escort me," she continued. While she didn't say it, he could tell from the tone in her voice that she was sorry. Anger flared within him. If she'd arrived five seconds earlier, they would still be alive. If she'd arrived five seconds later, he would have joined them. Maybe he should have.

He bit his tongue and wanted to slap his own face right in front of his savior! He didn't want to die, and he knew his teammates wouldn't want him to, either. Garner would kick his ass if he said that to her a minute ago. He had to keep going.

The idea of him "escorting" her was ludicrous. He'd need the rest of his fireteam to be even a tenth as effective as her, and they both knew it. This may as well have been a formality. But he was still a soldier, and he wouldn't become a liability by letting this Spartan babysit him. And if others linked up, they would be somewhat effective. As he looked at blood and glass mingling with light from shattered windows, he said something else.

"Ma'am, I - I was informed there w-would be others with you." He tried to control his voice, to not let it crack. For her part, she stood silently. He almost expected her to chastise him for his unprofessionalism, but she did no such thing.

"Spartan A239 split off to secure his own route." Going solo so casually would have been impossible for an average soldier. If Julian tried that, he would have needed at least one other person to watch his back. "Unfortunately, his radio was fried. As for Spartan A259… he's dea - missing in action." He cringed. It was an open secret, at least in the military, that Spartans who died were never listed as "killed in action." They were always "missing," even if a body was recovered. The euphemism was so prevalent that all personnel were to talk about Spartans dying as if it never happened. Saying that one died warranted a trip to the brig. Even Spartans themselves needed to use it, apparently. She looked at the remains of those she couldn't help.

"I know how you feel." She began to briskly walk the way Julian came from.

"Wait," he softly called. The Spartan turned her head without a word. There was one more thing he needed to do. He ran to each broken body, rifling through pulverized bits and guts to retrieve their dog tags. He had to close his eyes, for he couldn't bear to look at them for too long, despite all the other carnage he'd seen. He navigated by touch, groping exposed bone and sinew. His hands were covered in blood by the end, but he located three out of the four.

He couldn't find Espinoza's. They were either blasted far away or, more likely, melted by the toxic blast, which he didn't want to stick his arms into. Sorry, Julian thought, eyes downcast, as if any part of her was left to care.

"Here." A blue-armored hand held out the missing tags came into his vision. Though scorched, they were still in one piece. Julian looked into the enigmatic silver visor, seeing only himself looking back. "No one gets left behind... if you can help it."

145th Unit, 16th Cycle, 27th Revolution, Ninth Age of Reclamation

Asźod Ship Breaking Yards, Reach, Epsilon Eridani

The sounds of battle roared some distance away as Riin and her lance stalked through a jumble of metal pipes the width of a mgalelekgolo - she'd seen a couple earlier, so she imagined them running through these tunnels. The three unggoy were up front, whispering among themselves. Officer Zuka 'Zamamee took up the middle. Riin was at the rear, listening to the sounds of this dying world. Based on how long the gunning continued, she'd call this engagement a stalemate between the forces of good and evil. They could have helped; Riin doubted it would take much to shift the tide in good's favor, especially if they came from the rear.

However, Officer 'Zamamee decided to take a different approach. That was where these channels came in. It was unusual for a sangheili to sneak around and ambush the enemy instead of slogging into "honorable" combat. SpecOps sangheili were sometimes seen as lacking honor by others of their species. That was also a reason why snipers were almost exclusively kig-yar and sometimes yanme'e: it was seen as a lesser thing among sangheili and jiralhanae to attack humans with the benefit of distance.

Still, perhaps she made too much of it. As long as humans were cleansed, it didn't matter much to his superiors. And while she mourned for her lost brothers and sisters, she had been assigned to 'Zamamee's command. His decisions may as well have been spoken by the Prophets themselves. It was not her place to question him, nor was she responsible for his actions. And, in theory, it was safer for Riin, Difup, Kuzu, and Plud.

In actuality, this place made her feathers stand on end. While not claustrophobic - that was a trait anyone, even someone with flying ancestors, who lived aboard a spaceship quickly got over - she would have greatly preferred to take the high ground instead of skulking through these tubes. A sniper like her was of little use in close quarters, especially with a human who could punch through walls nearby. She shuddered at the thought and was glad to walk at the rear so her fear couldn't be seen.

Reports came in through the local proselytization network over the last several centals that something was among them: a "Spartan." The term, which the humans created, was the official designation of these entities. But it was not the name they were commonly known by.

Just as some less-educated people believed humans to be incarnated spirits from the Lower Worlds, there were those who thought the supersoldiers were particularly powerful shades. Enough for the moniker "Demon" to stick, instead. Riin disliked the term. It added a sense of mystery and invincibility where there was none to be found, as if humanity had mastered the universe as much as the Forerunners. They were not literal things of smoke, fire, and protean chaos. They were simply humans, as had been proven by examination of dead ones - the ones whose bodies could be recovered. Deadly, scary humans with significant biological and technological augmentations, but humans nevertheless. They could be killed… and the reward for killing one was great.

