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Whispers of the Fallen: Chapter 1- Ghosts on a Plain
Date: 19 September 2006, 3:52 am

Chapter 1: Ghosts on a Plain

Somewhere in Old Iraq, north of Basra...

Spartan-117, the Master Chief, surveyed the arid plains surrounding the Tigris River. It was a surprisingly cool night underneath an expansive, star-filled Iraqi sky, but he only knew that because of his HUD. A gust of wind rustled the dry, cracked grass at his knees. He flexed gloved fingers gripped to the barrel of his battle rifle. How long since he had felt the cool of a breeze against his skin? Months? Years? Certainly not here on Earth- not since the Covenant had arrived. Three months had passed since he had been a stowaway amidst the Covenant fleet, hitching a ride on the ForeRunner ship that carried the Prophet of Truth. Three months. Three whole months spent in hiding, forming scouting parties to assess Covenant strength, scavenging for food, looking for survivors buried in the rubble of toppled buildings. Three months. It was a wonder any of them were still alive.

They're all dead, John. I'm sorry.

"Private?" He asked over his COM, staring at a low-lying cliff that overlooked part of the river valley. Even at this distance and at night, he could still make out the tip of a UNSC Sniper Rifle jutting from behind jagged rocks. The Covenant might still miss it, though. Nothing was certain these days. The aliens had become quite adaptive to human tactics as of late, and were closing in on the Cradle, little by little. It wouldn't be long before they finally calculated its position, and at that point it would be too late. At that point, the last of Earth's defenses would be doomed.

"All quiet on the western front, Chief," the young soldier on the other end responded through the hiss of static, his voice a hushed murmur.

"Technically, that is the eastern front."

"Just a literary reference, sir- you do read literature, don't you? Did they make the Spartans do that?"

The Chief shook his head. "Not that kind of literature, I'm afraid." Behind him, he heard the soft footsteps of two pairs of UNSC issued boots, tiptoeing towards the warthog parked in the brush. Michaels and Riviera had returned from re-filling the canteens. He turned towards them, acknowledging their presence with a brief nod as they climbed in, one in the gunner's spot, and one in the driver's seat. The sound of the Private's radio still filled his ears.

"Roger that, Chief. I'm-" the voice replied before cutting off abruptly. "Wait."

"Private?" the Chief asked quickly. "Private, do you copy?" He stood up to his full height in the tall grass, peering towards the cliff face carefully. Suddenly, a bright purple beam slashed across the plains, angling upwards into the rocks from a location just a few miles south of the Spartan's current position. He hit the ground deftly, shouldering his battle rifle and peering through the scope in one fluid motion. "Private do you copy?" he repeated, but knew it was useless. The man was dead.

"What just happened," Michaels whispered, but the Chief cut him off with a raised fist. He swept the sight of his rifle over the plains thoroughly, searching for a trace of any enemy contacts in the area. And then he spotted them. Three columns of tall grass, falling end over end like God himself had put his fingers down to comb the plains. And they were heading his way. Without saying a word, he signaled towards the two soldiers in the warthog, and they mounted up with appropriate speed. The petty officer flung himself into the passenger's seat by the time that Riviera had brough the engine to life, and they were off, dry grass and leaves crushed under tire and tread.

"This is Spartan-117," he spoke into his COM, keying up a link with Cradle in his HUD. "Cradle Authorization 5-4-5-14, over."

"Go ahead, John," a familiar voice rang inside of his helmet. He still shuddered every time she spoke to him like this. Dr. Halsey sounded too much like Cortana.

"We have identified enemy contacts at our checkpoint," Master Chief began. "We're going dark and leading them east."

"Copy, John," Dr. Halsey said. "And don't do anything... risky, ok?" He cut off the link abruptly. He didn't need to be reminded. It had been a month since Halsey had returned to Earth from parts unknown- without Kelly, Spartan-087. He still remembered standing at attention as Halsey and military personnel emptied the hangar, waiting for his childhood friend to come through the doors with the rest of the entourage. She never came. And he had never forgiven Dr. Halsey for it. Neither had any of the other Spartans, before they left for Onyx.

They're all dead, John. I'm sorry.

"They're gaining on us, Riviera!" Michaels shouted from the gunners seat. From his vantage point, he could make out the positions fairly well, the Chief mused. "I didn't realize the brutes could run this fast!"

"That's because they're not brutes," the Spartan interrupted. "Those are ghosts following us. And that-" he nodded towards the cliff face, left in the distance behind them. Just beyond it, a slight purple haze was reflecting softly against the enveloping black sky. "That is a phantom. With the rest of their party." A sudden grim feeling swept over the other two men. They knew as well as he did, the only options were victory or death- their capture would lead to the destruction of the last of the human race, whose whereabouts must remain hidden at all costs. He heard Riviera mutter a silent prayer under his breath. They would need it.

The air was heavy with the sounds of the whipping wind and the warthog's screams as Riviera pushed it to its limits. While they would eventually have to engage the Covenant contacts, the further the encounter took place from Cradle, the better. John was just waiting for the right terrain, anything at all that would give his men what little advantage they could muster. That would be difficult, though, if the three ghosts were carrying brutes. It was the more likely scenario, unfortunately.

"Three ghosts, though, right?" Michaels shouted over the roar of the jeep, his uniform flapping wildly as he gripped the stationary turret. His pale skin took on a much more sickly tone underneath the harsh moonlight, and his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. "You've blown up, like- hundreds of them, right? Three ghosts should be no problem for a Spartan."

The Spartan, now.

"I didn't fight them all at once," the Chief answered solemnly.

"Oh. Right." Michael nodded sheepishly, and turned back towards the open plains behind. The ghosts were much closer now, tearing apart the dense, overgrown grass as they sped towards their destination. John thought he spotted the glint of a brute helmet, but only for a moment. "They'll catch up with us any minute."

"Affirmative," he said, just as the warthog hopped over a small ditch, freefalling for about half a second before they connected with the earth again. "Stop!" Master Chief ordered. Riviera hesitated, but soon applied pressure to the brakes, slowing them to a halt. The three of them turned, taking in their surroundings. A small rocky wall extended just over the ditch, causing a sudden drop-off in the terrain. On either side of the arch, the land evened out. One of the ghosts would approach from above, and the other two would likely come from the sides. If he could time his moves right... Yes. He could. "This is the place."

