An Elite's Tale

At the destroyed Control Room door, Johnson knelt and held up a fist, bringing the rest of the column to a halt. He turned and jabbed a finger at Madiba and the ODST called Wildcat, then said, "Close quarters inside. You two take point."

The interspecies duo moved inside in tandem as instructed, Wildcat dual wielding two mismatched Plasma Rifles and Madiba toting a stolen Brute Shot. Johnson and Xepo, both carrying Beam Rifles, waited and moved in a few feet behind them so the team wouldn't be bunched up. Behind the two sharpshooters and armed with only an Energy Sword, was the leader of the strike team, Field Master Zuvo Fin 'Goramai.

They had been navigating through the corridors for less than a minute when they caught the sounds of metal clashing and gunfire. A battle was taking place nearby. Just up ahead, in fact. The team rushed to help out whoever was fighting the Brutes. They got their answer upon passing through the next doorway, where they saw Joha 'Donsai at the center of the other end of the room locked in a deathmatch with two Jiralhanae Honor Guards armed with ceremonial staves.

They were on either side of him, but even with the number advantage, they couldn't get within his reach. He had an Energy Sword in each hand, whirling like a high-powered fan between the Brutes. Tracking his swift movements were visually taxing, but Madiba noticed that the swordsman was actually attacking and defending simultaneously. One of the Honor Guards made a mistake by leaning inward for a downward thrust. Joha parried the low stab with one blade and used the other to lop the Brute's head off. The decapitated body toppled backwards and Joha returned focus to his other opponent, unleashing a violent flurry of overhand strikes.

The Honor Guard held up its staff in a horizontal block, but Joha cut the scepter in half and sliced the Brute straight down the middle. Joha turned at the sound of shotgun blasts, ran, and jumped down into a hole in the floor. Plasma and Spikes followed him from somewhere further ahead in vain, flying through the spot he had been standing and mutilating a wall on impact. Tracking the origin of their trajectory, Madiba spotted four more Honor Guards rushing into the room. Wildcat dashed forward to greet them, firing the blue Plasma Rifle only, giving each newcomer a liberal spritzing. Soon, that weapon overheated and she switched over to the bloodhand in order to keep the plasma shower going. By the time that one overheated, the first Plasma Rifle had cooled down enough to reuse. She kept this alternating pattern of unrelenting fire up, breaking them down bit by bit.

Also advancing, Madiba aimed the Brute Shot in the direction of the Honor Guards, but pointed it at the ground. He had the original model of the Type-25 Grenade Launcher, which had a rather rudimentary safety feature built in. In the event of an accidental finger slip, as opposed to simply adding a trigger guard, the ammunition itself was designed to detonate only after striking a surface first. At first it irritated Madiba beyond comprehension, but since he had acquired it, he had become quite skilled with the trick shots. The Brute Shot coughed four times and the Grenades ricocheted up from the floor and erupted next to their intended target. Four blooming explosions rocked the stunned Honor Guards, the splash damage from the last bomb seemingly holding them in place for the next one.

The last two grenades were the finishers. Their detonations brushed the Brutes off the walkway and flung their flailing, lifeless bodies against the far wall.

"Move up, move up!" Johnson said as he ran past Madiba, who had paused to load his last grenade belt into the launcher.

I need to make these count, Madiba thought.

This is it, he kept thinking as he fell in line with the others, running. This is the end of us all if we fail.

They entered the main chamber and found the Arbiter and the Shipmaster's Plague standing off against Tartarus and his entourage of red flagged Brute Captains. Tensions were thick in the air. Everyone could feel it. An invisible warm force of pressure that seemed to invade everyone's personal space in the worst way. Way too much hostility here, even for this vast chamber. It was like the methane Madiba had seen countless Grunts sucking down; you couldn't see it, but the smallest spark could ignite the largest cloud. And they had a pretty big cloud of gas on their hands here.

This is not going to end well.

"Oracle," the Arbiter asked, addressing the metal orb otherwise known as 343 Guilty Spark. "What is Halo's purpose?"

"Collectively, the seven-" Guilty Spark began.

Tartarus snatched the monitor from the grasp of one of the Captains and screamed, "Not another word!"

Johnson had led the team into the chamber, and it was at this point their presence became evident. Smooth as ever, he walked up and stood between the two Elites.

"Please," he told Tartarus calmly. "Don't shake the lightbulb."

One of the Chieftain's cronies snarled with visible disgust and stepped forth to deal with the Human. Johnson's voice rose to an authoritative threat. He was, after all, the one with the biggest gun in the room.

"If you want to keep your brains inside your head, I'd tell those boys to chill," he barked.

Tartarus glared at the Human with undisguised hatred and grunted something in his native tongue at the Captain who'd stepped out of line, making him step back.

The discussion now back on track, Johnson turned to the Arbiter and said, "Go ahead. Do your thang."

"The Sacred Rings...what are they?" the Arbiter asked again.

"Weapons of last resort, built by the Forerunners to eliminate potential Flood hosts, thereby rendering the parasite harmless," Guilty Spark answered.

"And those who built the Rings?" the Plague inquired. "What happened to the Forerunners?"

Guilty Spark responded, "After exhausting every other strategic option, my creators activated the rings. They and all sentient life within three radii of the galactic center, died, as planned. Would you like to see the relevant data?"

Everyone was quiet.

"Tartarus. The prophets have betrayed us," the Arbiter said finally, as if to drive the point home.

He'd said it in the tired tone of a disappointed relative bearing bad news. All eyes were on Tartarus as this new information sunk in. The Chieftain just stared at the spherical machine in his hand as if it had slapped him. Confusion and anger waged a war on his face.

Anger won. Tartarus growled and hurled the Monitor. Guilty Spark struck Johnson in the head and they were both knocked to the floor.

"No Arbiter," he affirmed. "The Great Journey has begun, and the Brutes, not the Elites, shall be the Prophet's escort."