By edict from the Hierarchs, anyone who provided evidence (usually by presenting the armor these murderers wore) of scoring the kill would gain a place of honor in the Great Journey and much privilege in this life: money, property, power, whatever they wished for slaying the ultimate enemy soldier. Such a prize must have been claimed no more than a dozen times in the last 27 revolutions; while more Spartans had died, it was often in spectacular explosions, hails of plasmatic fire, or the space vessels they rode aboard being blown up. Not enough was usually left to collect the bounty. There must have been hundreds of soldiers like 'Zamamee salivating for the opportunity to destroy one in a place where it could be preserved with relative ease.

As for Riin, while thoughts of fame, glory, and pleasing the gods appealed to her, she also wanted to survive the day. Fighting a Spartan was likely a death sentence. Smart soldiers stayed as far away from them as possible. If it found them in this place... she stood no chance. The good news was that 'Zamamee would put up a fight. Not because he cared about her or the unggoy - she didn't believe he'd shed a tear if they were all torn to shreds - but he cared very much about all that would be his if he killed this Spartan. Enough that he led them into a place where none of them would do very well. He was the only one equipped with armor which could blend him into the background! SpecOps sangheili possessed "active camouflage" capabilities, not to mention their energy shielding.

Part of her suspected that he'd prefer to remain cloaked constantly, but his combat harness had enough power to run it only briefly before it needed to recharge. There was also an expectation that superior officers would lead their troops instead of hiding from them.

Barring killing the Spartan, they were to kill all the humans they could find. Every individual they killed now was one fewer to kill later. Her lance hadn't found any yet, but based on intermittent weapon discharges Riin heard, she knew there were pockets of humans around.

They rounded a bend in the maze, and Riin found herself staring at the end of the tunnel while whipping wind rushed through her feathers. The glare of a plasma beam far in the distance cleansed the earth, and the whole atmosphere was in turmoil. She squinted, unable to look directly at it. The tube focused all light from that direction into her face. They found themselves very close to the edge of this cliff.

"Wait," 'Zamamee declared as Riin began to turn around. She halted with one foot in the air, and the three unggoy ceased their chittering. At first, she heard nothing but the wind, weapon discharge and explosions, and the contractions of her own heart. But then she heard footfalls. Not those of any Covenant species - they were all different enough that she knew the noises their movements created, and this was none of them.

That meant they were human footsteps, though she couldn't tell how many. Kig-yar hearing wasn't as developed as their keen eyesight, nor was their sense of smell. Her detection systems, supposed to passively scan for movement of things equipped and not equipped with IFFs, were thrown off by being in the tunnel. Couldn't have been many, though, since they otherwise wouldn't have fit through the small gap between the edge of this maze and the cliffside. Their leader quietly ushered them to a corner, which all peeked around. It must have been a ridiculous sight to a potential observer: three unggoy all peered out on the bottom, then Riin, then a sangheili towering above the rest. A shadow grew on the exterior ground.

"Demon or not, we attack," 'Zamamee rumbled. "Make me proud." Riin bowed slightly, though her stomach churned so much she thought she would vomit. If the Spartan were here, she'd have only one chance to attack. Riin fished a grenade from her hip, which may as well have been a black hole, considering how much it weighed in that moment.

Difup, as the demolitionist, shouldered a Pez'tk-pattern flak launcher, a weapon more powerful than all the other arms put together. The yellow device was similar to a mgalelekgolo's cannon, though smaller and somewhat less explosive. He would be the one to primarily lay down fire, even if it was overkill - that was the only way to deal with a Spartan.

"Not this time," 'Zamamee growled. "And no grenades." His eyes drilled directly into her own as he said the second part. Riin found herself baffled by the order, as did Difup as he lowered the launcher. She clipped the grenade back to her hip. Riin was dumbstruck by the choice to put away their best chances to win. She prayed that the shape wasn't a Spartan, because if it was, their chances of victory without a miracle went from dim to ebon.

The crunching of dust and sand approached, and the shadow seemed to engulf the entrance. The light suddenly died; something walked between her and the plasma beam. Based on the size and armor of one of the beings, she knew with absolute, terrible certainty that this was the Spartan. The monstrous legends she'd heard whispered throughout her military revolutions came true. She didn't know how she would survive the next few instants. But she would try.

As she moved, her mind hit upon a terrible realization. She knew why their commander, ostensibly the person supposed to be concerned for their wellbeing, told them to handicap themselves. If their most powerful explosives annihilated the Spartan or blew its body off the cliff, 'Zamamee wouldn't get to collect the bounty. He intentionally kneecapped them to win glory! Now his charges would pay for that arrogance.