"Are you serious?" Riviera wondered aloud.

"Look around, soldier," the petty officer declared as he hopped from the passenger's seat of the vehicle. "This is as clear an advantage as we're liable to get our hands on." He looked at the ten foot rock wall, then back at the hog. "You stopped at a great covering range- good work." Riviera smiled as the Chief started a trot towards the ditch. "Don't miss, though. If this goes wrong, I'll shoot each of you in the head before I manually overload my armor." The soldier's smile faded. The Chief picked up the pace, slinging his battle rifle over his back while he broke into a run for the ditch, which was another sixty feet or so away. He checked his sidearm briefly to make sure that it was amply loaded, before making note of his assortment of grenades. After pulling a Covenant plasma grenade from the compartment on his MJOLNIR armor, he jumped the ditch, and slid into his hiding spot underneath the rock wall.

Above, he could hear the eerie hum of several ghosts, the whine of their engines filling the night skies. He held his breath and leaned his head back against the wall to count the seconds. There was no room for error. Every second they spent in combat here would bring the approaching phantom that much closer. And that was a situation that had no easy solution. Signalling towards Riviera, he motioned with his hands to cover the right side of the ridge, and instructed Michaels to cover the left. Both marines nodded, and in the corner of his HUD, he caught Riviera making the motion of a cross over his forehead and chest. He wondered if the brutes ever did something similar in regards to their Gods, the ForeRunners. Two separate species, offering petitions to invisible gods. The notion made him smirk, oddly enough. The noise caused by the ghosts' rapid approach was louder now, almost right on top of him. He activated the plasma grenade and waited. One, two...

He barely had time to let go of the Covenant device as the first ghost sailed overhead. Sometimes he forgot how fast they were. The alien explosive flashed to life as it left his glove, a tiny blue ball pulsating like a star in an empty universe. It attached itself silently onto the tail of the vehicle, purple metal glinting underneath the grenade's bright blue sheen. Above him, the mammoth brute had no clue that his existence would soon end. At the same time, two ghosts entered Master Chief's peripheral vision on his left and right, hurling themselves towards the stationary UNSC vehicle in the distance. Michaels opened fire, throwing bullet after bullet from the jeep's turret in frenzied succession, peppering the landscape and the ghost with its projectiles. Metal bent and tore under the salvo of gunfire, but the brute pressed onward. Suddenly, the ghost that had been stuck exploded into a fireball of blue plasma, lighting up the Iraqi plains with its irredescent glow. The Chief quickly shouldered his battle rifle, and broke into a sprint across the field. There was no time to waste.

With speed that belied his size, John could cover many meters in a single step, his muscular legs able to propel him great distances. Both brutes were still descending upon the warthog, with much renewed vigor upon seeing a comrade's death. The Chief chose the ghost on his right and ran as fast as he could. Battle rifle bullets danced atop its hull from Riviera's sporadic fire, his shouts barely audible over the sound of Michaels' turret. Across the way, the ghost that had engaged Michaels burst into purple-blue flame as the thick bullets tore apart its wings, as well as the driver. The brute's groans could be heard even over the din of the gunfire, before it toppled over lifelessly. Two down. But it wouldn't be enough. The Spartan could only watch helplessly as the third and final brute, angered by his fellow soldiers' demise, smashed Riviera into the side of the Hog, crushing his midsection in a horrific display of violence.

The ensuing carnage seemed to happen in slow motion. The ghost's collision with the warthog's side armor managed to roll the jeep while simultaneously vaulting the ghost skyward, ejecting the brute from its seat. The flaming wreckage from the first ghost then careened across the open field, torching a path of dry grass as it flipped end-over-end. Michaels barely had time to roll away from the overturned 4 x 4 as both Covenant and human vehicles met in a crunch of metal. He had been too late. The petty officer slid to a stop as he got to the wreckage, helping Michaels to his feet. He appeared to be ok, though slightly shaken.

"Riviera!" The soldier exclaimed, breaking free of the Chief's grasp and rushing around to the other side of the jeep. The two arrived to find a grisly scene, the marine's body torn by the sheer velocity of the ghost that had smashed him open against his own warthog. "Oh my god..." Michaels knelt down, retrieving the man's dog tags.

"Michaels," Master Chief spoke softly. "It's time to move. That phantom-" but he didn't have time to finish his sentence. Against the starry expanse above him, he could make out the shadowy figre of a leaping brute, arms raised, face bloodied, eyes boiling over with rage. The rage that took over when just one brute was left standing. He didn't even have time to raise his battle rifle when it landed just a few feet away, hulking arms swinging in a fury towards Michaels, who was shrinking back in sheer terror. There was no time to think, and the Chief did the first thing that came naturally. He tackled the beast.

The two figures rolled through the dense, tall grass, arms flailing in a desperate grab for control of the entanglement. Luckily, he had caught the brute unaware while its attention was fixed on Michaels. He had to kill this thing before it could roll over and get its hands on him. Were it an elite, the situation would be vastly different- he might actually have a chance of survival. As the two of them landed, John managed to use their momentum to flip the brute over, its face buried against the ground. With one swift manuever, he was back on top, doing his best to pin the enraged alien beneath him. Grabbing a fistful of fur on the back of its head, he slammed its skull repeatedly into the dirt, causing shrieks of rage and pain to erupt from its jowels. All of a sudden, the gargantuan animal thrust a beefy fist into the ground, and bucked the Master Chief from atop him, sending him spinning through the air. He was on his feet again as quick as he had landed, only to find the brute on all fours, charging him with a wild ferocity. He wasn't going to be able to reach his sidearm in time. There was nothing left to do..

They're all dead, John. You're all dead.