Everyone save Difup started shooting. Riin with her carbine, 'Zamamee with his Okarda'phaa-pattern plasma rifle, Kuzu with his Eos'Mak-pattern plasma pistol, and Plud with her Nahle'hax-pattern needle launcher. The Spartan shoved the sole other human it walked with out of the line of fire. Its shields rippled, and for a moment, Riin dared to hope they could actually win. Then the pistol came out, and Riin knew it was over. Despite the primitive nature of human firearms, she had no shield and goggles instead of a helmet. One well-placed shot, even from a gun so small, and she would meet the gods earlier than she wanted.

The other human, shielded by the lip of the pipe, stuck its rifle around the corner and prepared to shoot. She had the opportunity to make one shot between the two targets. There was no chance of killing the Spartan - even with its shields diminished, one needle wouldn't break them. Therefore, she aimed at the smaller human. The carbine was centered on its exposed head, though, as often happened, it was almost like she saw through it. The reticle her goggles imposed on her field of view still settled into the correct spot.

Pull. The hypersonic round flew from the muzzle faster than any eye could perceive, and the enemy fired at the same moment. As she dove around the corner, though, she saw that it had embedded itself into the human's head, piercing deep into the helmet. It should have been a clean kill.

The problem was that the helmet kept going. The strap under the human's jaw holding the helm to the head must have been previously frayed, and being loose made her aim a little too high. Or maybe she just missed. It hit the side of the cliff before bouncing and falling into the chasm. She had just enough time to look back and find three of her colleagues dead.

Difup and Plud were struck by pinpoint headshots, more accurate than even her own. Their brains were spread in streaks down the tunnel. Kuzu had been shredded by automatic ballistic fire from the human she shot; he twitched once before his leaking methane tank ignited and blew him to bits. Officer 'Zamamee dashed away, aware the engagement had been lost. Riin kept up in a panic, able to track his temporarily invisible form by the heavy footprints his running made in this confined space. She knew shots were being fired, yet not if they were anywhere near her. The fact she wasn't already dead or too injured to move was a good indication they missed. Adrenaline flooded her body, giving her the strength to run, but not much more than that.

Ignoring orders, a shaking hand unhooked and activated the grenade she planned to throw earlier. Its seams glowed with a sickly purple light as it prepared to vent its payload. She would have been unable to throw it with his arm nearly limp, but she didn't need to. She dropped it. That would put a little distance between her and the Spartan... but her best chance of survival, she grimly realized, was if it deemed her unworthy of pursuit.

A cental later, she and 'Zamamee broke free from the tunnels on the far end, pressed against broken mountains. They weren't followed. 'Zamamee's cloak dropped, and she saw him silently fume. Not, clearly, at soldiers under his command dying, but because he didn't get the glory.

"Well," he rasped, "we should find easier prey." It took every fiber of Riin's being to hold herself together. She wasn't sure if he'd broken any laws, but she would find a way to let his superiors know exactly what he had done. She would take the news of his cowardice and dishonor all the way to the top. He thought himself superior to them, but he acted no better than the basest kig-yar. Still, she needed to be careful until the mission was over.

If she told him what she planned to do... he could kill her on the spot. Why wouldn't he when he sacrificed three lives to gain nothing? Nothing but the ire of the gods.

August 30, 2552, 1730 Hours

Once again, this Spartan saved Julian's life. He couldn't have beaten an... Elite, three Grunts, and a Jackal, he believed it was. He'd have died if he engaged them alone, or even if he ran. The damn Jackal almost shot him in the head! Only his helmet being loose - the chinstrap must have been frayed from some previous engagement - saved his brain from being penetrated by that needle.

There was no time to think about how close he came to death, though. There was still more walking to do in the blistering heat, which whipped up from the area to his left, which kept getting glassed. Several ships lingered just out of range of the MAC guns, and maybe they had nothing better to do than burn things for fun. He had a canteen of recycled water on him, but he knew he wouldn't have been able to keep anything down if he took a swig.

As they walked, the Spartan asked him if he was hurt, and he again replied that he was not. Then she said something he never expected: "Take my helmet."

Julian blinked, unable to get his head around the words. A Spartan... wanted to share her armor with him? "Why?"

"Your head is vulnerable, but I know how to protect mine." She just wouldn't get hit there. Of course, it was so easy. Well, if she was so confident, then he had no reason to refuse the protection. A hissing sound briefly added to the whipping wind as she twisted the helmet with both hands and slowly lifted it.

Skin paler than his own met the fading sun and light from plasmatic pillars - she must have practically lived in that armor. Close-cropped red hair, a rarity in the modern day, soaked with sweat and condensation. Her facial features were remarkably symmetrical... except for the battle damage. Strangely, there were scars along her head and neck: burns, slashes, and a chunk of her right ear was missing. Maybe it wasn't so strange, but he always imagined them as being untouchable. Instead, it was clear she had seen a staggering amount of violence. The marks made her look more human. All this was nothing compared to her eyes, though, which were soft, calm, radiant things.

She was beautiful, Julian realized. Some Marines must have fantasized about Spartans (perhaps he did a time or two), but in that moment, he felt no lust or lechery. She was simply an aesthetic paragon, reminding him of sculptures and paintings from the Renaissance, just with physical proof of her heroism. Perfect in appearance as well as the capabilities of her body. He took the blue helmet and rolled it over in his hands.

"Were you an ODST before becoming a Spartan?" he asked. Though the origins of these heroes was rarely touched upon, the helmet was in the style of the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Aside from Spartans, they were humanity's greatest heroes, falling behind enemy lines to perform acts few others could.

"I've worked with ODSTs before, but I was never one of them," she replied, seeming to want to dive no deeper into that topic. "Spartans can customize their armor - within limits, of course." Sure. Not like they could put cat ears on their helmets or anything ridiculous, but he knew they had leeway. "I wear a version of the ODST helmet both because I like the look and because I admire them."

"You admire them?" Hero worship mostly went the other way. Julian appreciated both... but there was no comparison. ODSTs were fine. Hell, they were the best the Marines had to offer. But Spartans were on a different level. The supersoldiers had been around almost since the war began. Culled from the very best of all branches of the military, they were humanity's sword and shield, equipped with armor and cybernetic implants no one else was tough enough to handle. They were larger than life. Bigger than any movie star or politician. Of course he preferred them.

"And regular soldiers, too," she replied, which threw him for another loop. He felt himself blush... or maybe the 100-degree Fahrenheit air started to burn his exposed face. She looked up to him?! She should have looked down on him, as she physically did, being so much taller. "They're ordinary men and women who choose to risk their lives for humanity. It's much more dangerous for you than it is for me." Julian never thought about it like that. If everyone could do what Spartans could, war wouldn't be much of a challenge. "Plus, you have more to lose."

"And you don't? You don't have anyone who cares about you?" he asked. The cloudy expression that fell over her face was his answer. She turned away.

Julian struck a nerve, or at least annoyed her with the question, and he silently cursed at himself. Then he slipped the helmet onto his head and followed her. The minute they'd spent standing around was one too many.

Despite the visor's silver exterior, he saw through the interior normally. He didn't know what science was at work, but he did understand everything else. Though it covered his entire face, the only difference in the HUD's layout from his visor was an additional bar above the "health" readout for the wearer's shields. It had been grayed out, recognizing the rest of the armor it had been attached to lacked energy barriers. The fit was good, too. Despite the Spartan being a woman, her great size meant it popped on like a hat made for him.

"Hello," a woman's voice said.

"Who's there?" he asked, his head shooting around to find the source. He saw nothing but ruins; this place became an ancient desert before his eyes.

"Relax, I'm not out there - I'm in here." Oh. It had a speaker, just like his regular equipment. He wasn't hearing ghosts. "And you don't have to shout, I'll hear you just fine if you whisper." As he walked, he noticed an item strapped to the Spartan in front of him. His eye hadn't been drawn to it before, as she carried a lot of things he didn't recognize, but a light within it glowed brighter. It appeared to be a metal cylinder about the length of his forearm, though the central part was constructed from something tough and transparent. Clamps held a chip the size of a playing card in the middle, and it was the central part of that which flared blue. "That's me."

"You're an AI?" he asked, not particularly surprised. Artificial intelligences were everywhere in human society. They helped run spaceships and cities - his native Crisium City on Luna among them. But these, despite being able to hold conversations, answer detailed questions, run complex systems, even pen passable poetry, weren't self-aware or sapient. It was a pantomime of life. "Dumb" AIs, they were called, though that was a bit of a misnomer in Julian's opinion, for most were objectively smarter than him. He could tell this one was different just based on the sass in its - her - voice.

He'd heard that smart AIs had gender identities and preferred to be called by the sex they presented as rather than "it," though he didn't really know. Julian had never talked to a smart AI. These were truly aware synthetic minds, and they were far, far rarer; their creation was strictly controlled, and the resources it took to make one were astronomical. Really only the government had them, particularly the military, though maybe a few had gone rouge.

"Cortana," she said. That must have been her name. "I wanted to introduce myself, seeing as you'll be the only one I can talk to for the next several minutes. It's highly unorthodox for a Spartan to share personal equipment, but if it saves your life, well, it would be heartless of me to complain."

"Well, hello... um, ma'am." He wasn't sure what rank Cortana was, or if AIs even held ranks, but it seemed an appropriate way to address her. She came with the Spartan, so she was pretty important. In fact, she must have been the "critical package" the Spartan mentioned!