Master Chief grit his teeth, growling as he did the one thing that would surprise the brute- he charged straight for him. It hesitated for just a moment as he retrieved his combat knife, lowering his shoulder to smash the creature's face with all of his weight. It moaned in pain, clutching its mouth- a deadly mistake. John forcefully placed a boot into one of the brute's knees, breaking the bone with a satisfying crunch. Without even thinking, he grasped the Covenant soldier's face and deftly slit its throat. He didn't even stop to see if he had finished- he knew that it was dead. He jogged back to Michaels, and made sure to retrieve his battle rifle as he knelt down to turn the jeep back over on its wheels. Luckily, the jeep hadn't caught fire when the two ghosts crashed into it. Michaels stared at him in astonishment.

"You ok?" The phantom was still on its way. Hopefully their skirmish hadn't lasted too long.

"Yeah, I think so," Michaels responded. "What are you doing?"

"Taking us home, Michaels. Taking us home."

Whispers of the Fallen: Chapter 2- He's got You and Me, Brother, In His Hands
Date: 23 September 2006, 3:55 am

Chapter 2: He's Got You and me Brother, in his Hands

      The journey back towards Cradle was long, quiet, and mostly uneventful as Master Chief and Pvt. Michaels raced along the Iraqi countryside in the banged up warthog. The scenery was still somewhat undisturbed by the Covenant occupation. Not that the signs weren't there: torn down buildings, scorched Earth, pieces of Orbital MAC gun wreckage. It was nothing compared to the devastation of Northern Africa, however. Particularly Kenya. Humanity's forces had no idea if it was even standing, or had been burned to the ground. Satellite photos were impossible to receive any longer- the Covenant had long since destroyed them all. And it had been a few weeks since the last recon mission, though he suspected that something drastic was in the works. With Oni and Lord Hood and all of the top brass constantly shut tightly in their meeting room deep within Cradle, it was almost certain. As far as the latest intel had pieced together, the Covenant were still busy digging up whatever it was that they had found out in the desert outisde of Mombasa. Unfortunately, no satellite photos could be obtained to determine what kind of progress was being made. Fortunately, they seemed to be taking their sweet time. He knew just as well as the rest of the UNSC, though, that the hammer had to drop at some point. The final battle for Earth. And the humans were severely outmatched.

      Tell one-one-seve... tell John... we're... we're...We...come...

      He shook his head to wipe away the fatigue that nagged at his body. How long since he had slept? Two days? He couldn't even keep track anymore. Making note of their position, John cut the wheel sharply to the left, sliding the tires across the grass beneath. UNSC regulations required that all personnel frequently double back and ensure solidarity upon approaching Cradle. Though they were getting close, all necessary precautions would need to be observed to keep the Covenant far, far away from this place.

      "What you did back there," Michaels said suddenly, his head propped against the seat, staring up at the bright starry canopy above. "With the brute... I've never seen anything like that."

      "Like what?" The Chief continued driving, giving the hog a little more gas.

      "The way you fought it... I thought we were dead. You fought like an animal. Just to save me." Michaels peered towards the Tigris River in the east, flowing gently. "Thanks, is what I'm trying to say."

      The Chief merely nodded, even though Michaels had it wrong. He hadn't fought like an animal. He fought like a demon.

      I freed myself from bondage. Why can't you?

*****

      The dream was the same as always. John was back on High Charity, watching the Forerunner vessel carrying the Prophet of Truth jump through slipspace- heading to Earth. Except, there was no Covenant War surrounding him. No elites and brutes murdering one another in the halls. No organic growth from the Flood covering the walls like a fungus. It was eerily quiet. The hum of the large floating city resonated throughout the purple metallic hallways, almost like it was alive, like it had a pulse. John turned to stare at the large vaulted ceilings, the alien archictecture ominous and forboding. It was almost holy.

      And then, the voice. Deep and guttural, it sounded the way a mountain might, if stone could talk.

      "Who is it that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge?"

      It was coming from down the hallway. John crept froward slowly, minding the sound of his MJOLNIR armor's boots clanging against the material beneath him. In the distance, he could make out a faint light, with a Covenant blast door opening and shutting, like something was keeping it wedged open. He followed the hollow, heavy breathing noises emanating from the room beyond.

      "From where have you come?"

      "From roaming the universe, and going back and forth in it," a female voice responded. He recognized that voice. It too, had a more hollow resonance than it typically did. Cortana- here? That was right. He had left her on High Charity. His memory was fuzzy, for some reason. The closer he got to the light, the harder he found it to concentrate. He could just make out the edge of a tentacle keeping the blast door from shutting fully. It roamed the floor, sweeping to and fro, as if searching for something. John continued forward. With each increasing step, the voices grew more distorted, harder to understand. Like they were speaking another language. He grasped his head, which was pounding now, and fell to his knees. He had to make it to that room. He had to hear what they were saying.

      Suddenly, the searching tentacle found his arm, and pain shot through his entire body. It yanked him forward, underneath the blast door, and his whole world spun, his vision a blurry haze. The pain of the tentacle wrapped around him was unbearable.

      "Have you considered my servant..." one of the figures asked. He couldn't tell who the voice belonged to. The unnerving pain continued to make him dizzy, made him want to scream. More unsettling was the fact that even though he couldn't quite make out her face, he could have sworn that Cortana was smiling down at him, a white glaze covering her eyes...

*****

      John sat up in bed, sweat running from his body like rain on a windshield. He quickly leapt to his feet, retrieving the M6D tucked between his sheets, whipping it across his field of vision. He felt a chill run across his arm- a fast glance made him realize that he was not in his MJOLNIR armor. Where was he? Suddenly, it started making sense to him, as the fog of sleep faded. Empty bunk beds. He was back in Cradle. What had he dreamed about? Cortana. High Charity. Gravemind. Somehow his dreams were consumed with these three. As if someone were trying to send him a message...

      Have you considered my servant...

      "Rise and shine, buttercup," a voice called out from the darkness. The Chief raised his sidearm, making out the small outline of a man. He knew the voice before he even traced the man's face with his eyes through the darkness.

      "You shouldn't spook a Spartan like that," Master Chief told him, tucking the pistol underneath his mattress. "You might get spooked back.. Sergeant Major Johnson." They had fought many battles alongside one another, some too hair-raising to even recall. The man was a hardened veteran, one of the few people left in this war that the petty officer had tremendous respect for. He had a way of rallying men to fight, against any and all odds. Many of the soldiers half believed that Johnson would put a bullet in them himself if he got the chance. Just a few weeks prior, the Sergeant Major had returned with Miranda Keyes and the Arbiter, the trio full of secrets and sideways glances. Much of those last few weeks had been spent locked in a room with Oni and Lord Hood. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was different about the way the three of them acted together upon their return- like they were hiding something. And not just from him. From everyone. Yes, something was different. And it wasn't just his rank.

      "I forget that you bastards can see in the dark," the Sgt. Mjr. said gruffly, lighting a match that illuminated his hard visage. The Chief wasn't surprised at all to see a cigar already in his mouth. "Heard you had a nice joy ride." He cupped his hands and lit it, puffs of smoke escaping his chapped lips.

      "Is that so? Michaels been talking?"

      "Talking? Ha!" Johnson groaned. "You're like Jesus Christ to him right now. Or Muhammed. Way I heard it, you took on a platoon of brutes mano y mano, and fed them their own ghosts." He took a few steps towards the Chief, his UNSC boots clicking against the tile floor. "Quite a story."

      "I never liked stories," John answered, stretching his tired muscles. How long had he been asleep? "Where is everybody?"

      "I must admit, when I heard him tell it, I thought to myself, that can't be Spartan 117 he's talking about. We know each other. We're like this." He held up a pair of crossed fingers for emphasis. "No, that can't be true. But since you're the only Spartan I know of..." The Chief sharply inhaled, clenching his fists at that last bit. Johnson's tone had changed. He was standing directly in front of John now. "So tell me, Master Chief- how can that be?"

      "It was an exaggeration," The Chief sighed, his shoulders sagging. There was a painful ache in his shoulderblade from wrestling with the Covenant earlier. His fists were still clenched tightly. "Michaels was just grateful, is all. It was just one brute."

      "That don't make you any less of a damn fool for doing it." He said the words flatly and with all seriousness. The Sergeant Major took a long, slow drag from his cigar, breathing a large puff of wispy smoke towards the Spartan. It was the only sound in the elongated, empty room.

      "Care to-"

      "I don't care to do anything, Chief," Johnson interrupted. Furrowing his dark brow, he pulled the cigar from his mouth. "Where was your weapon, soldier?"

      "There was no time- it was going to kill Michaels."

      Johnson laughed sarcastically. "Oh, was it? That bastard might have killed you too, attacking it like you did. What in the hell kind of sense is that?" He sighed and took another puff from his cigar. "Why would you even do something so stupid? Your job is to live, Master Chief. To give this raggidy ass army some hope, for a change." The Chief had never seen him like this. "And there's no way in hell that you risk that all for one measly sniveling Private. You hear me? No way in hell!" He slammed his foot for emphasis, his breathing ragged.

      "With all due respect," John began. "I don't think you have any place telling me about the importance of one life, Sergeant Major."

      "Is that so?" Johnson asked quietly. "Listen, John, I know you lost your sp-" The Chief's hand was around his throat before he even finished, slamming his much smaller frame against the wall behind them. He lifted Johnson's face up to his eye level, staring intently, his muscles barely straining.

      They all died on Onyx, John. I'm sorry. They're all dead.

      "Don't finish that sentence, Sergeant Major," the Spartan said, as calmly as he could muster. Johnson barely made a move underneath his crushing grip, letting his body hang limply, suspended above the floor. "One word, Johnson. One word and I can have ONI testing you like a lab rat. Don't even talk to me about the importance of life. I've risked a lot for you."

      "Didn't figure you to be the vengeful type," Johnson muttered, his hands clamped to the Chief's muscular arm. "One word, huh? And what would that be?"

      "Borens," the Chief whispered. He was surprised to see the Sergeant Major's eyes widen, ever so slightly. "It's the reason the Flood don't like the taste of you. ONI doesn't know, because I didn't tell them. You want to lecture me about the importance of one life? What will it be, sir? Your life, or everyone else's?" He let him drop to the floor then, and turned away, taking long strides towards the doors at the end of the room. He could hear his friend sputtering for breath as he writhed on the floor.

      "Chief!" the Sergeant called out, just before he reached the door. Turning to look at him, John stopped. He was already on his feet again. "You asked where everybody was, earlier. I thought you should know- we've been debriefed. In two days, we move out."

      "Move out for what?"

      "You really have gone stupid, son," the officer grunted. He walked towards the Chief and strode past him, exiting the doors. "The final battle for Earth, Spartan. Oh, and one other thing- you ever do anything like that to me again, and I'll kill you, supersuit or otherwise." John was left alone in the darkness as he walked away, his bootsteps growing more faint upon each passing step.

      Don't make a girl a promise if you know you can't keep it.

Whispers of the Fallen: Chapter 3- Deke and Me
Date: 2 October 2006, 10:44 pm

Chapter 3: Deke and Me.

      Sergeant Major Johnson cursed under his breath as he left the Master Chief behind him. What the hell had gotten into that bolts-for-brains? The Spartan was too important to humanity's future to be acting this way. He rounded the nearest corner and rubbed his throat, still sore from both the encounter with John as well as the assault from the previous week.

      During the night, he had awoken to a barbed wire noose slipping forcefully over his head, strong arms heaving him out of the bed in his solitary quarters. Before he knew it, he was strung up from a hook that his assailants had fastened to the ceiling, dangling by his legs. Fortunately for him, he had a seven foot tall alien bastard up his sleeve. And a combat knife taped to his inner thigh. The combination proved quite lethal for the three men, unmarked with no dog tags, military tattoos, or even dental records for all he knew. Ghosts. And they wanted him dead- but what else was new? It wasn't the most surprising thing he had run into since Delta Halo. And he was certain it wouldn't be the last.

      He traced the scab that ran the diamater of his neck. It was a good thing the Spartan hadn't reopened the wound, or the meeting would have been that much more unpleasant He was surprised he hadn't, given the man's almost supernatural strength. He was a freak of nature. Or science, depending on how someone looked at it. Either way, he was a freak. That was for damn sure. Not too far of a cry from himself, though. Maybe that's why he liked him so much.