"I appreciate the power trip, but just call me Cortana," she replied. "Though I should let you know that if you ask me anything, I'll probably have to say, 'It's classified.'" There was a pause, and Julian didn't know what would come next. "If it's worth anything, I'm sorry about those people back there. I can tell they meant a lot to you." Julian's shoulders slumped, and he felt his feet drag slightly. He wasn't going to be an asshole by brushing her off, but she didn't understand. Sapient or not, how could she comprehend death? AIs didn't die in the way humans did. She didn't have a family, and he doubted a military AI had friends, either.

"It happens," he muttered. And he meant it. It did happen. One reason he tried to not get too attached to people. Though he knew his fireteam well, he wasn't sure he could call them friends, let alone family. That didn't lessen the pain. Maybe he'd one day be assigned to people whom he formed that kind of connection with... assuming he lived that long.

And he did. He saw no combat the rest of the walk back, as the final retreat had been sounded. With contact made, it seemed all the other fireteams already fell back. Now, strangely, Julian was one of the final people who stood on Reach. The Pillar of Autumn grew larger with every step, now a mountain painted against the ashen sky.

"So, what have you been doing recently?" He had no idea what he hoped to accomplish with the question, but he didn't know the next time he'd talk to a smart AI. He wanted to say something, if only to get his attention off what he'd just seen. And heard. And felt.

"Oh, the usual," Cortana replied. "Helping formulate the defense of humanity, crunching millions of equations per minute, calculating acceptable losses… if they can be called that. The usual." She said this without joy. Julian imagined there was none to be found; she was created for war, and that had been her entire existence. Come to think of it, though, so had his life. "I found some very interesting coordinates, as well." That last part was added almost as an afterthought, yet it intrigued Julian. "But as I said - it's classified."

The several seconds this exchange took brought him closer to the ship, so that was as much a victory as he could expect. He and the Spartan were almost upon it. A makeshift landing pad had been erected on a platform overlooking a gap between the scrapyard and the Pillar of Autumn itself. A ship of its size, being normally unable to land on a world, also had no way to disgorge its troops, so flocks of Pelicans flew to and from the vessel, staying low to avoid fire. Scorching on a few let Julian know a few Covenant teams could have gotten close. A couple hundred feet away, surrounded by a building of its own, was a house-sized MAC cannon: the sole thing keeping the aliens at bay.

It reminded him of being on New Jerusalem mere weeks ago. The same thing happened again, just on a much larger scale. The same misery, despair, and death. Now they ran. This time, though, they had backup.

The few soldiers left on the tarmac by the time they arrived looked at the Spartan with abject awe. Their jaws hung slack even as dead eyes flared back to life. She resurrected them, as she did him, with her mere presence. Julian suddenly realized something: Spartans weren't just great soldiers. They inspired others to greatness, or at least to be better than before. Could anyone else have gotten that reaction? He thought not.

As if notified by her being there, the next group of Pelicans that came to evacuate the last few dozen Marines carried a special passenger. One opened, and she was called to the front. Julian went, too, since he still had her property.

It seemed the celebrity parade would never end. Captain Keyes sat in this bird. The Pillar of Autumn's leader wasn't nearly as much of a mystery. Julian must have seen him at least once a month going from one place to another, but they never talked. Why would they?

"Good to see you, Noble Six," he said, treating this more casually than Julian thought he had a right to. "Halsey assured me I could count on you." Halsey. She was the scientist who spearheaded the creation of the Spartans, he believed. Their inventor, essentially. That was all Julian knew about her. Might not have been much more to know, considering how classified everything about the Spartans was. But it sounded like she and Captain Keyes were close. He also finally knew what this Spartan was called. Not her first name, but something deeper.

"Not just me, sir..." She looked down at the dust-covered metal, and Julian almost thought he saw the beginnings of a tear develop. But it wasn't to last.

"They're heroes. Every last one of them," said Keyes. The captain cast his eyes at Julian, a brow raised by his choice in headgear. Before he could account, Noble Six intervened, composed as before.

"He lost his helmet in a fight, and no replacement was readily available. The only way I could ensure his safety was to give him mine." The answer seemed to satisfy the captain, though Julian realized how weird it must have looked to see the contrast between this colorful specialty equipment and the green, brown, gray, or black of standard Marine gear.

"I think you wear it well," Cortana chimed in his ear, which he didn't reply to. "What, no 'thank you?' Fine." That was the last thing he heard from her as Noble Six unslung the cylinder containing Cortana from her back, which she presented to Keyes like a trophy. He passed it off to a trusted assistant. A gust of wind pushed the Pelican a few feet away before the pilot brought it back to hover where it had been before.

"Well, we may have the package, but we're not out of the woods yet." Keyes was positively grim as he gestured behind the odd couple. Julian's blood ran cold as he turned around. A Covenant ship, one of their cruisers, by the looks of it, trundled forward, danger be damned. Its leader must have wanted to go for the kill, MAC or not. Based on the heading, it would be at them in minutes. The nearby gun he noticed would probably be enough to shoot it down. "Noble Four better have fire on that cruiser, or none of us are getting out of here. The railgun he's on is the last MAC we have, and the automatic targeting is out."

As if summoned, Julian saw a human shape slide across the surface of the gun, having just shot two Elites with a shotgun. They tumbled over the edge and out of sight. Another Spartan, he could tell even from this distance. And this one had a skull carved into his visor. He looked like death in the most literal way. That was why the ship came - it knew the cannon was under attack, and whoever was in charge assumed these forces would finish the job!

"Who's next?!" The Spartan's radio may have been fried, but Julian heard him without it. An Elite, one of the most massive he had ever seen, sprang from the darkness and answered the question by impaling the man through the back with an energy sword. The Spartan, clinging to life, shoved his shotgun under the Elite's split chin, pressed it directly against the armor to bypass the energy shields, and pulled the trigger. They grappled before also falling out of sight.

Despite seeing it happen, Julian knew the Spartan wasn't dead.

He was just missing in action.

Fear hung in the hot, dry air for an eternal moment. The Covenant ship continued to cut across the sky, which was Julian's only way to judge the brief passage of time.

"I have the gun," Six said after what felt like forever. Her expression was one of resolve. Like she always knew this was how it would end.

"Stop," Julian said before she left, suddenly feeling like an idiot. "Let me go instead." He didn't think about the words. They just came out. "There are people who need you. You're more important than I am!" If he went and she stayed, she could have saved thousands more lives than he was capable of.

Some people might have called the offer heroic. Julian didn't see it that way. He thought that he was going to die no matter what, so he may as well have tried to help as many people as he could. If anything... he almost wanted to die.

"You'd never make it there alive," Six said, and he knew in his heart she was right. There must have been more Elites in the building, and even if he got past them, he didn't know how to shoot a railgun. He felt like an asshole for wasting precious seconds of her time. Her eyes were no less radiant than before, yet they were also filled with a fire that made the stuff falling from the sky seem cold. "Besides, I'm supposed to protect you. That's why I exist."

Time ran out. He boarded the last Pelican out, the one with Captain Keyes, before realizing he still had something of hers.

"Wait, your helmet!" he yelled, ripping it from his head.

"I won't need it anymore," Six called back. "Give it to someone who does." She strode into a dust cloud kicked up by another Pelican, and Julian knew that would be the last time he ever saw her. They flew away.

"I'll take that, soldier." The captain held out his hands to receive something there must have been regulations against a normal Marine donning in the first place. Which also cost more money than he'd ever make. "For what it's worth, you did well. There might be a medal in it," Keyes said grimly, acutely aware that two of humanity's best soldiers were dead or dying. Julian had already gotten a couple of medals, which he stored in his personal locker. Not for doing anything he considered heroic. Just... not dying. Every Marine probably got one when they saw combat - there must have been a crate of them sitting in Keyes' office. His cynicism welled up, though he had enough sense to not insult his superior officer. None of this was his fault.

Still, Julian was terrified. He couldn't quit the military, not in the middle of a tour - and with Earth in the crosshairs, he had to stay. But it made him regret becoming a Marine. If nothing else, he could have lived in blissful ignorance of how bad things were before retreating to that doomsday bunker his father finished building a few months ago after 20 years of work. He could have done something good with that time. Helped his mother at the clinic, maybe? He liked the idea of saving people rather than seeing them die. Instead, he was in the trenches watching people perish. And humanity's finest weren't immune.

How many could really be left? Julian heard most Spartans, maybe all of them, had been recalled to Reach along with the rest of the Navy when the attack began, and he assumed most of them died on missions like this one, fighting more aliens than they'd ever seen before. One, at least, had made it to the Pillar of Autumn several hours prior, he knew. How much did that matter when he wasn't even sure they could leave?

The few remaining orbital platforms above this part of Reach might buy them a few minutes to plot a slipspace jump. That should have been easier with Cortana presumably making those incredibly complex calculations instead of the normal dumb AI, but it was up in the air if they could slip away. If the ship was caught, he was dead, and if the Covenant got a lock on the slipspace jump itself, he was also dead, but it would just take longer.

There was so much he didn't know. But, as he arrived in the Pillar of Autumn's troop bay, he knew he would find out very soon if this was how he died.

146th Unit, 16th Cycle, 27th Revolution, Ninth Age of Reclamation

Seeker of Truth, Fleet of Particular Justice, Reach

Riin piled off the Phantom and back into the Seeker of Truth's troop bay along with her fuming superior. She tried not to look at 'Zamamee, fearing he would lash out, but his muttering almost invited it. Did he know she planned to report his greed and incompetence?