      Even though Cradle was humanity's underground fortress, Johnson couldn't help but feel the tingling sensation that crept up the back of his spine as he walked. The lights stayed off here throughout the majority of the day and the night, in order to help avoid detection from unwanted passers-by who might be searching for electronic signals. The place was fortified enough to avoid being spotted while running its normal day-to-day hardware, but anything that wasn't necessary, particularly UV light, had to go. The result was a dark labrynth during the nighttime hours. If a soldier didn't know where he was going, he was liable to get lost.

      It had been just a month since the return from Delta Halo with the Arbiter and Captain Keyes, and everything had changed. Top brass whispered in the corners with the ONI spooks, ONI spooks were running here and there, other commanding officers were casting him sideways glances... well, come to think of it, maybe not that much had changed at all. Johnson sighed. DIdn't these people realize that they were only days away from facing total annihilation at the hands of a fanatical enemy? And here they were, trapped in this underground box, this network of concrete and metal tunnels, this Cradle- keeping secrets like children on a playground. Perhaps Cradle was more appropriately named than originally intended. A sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. It was almost funny.

      Behind him, he heard the soft, muted sound of padded footsteps. The Sergeant whipped his head around to see absolutely nothing, yet the footsteps lingered. Good, he was safe. "Did you get all that?" he asked into the dark pathways.

      "I heard enough of it, yes," the guttural voice came like a growl from behind him. Before his very eyes, what appeared to be the hallway materialized into the Arbiter, standing several feet above him and taking baby steps to keep pace with the much smaller earthling. Johnson grunted in approval. Apparently Dr. Halsey had improved upon his camo generator as promised. Hopefully he had kept his mouth shut- the good Doctor had a way of gleaming secrets when she would do better to just do her job. She was too smart for her own good.

      "Did we have any other listeners, Deke?" the human commander asked over his shoulder, watching as the Arbiter fell into step beside him. He called him Deke because he couldn't pronounce the elite's damn name. No alias should have so many letters. The Arbiter moaned in what sounded like frustration, though it was still hard for Johnson to decipher the creature's emotions.

      "Yes," the Arbiter replied. "He wore camouflage like my own."

      "Is that so?" the Sergeant inquired, stroking his chin. "So the rats are in the basement with us..."

      "I was unable to apprehend him, I'm afraid," the Arbiter said. "He spotted me before I even moved. Very acute reflexes for a human. Almost like the Demon's."

      Johnson nearly laughed at the mention of Master Chief's nickname. As far as the Covenant were concerned, he was the walking embodiment of all sacrilege and blasphemy. Personally, it made Johnson just a tad jealous. Just a tad. "Hmm, so we still don't know yet who our friend the puppet master is. I'll tell you one thing, though, Deke- when I find him, I'm going to kick his ass. Nobody tries to lynch me without receiving a good and proper ass-kicking."

      "Charming," the former Covenant soldier responded. "So tell me this word... 'Borens'. The word the demon mentioned. What does it mean?"

      "Smoke and mirrors, Deke- smoke and mirrors," Johnson said. "I'll tell you one thing, though. This goes all the way to the top, I'm afraid." They continued down the dimly lit pathway, footsteps sounding in synchronization. To tell the truth, he didn't know how, where, or when John had picked up that "Borens" bit. He would have to investigate that further- if there was even time. All of their planning would come to fruition soon, and there would be no turning back once the hammer fell. They would have to press forward soon- blindly, if need be. The Sergeant Major didn't even know who his enemy was. The only thing that was certain is that he was in Cradle, he was watching, and he had many helpers.

      "So much secrecy," the Arbiter spoke. "And here I thought you humans trusted one another to the death."

      Johnson chuckled. "It's what I've been saying all along, Deke- we are more alike than you know." The Arbiter made a noise that usually indicated a scoff. Elite idiosyncracies were still fuzzy to him, at best. "So now, the million dollar question. Can we trust him?" He had come to respect the alien's uncanny ability to judge character, though it tended to err on the side of too much caution. Still, his first impressions tended to be fairly accurate, when he made it through a conversation without knocking the other person's lights out, that is.

      "It is hard for me to look at the Demon rationally, I admit," the elite answered. "But my soul tells me he is too broken to be of any use to us."

      "He's suffered a great loss, that's for sure," Johnson acknowledged.

      "We have all suffered a great, many losses," the Arbiter said. "I believe this is where the Captain sleeps." They had come to a stop in front of a door labeled "Captain Keyes."

      "So it is." Before Johnson had a chance to knock, the door whipped open, revealing a scantily clad Miranda Keyes.

      "The two of you are louder than a Marathon vessel," she muttered, wiping sleepy eyes. "Are we trying to be stealthy about this, or not? Come on in." She stepped away from the door, sauntering over to a desk piled with papers, the light of a computer screen flickering against the muted gray walls. Scattered about the floor were star charts, books about the Covenant, and most notable, a pile of books about the Ancient Aztec Civilization. Johnson scowled. She really should keep these out of sight.

      "The Demon is useless," the Arbiter growled as he closed the door tentatively. "He is no longer worth our attention."

      "Is that so?" Miranda asked, cocking an eyebrown in the pair's general direction.

      "Don't look at me," Johnson said. "Deke here may be right."

      "Interesting," she said, nodding. "What would you say if I showed you this?" She keyed a combination onto her holographic keyboard, as the processor whirred to life with a quiet hum. Johnson and the Arbiter took a few steps closer to her desk, watching as an image suddenly flashed onto the screen.

      "Is that what I think it is, Miranda?" If she was bothered by him not using her title, she didn't show it. Formalities had disappeared long ago between the three of them. As far as he was concerned, they were all equals in this endeavor. And equally screwed if they messed up.

      "I believe so," the Captain replied. "Gentlemen... Master Chief comes with us." She stood to her feet, making her way slowly to her bed. Without so much as looking in their direction, she pulled the covers up, and rolled towards the opposite wall, leaving them to stare at her backside. "Now if you'll excuse me- I have some beauty rest to catch up on."

      "And what do you want us to do, your highness?" Johnson scoffed. "You do realize that in order for this to work, we need to leave tomorrow night?"

      "Figure out a way before then, Sergeant. I'm sure you and Deke can think of something. Close the door on your way out."

      The two of them exited her quarters, standing silently in the hallway. Now, they had a whole new problem on their hands.

*****

Whispers of the Fallen: Chapter 4- And What do They Call You- Wheels?
Date: 11 October 2006, 6:29 am

Chapter 4: And What do They Call You- Wheels?

      Dr. Catherine Halsey watched as the Arbiter dodged blow after blow from the group of marines training in the artificially lit stone courtyard. She could hear their feet scuffling on pebbles, hear each grunt and groan as another punch missed the intended target. The Arbiter made little noise at all, using his elongated arms to swiftly parry, block, and thrust aside each vicious attack that came his way. It didn't require much effort on his part- he looked like a giant playing with infants. These soldiers were outmatched, yet none of them knew it. Or perhaps they did, she mused. Perhaps they all did.

      It had started out as a simple briefing. Segeant Major Johnson suggested that these men listen to the Arbiter's words, that they be trained in Covenant tactics for the battle that was to come on the morrow. At first, it had seemed a good idea. At first. Over the course of a half hour, the lecture gradually degenerated into combat, of all things. The elite, being a creature of considerable pride, could not suffer the snide remarks and boastful nature of Earth's forces towards his kind, and eventually, a challenge was issued. The first challenge consisted of live ammunition against the former Covenant soldier and his camouflage generator The alien had made swift work of his opponents, disarming each of them with ease. The next challenge subtracted the generator from the equation. Success again for the Arbiter. After that, one of the more beefy, less intelligent soldiers claimed that he had killed an elite with his bare hands once. The Arbiter called him to task- that same man left the courtyard with a severe concussion. Standing up for their fellow fighter, the other five had engaged in a humanitarian effort to attack the Arbiter headlong. It was a futile attempt, to say the least, and that was putting it nicely. He was merely toying with them. If she didn't know better, she would even go as far as to say he was enjoying it. Old habits died hard, it seemed.

      The mother of the Spartans watched from a bench along the edge of the courtyard, jotting down thoughts into her notepad. This Arbiter, the so-called hand of the Prophets, was truly a remarkable warrior. Btrus Dekamee, he had called himself, when she asked him his name. Deke. Though he didn't seem to approve, Johnson had dubbed the alien that when he realized he couldn't pronounce it. Apparently, Miranda Keyes had done the same. The three of them had been acting awfully strange as of late... She clicked her pen against her teeth, humming a tune to herself as she watched, along with the others who were starting to gather around. By now, a large crowd had formed amidst the pillars and shade. Artificial though it was, the light provided enough heat to want to stay out of it. This place, Cradle, was a marvel to behold, really. It consisted of a massive spider web of underground tunnels that linked most of the world together, completely in secrecy. Oddly, though, the time that Halsey had spied on the records of Cradle's construction dated back to the same year as the start of the Covenant War. Had ONI thought about something this size that far ahead in advance? It was almost like somebody had given them a cheat sheet on how to hide from the Covenant over an extended period of time- and they were following it to the letter. Unless someone had warned them...

      She noticed Spartan 117, John, arms folded across his chest, standing at the eastern most entrance, his vision fixed upon the elite. No doubt studying and analyzing. Not that he needed any additional notes on the matter. He was as good a fighter against the Covenant as any, and far beyond the other soldiers by leaps and bounds. It was a shame that he no longer spoke to her for Kelly's disappearance, but it was probably for the better. He would understand one day the importance of Kelly's sacrifice- it may have saved them all...

      Halsey's attention was thrown off course by the sudden sight of a marine tossed in the air, spinning wildly as he collided with the concrete. Another one followed him, this one somersaulting end-over-end. So the Arbiter was through playing games. Three more soldiers surrounded him, all diving and swinging furious punches in his direction. He grasped the arm of the closest man, lifting him off the ground and tossing him over his head as if he were just a toy.

      "Where is all of your talk now, humans?" she heard him say loudly. "Is it with your friend, in the infirmary?" One of them ran forward, his eyes wide, only to have his effort halted by an albow to the gut. The Arbiter grasped his uniform, throwing him forcefully against the last remaining soldier, sending the two of them tumbling into the stony floor beneath them. Standing silently, the elite seemed satisfied.

      "Are there none left with any words to say?" He turned his gaze to and fro, scanning the crowd. "None left with a boast?" One of the soldiers coughed up blood onto the courtyard, holding his stomach gingerly. "I did not think so. Your battle is tomorrow. There were will be elites amongst the enemy, I regret to say. Yet there will be more than elites. There will be brutes. There will be hunters. There may even be worse." The men shuffled nervously around the walls, glancing at each other with fear. It was so quiet. "You can not view your enemy so foolishly."

      "Yeah, but we've got the Chief!" a lone voice shouted, hidden amongst a sea of faces. All eyes turned towards the Spartan, standing head and shoulders above the rest. He remained resolute, body perfectly frozen in its position. Halsey smirked. He had a way of hiding his emotions beneath that clouded amber visor. She sat up in her seat- this could get interesting.

      "Perhaps your hero, the Demon, would like to demonstrate how best to eliminate a Covenant footsoldier," the Arbiter said following a few moments of pause. His bass voice ehoed throughout the plaza.

      After what seemed like an eternity, the Chief unfolded his arms, and strode into the center of the courtyard. Halsey marveled at his size and stature- somehow, it still seemed to surprise her after all these years. His MJOLNIR armor was startlingly light of foot under his control, barely making a noise as each step brought him through the crowd. The people parted like a pair of doors thrown open, moving to either side to let John pass. A flurry of whispers echoed throughout the once tranquil area, all of the soldiers wondering just what they were about to witness.

      The Chief came to a stop just before the Arbiter, the two standing only a few feet apart. "I thought I would be displaying this tomorrow," the Chief said, which elicited a few chuckles from the audience. "I'm not sure if now's the time."

      "Get him, Chief," someone shouted.

      Dr. Halsey peered intently at the Arbiter's face, watching for any reaction. He was quite the cool customer. It was no wonder he had ranked so highly within the Covenant. "You are wrong," the elite answered. "There is no better time." He began to crouch down into an attack position, bending his knees ever so slightly.