The mission failed. They, collectively, were supposed to kill the Spartan and claim whatever it carried. They had done neither, though several dozen humans must have died, so at least something had been accomplished. Riin felt she couldn't blame herself too much. It wasn't a personal failure. Thousands of troops were there to take the kill, and none were able to do it. Not every minor skirmish could be won in a war, and nobody would be executed for their failure, even if an overzealous sangheili might fall on their blade to preserve their "honor." However, as a deacon, Riin felt the eyes of the gods more strongly on her. She would make it up to them.

As for Difup, Kuzu, and Plud, they were all martyrs. Like many unggoy, their own characters would assign them high places in the Great Journey. Though she truly believed that, it would be a difficult notion for their tribes to swallow. Things must have been difficult on Bahalo without enough hands to farm and perform other labor. So many of them had enlisted that she knew it led to their families suffering, but it was for a good cause. A military stipend also provided much more than they could easily obtain elsewhere.

Others in the area exhibited the same reaction; she noticed many lances and files without key members. She didn't know everyone on the Seeker - far from it - but she understood enough about team composition. Did the Spartan kill most of them, or did the other humans put up more of a fight than usual?

I am alive, Riin reminded herself. That was what mattered for the moment. She had to let these deaths lift her up instead of drag her down.

As she walked back to the armory to deposit her gear, a familiar voice came from the shipwide speakers. Supreme Commander 'Vadamee proclaimed, "My brothers and sisters in faith, loyal servants of the Prophets, you have won a great victory. The planet below is purged of the human blight." Though he didn't know Riin existed, he honored her with his words.

"But our work is not quite finished. Before we return to the rest of the Covenant as heroes, the paltry human ship attempts to escape the fire it has brought upon itself." Rather unusually, from Riin's experience, their other ships around this planet had already fled. They usually waited longer to depart. In this case, though, there was just the one. "The astrogators and their machines inform me that it is preparing to make a slipspace jump. They will personally feel our wrath." And, of course, killing thousands of humans more was a noble goal in itself.

Retreat was a common practice with humans. But it wasn't foolproof. From what Riin understood - which was more than one might expect, considering she grew up around engineers, even if she was by no means an expert - the direction and distance another ship was about to travel through slipspace could sometimes be calculated at the moment of departure. This depended on how good the scanning was, proximity to the fleeing ship, and, frankly, chance or divine favor. It was not always a guarantee. But the Supreme Commander seemed confident that they could be followed this time.

When the ship arrived at its destination, the Seeker of Truth would be waiting. It would take several centals for the humans to try another jump - centals they would not have, as they would be promptly annihilated after exiting back into the physical universe. The only issue was one of speed. Not because it was too fast - on the contrary, it was too slow. Covenant ships were marvels of engineering; the works of the Forerunners, before they transcended the need for machines, were studied and replicated, albeit with inferior materials. They could cross the entire galaxy in mere revolutions - while the far corners of it had not been explored, nor had galaxies beyond (those were still beyond their reach), their reach was still vast.

Human ships, on the other hand, were glacially slow, perhaps 10 percent the speed of Covenant engineering on their best day. This meant that, because combat in slipspace was improbable at best and could turn both ships and their crews inside out at worst, Riin and many thousands of others would arrive at the destination up to a cycle before this ship and need to wait for it to arrive. The communal areas would be clogged for the duration, she was sure.

The jolt of the Seeker into slipspace was so slight that Riin almost didn't feel it as she deposited her equipment into the proper receptacles, where any damage would be wordlessly repaired by local huragok. Everything must have gone as planned. Given the average distance a human ship was capable of traversing, she expected to arrive within a few units. Riin's mind was elsewhere as she returned to her quarters. Dealing with this ship would be trivial, and she wouldn't be needed in any capacity. Instead, she wondered what kind of homily to deliver in the kig-yar barracks in 20 units or so. One about sacrifice? Redemption? Or one of vengeance for the people these monsters had killed?

She chuffed, a puff of air coming from her nostrils. When did life become so grim? She knew she did a good thing, but she hoped this war ended soon so she could go back to helping people in other ways. The ways she felt called to, which didn't involve so much death.

Units passed as she curled up in her nest, trying to catch whatever post-battle sleep she could. Instead, she drifted in and out of nightmares. Nightmares where the so-called "Demons" became that moniker quite literally.

She was roused from this state by her data module buzzing. Before she got a chance to check it, it buzzed again. Then again. The other kig-yar in this chamber experienced the same thing. What happened? Her three-fingered hand wrapped around the item in the corner of the nest before pulling it closer. She squinted as the purple-tinted hologram popped from the device. While Riin didn't have anyone she'd call a friend, everyone she even vaguely knew on the ship had sent her the same blurry picture, which must have been taken from one of the Seeker's few windows. There was something outside the ship. Riin hadn't even felt the transition out of slipspace.