      "What's the meaning of this?" a voice suddenly called from the western doors of the courtyard. Dr. Halsey recognized it as the voice of Lord Hood. The mass of UNSC personnel shifted to let him through, his arms pumping the primitive wheelchair that now carried him. She frowned upon seeing him. It wasn't often that he was seen publicly these days. She wondered just how deeply affected he had been by the accident. The scientist watched as the Earth's Commander wheeled his way to both the Arbiter and the Chief, peering up at them sharply. "Do you two mind explaining what is happening here?"

      "Sorry, sir," Johnson interrupted, stepping into the group. "The Chief and Deke here were going to give these boys a demonstration about Covenant tactics." Halsey noted that John wouldn't make eye contact with Lord Hood. Was there guilt there? Not that she could blame him...

      "Master Chief," Lord Hood said. "You should be saving your energy, and going over our mission plans- you are crucial to our victory. And that goes for everyone else as well!" He turned the wheelchair to face the rest of the troops. "I want you all back down below in the armory, checking the status of weaponry, analyzing topographic maps- there is no more time for idle banter!"

      "Sir yes sir!" the crowd chanted in unison, breaking off to the tasks given to them, some more reluctantly than others.

      "And you," Lord Hood said, staring at John. "Walk with me." He didn't wait for a response to his order, wheeling past the massive Spartan and towards the northern corridor. John glanced at the stone pavement under his feet, then let his gaze follow him as he left.

      "Another time, then," he said, not even looking at the Arbiter as he began to leave, silently following his superior officer.

      Halsey watched with curiosity as the former Covenant commander did not reply. Instead, he and Johnson glanced at one another, nodding slightly as if to indicate that a question of theirs had just been answered.

      "Master Chief," Lord Hood said after they had separated from listening ears. John continued his steady gait beside the commander, glancing about the hallway to make sure that they were clear of any kind of danger. Too many of them had learned the hard way that Cradle wasn't always safe from enemies, a stronghold though it was. Paricularly himself. "Have you noticed anything peculiar as of late?"

      The Spartan weighed the words carefully. Sure he had. He noticed that the chain of command seemed severed at best, completely at each other's throats at worst. He saw that their forces had dwindled dramatically. He knew that Cradle's vast network of underground tunnels reached all the way to Kenya, Asia, and even parts of the Americas, and somehow the Covenant had not found it. Yes, all of these things could be considered peculiar. Instead of saying that, though, he answered differently. "Not that I can speak of, sir."

      "I see," Lord Hood said. "What would you say if I told you that I wasn't sure I could trust everyone in Cradle." He came to a jarring halt, angling the front of his chair directly in John's path. The soldier stopped too, looking down towards the older man.

      "I would ask you what you meant, sir," the Master Chief responded. Lord Hood had a look on his face that was all seriousness. What was he getting at?

      "I meant it exactly as I said it, Chief." He peered to the left and right, making certain that they were in the clear. "Let me cut to the chase- I have reason to believe that Johnson, Keyes, and the Arbiter are up to something- something with betrayal written all over it."

      The Chief was shocked. Could it be? Sure, the trio had been spending a lot of time together, but traitors to Earth? It didn't seem to fit. However, he did notice recently that they had been whispering together in the mess hall, and would often show up late for debriefings. He had even heard rumors that Johnson and the Arbiter were spotted entering Miranda's chambers on occasion. Perhaps they were all just being paranoid about this. Still, it didn't hurt to be cautious. Not after what happened to CPO Mendez... "Sir, why are you telling me this?"

      "Let's just say that a bird has told me that whatever they're planning," Lord Hood began. "They're going to excute it soon. Maybe even before tomorrow. I want you to keep an eye on them for me."

      Master Chief nodded, unsure of what to say. He had never, in all of his years of service, been asked to spy on fellow soldiers. Something about it felt off to him.

      "And how do you want me to approach the situation if they are indeed traitors, sir?"

      The commander sighed, turning his chair to face back towards the courtyard. He brought the contraption to life, moving his arms in solid fluid motions to turn the wheels.

      "Treat them like the Covenant," he called over his shoulder. "Eliminate them."

Whispers of the Fallen: Chapter 5- Sorry, Son, That's Classified
Date: 19 October 2006, 2:50 pm

Chapter 5: Sorry, son- That's Classified.

      Almost three months ago, just one day after the events of Delta Halo...

      Sergeant Johnson and the Arbiter lead a mixed group of human marines and Covenant elites through the corridors of the Covenant capital ship. The two of them worked in tandem, each peering around opposite corners and communicating as best as possible through nonverbal gestures. Luckily for them, some things seemed to translate well universally. Sergeant Johnson muttered curses as they came to another crossroad of purple metallic walls, filled with dead brutes, humans, and elites. It stank of plasma scalding. For the life of him, he couldn't make out the difference between all these damned purple corridors. The Arbiter, however, seemed to know exactly where he was heading. They signaled to their motley assortment to remain behind a few paces as they crept forward.

      "You sure we're not lost?" the human asked. "Because this all looks the same to me." Underneath his feet, he could feel the soggy remains of a marine who had probably made the mistake of getting within arm's length of a brute attacker. He tried not to look.

      "That is only because you lack eyes to see," the elite murmured back. Even his whispers were like growls amidst the quiet of the Covenant vessel. Their approach was enveloped by the silent, eerie hum that Johnson was all too familiar with.

      "Says the crazy alien sonofa-blam!- that would have blown up himself and his whole army just a few days ago if it meant he got to go on his Incredible Trip, or whatever you called it."

      The Arbiter merely maintained his gaze towards the end of the hall. "Great Journey."

      "Same difference."

      "And we are not lost," the alien changed the subject. "We are merely following Rtas 'Vadumee's trail. He crossed here, it seems." The elite pointed towards the ground. "He is heading towards one of the lower sectors. We will continue ahead. I believe I know this place."

      Had the elite been here before? Johnson shook his head. It was of no importance at the moment. The company pressed on, stopping at intersection after intersection- it seemed that many of the brutes had been driven back by the Halfjaw and Captain Keyes' s assault, and had retreated to the bridge, sending a separate force to a lower sector to disable the engine's drives should the bridge be captured. It was decided at that point that the teams should separate, and simultaneously hit both targets- it was risky, but it was the only way to ensure that they all made it off of this god forsaken ring in one piece.