What is that? she thought, turning the module over to recalibrate the hologram. It was unclear. A planet? No, there was a large empty space in it. An unusual comet that had formed into a torus? Another image was sent, this one a little clearer.

Wait, Riin thought, her heart skipping a beat. It was still too blurry to make much out, but an idea began to form in her mind.

As if to confirm that notion, Supreme Commander 'Vadamee came on the communications once again. This time, he was breathless. "My brothers and sisters in faith... we have done it. Our holy cleansing of the human filth has been seen by our gods and acknowledged as worthy." This was a man whom she admired for his faith, and he was currently in the throes of one of the most profound spiritual experiences a person could have. "They have chosen us, flawed though we may be, as the harbingers of the divine wind that will carry us to the Upper Worlds!"

One more image was sent, this one clear as crystal. There was no mistaking it. No doubt in her mind. There were no words to describe the sudden elation pumping through every nerve and feather. Thousands of revolutions of prayer and pilgrimage had been answered in one glorious moment.

"We have found a Halo!"

PROSELYTIZATION NETWORK REPORT: Covenant History

The beginnings of our Covenant date back nearly 3000 revolutions. It was founded by two species: the san'shyuum, more properly known as the Prophets (the gods' most chosen), of Janjur Qom and the sangheili of Sanghelios after a protracted war between the two over treatment of godly relics. This conflict ended with the composition of a document called the Writ of Union, which established the purpose of the Covenant: to purify the unholy and find the Halos. To make ourselves good enough to become unto gods in our morals and to find the rings to make it so. The Prophets, particularly the Hierarchs, as the incarnate voices of the gods, lead this quest. The sangheili are their swords and shields, cutting through lies and guarding the faith.

We have faced trials and tribulations, all of which require Ages to mark them. The Ages are those of Abandonment, Conflict, Reconciliation, Discovery, Conversion, Doubt, and, most importantly, Reclamation, not necessarily proceeding in this order.

Over the Ages, five other species have been inducted and assigned broad roles within our civilization, as dictated by the gods. First the lekgolo of Te, then the yanme'e of Palamok, the kig-yar of Eayn, the unggoy of Bahalo, and, most recently, the jiralhanae of Doisac. The huragok, creations of the gods, are recognized more as tools than sapient beings.

So far, the only species to reject peaceful integration, or even amicable relations, with our Covenant is humanity, sparking a holy war that brought about the current Ninth Age of Reclamation. Declared anathema by the Hierarchs for their blasphemy, cruelty, and wanton aggression, a campaign of defense against humanity was established. Overtures of compromise have been repeatedly met with hostility and unspeakable blasphemies upon us and our gods.

WAYPOINT REPORT: TOP SECRET - ONI EYES ONLY/SPARTAN program

The SPARTAN program comprises three related but distinct supersoldier projects developed by the Office of Naval Intelligence. Originally intended to combat insurrectionists in the Outer Colonies, focus immediately shifted to fighting the Covenant when the war began.

The SPARTAN-I program was initiated in 2514. Pulling from a pool of adult military volunteers, it was focused on genetic and biological enhancement. However, developed bodies and brains did not take the augmentations well; the vast majority of subjects ended up physically unfit for combat or driven insane. The SPARTAN-I program was shuttered in less than a year, with only a few soldiers returned to the field, albeit marginally stronger and faster than before.

The SPARTAN-II program was attempted quickly thereafter in 2517, with 75 handpicked abducted children replacing the adult volunteers. It was postulated that their more plastic bodies and minds would react better to enhancement. This iteration of the project also introduced cybernetic and technological enhancements in addition to biological ones. In short, the SPARTAN-II program was a rousing success, with most subjects surviving the many processes and cleared to fight the Covenant several years into the war.

The SPARTAN-III program was established in 2532 as an evolution of the previous initiative. While undoubtedly successful, the SPARTAN-II program could not be continued due to the cost and manpower required to train, augment, and equip such supersoldiers. The SPARTAN-III program is focused on efficiency - slightly fewer, less expensive enhancements, less training, and more disposable equipment. The subjects have a lower average life expectancy, but this is offset by the greater number of Spartans who can be recruited. While still operating on children, these ones are not kidnapped; war orphans are approached and offered chances to avenge themselves on the things that killed their families. Nearly all die during their first mission, but some exceptional soldiers are considered assets equal to SPARTAN-IIs. This program is ongoing.

Addendum: the nature of the Spartans is one of ONI's best-kept secrets. I am fully aware that divulgence of this information will result in imprisonment, if not death, to anyone stupid enough to leak it. The revelation that children were turned into our greatest weapons against the Covenant is obviously poison, and it might be a crippling blow to public morale. Sometimes I really regret being told about this.

- B. Giraud