      The elites under the Halfjaw's command had insisted on a mixed group of both elites and humans as insurance against betrayal. The notion had rather surprised the Sergeant- he had expected for them to want nothing to do with the humans. Apparently, the Arbiter's position as "Hand of the Prophets" had gone a lot further than he realized within the Covenant caste system. In agreement or not, these elites would die protecting humans if the Arbiter commanded it. Well, former Arbiter, really- he doubted there was much job security left for any elites in the Covenant military now, especially one who killed most of the Brute Honor Guard and stopped the activation of the Great Journey. But then again- perhaps the Halfjaw's elites just found the humans incompetent, and didn't trust them to finish the job on their own. Either way- it was strange as hell running side by side with an elite after all of these years.

      Johnson gave the "all clear" sign as the two inspected a particularly gore-filled intersection, moving quickly towards a blast door at the end of the hallway. If his memory served him correctly from his time aboard the Ascendant Justice, they were very near to reaching their objective. The bridge should be just ahead. He had to struggle just to hold back a sigh of relief. Twelve hours they had been on this bloated ship, attempting to wrestle control away from the brutes still littering its halls. And after twelve hours of close combat with an enemy who could pull your head off your shoulders like a damned bottle cap, the stress tended to erode away at even the best of men.

      "First Sergeant Thomanson," Johnson spoke into his com. "Do you copy?"

      "Loud and clear, sir," Thomanson reported back in his earpiece through static. These walls tended to make their com channels fussy. Their journey from the Control Center of Delta Halo towards the capital ship had yielded First Sergeant Thomanson's company, fighting for their lives atop a Forerunner structure against a horde of Flood combat forms. Fortunately, they had arrived in time to provide some much needed assistance. "We are in position. Captain Keyes wants to know how your side is holding up."

      Johnson looked towards the Arbiter, who nodded, his face a mask of unreadable sentiments. "Roger that, First Sergeant," he answered. "We are in position and ready to move on the Captain's order." He peered behind him, noting the resolute marines who filled the hallway, surrounded by a wall of Spec-Ops elites clad in singed white armor. It was quite a sight to behold. These men and aliens were all soldiers, he mused. And they were ready to die and fight as one. Quite a sight, indeed. They were going to kick some major ass with resolve like that. He winked at one of the Elites, who looked to the Arbiter in confusion. He loved messing with these bastards.

      "Roger that, sir- commencing attack in three, two, one..."

      The Arbiter didn't even wait for the final command before he keyed the door open with large, gnarled fingers. It opened with a noisy hiss to reveal a wide open chamber, filled with brutes and Covenant engineers, their ranks in total chaos. Some were attempting communications with High Charity, it seemed, while others were trying their hand at constructing some kind of barricade. The rest were aiming their weapons directly at them. There was no time to think as the brute shot grenades came raining through the open hatch, bouncing from the floor to detonate all around the group as it poured into the open bridge. Johnson heard a grenade severely wound the elite that he had winked at, sending debris and purple-blue blood splattering in his direction. Everything turned into the blur of battle as they rushed forward, battle rifles and sub machine guns peppering the room with a salvo of gunfire as they approached the massive aliens before them.

      Johnson let a plasma grenade eject with precision from his hands, watching with great interest as it connected with a brute's helmet near the cluster of aliens positioned beyond the metal barricade. In earnest, it frantically tried to remove the headpiece- and even though he was about to be blown the hell up, he had made a grave miscalculation. Johnson couldn't help but smile despite the chaos surrounding him and his men as he planted a skillful shot directly between the animal's eyes. He loved the way it crumpled to the floor in a furry heap. As a result, the still-glowing helmet bounced on the ground precariously towards the group that now watched in horror as it approached. There was no time to react. The bright blue explosion sent a satisfying thud throughout the bridge. It also opened up a hole in the enemy's defenses. Though they had many brutes lying in wait, the force had been significantly depleted over the course of the last twelve hours. They would not last for long. And killing each one of the bastards was going to be wonderful.

      To his right, the Arbiter leapt from his sprint, spraying needles as he sailed through the air. The spiny projectiles embedded themselves into an angry brute, who screamed with rage as he fired red-hot plasma in the elite's direction. The former Hand of the Prophets released the Covenant gun from his grasp, spinning in mid-air to dodge the hail of energy as he unleashed his weapon of choice- the Covenant energy sword. Johnson watched with awe as the Arbiter landed on the floor in front of the giant apelike creature, and in one fluid motion parried a melee to the head from its plasma rifle. He hurriedly shoved the pulsating blade into the brute's belly, and then sent it reeling with a well-placed elbow to the temple. As its body sailed through the air, he rammed his shoulder against it, which hurled it at another group of enemies who watched in horror. The needles protruding from the flying (and still screaming) brute's hide exploded just before it collided with them. Pink-purple shards ejected into their eyes, and the Arbiter took advantage of the moment by darting forward. He felled the first brute with a quick upward slash that split it down the middle, the second with a frag grenade inserted directly in its open, shouting mouth, and the third with another stab of the now bloody energy sword.

      After a few more moments of intense fighting, the once volatile room became suddenly calm. "Contacts?!" Johnson shouted as he fired a shot into a still-moving lump on the ground at his feet.

      "None, sir!" one of the marines shouted back. The soldiers covered the room in formation, each with an elite crouched at his side, surveying the destruction for enemy survivors. They moved in pairs, quickly covering the large, blood-splattered bridge room. "All enemy contacts eliminated!"

      "Excellent work marines," the Sergeant said. He keyed on his com, nodding towards the Arbiter, who was communicating with the Covenant engineers. Those floating, bulbous things still creeped him out, no matter how useful they were in a pinch. "First Sergeant Thomanson? What's your status, soldier?"

      "Engine room secured, sir" Thomanson's voice rang back. "We have eliminated all enemy contacts with only minor damage inflicted. We have a few elites who will need some tending to- they insisted on leading the charge."

      "That's the best damn news I've heard all day, Thomanson- tell Captain Keyes and the Halfjaw to get their asses up here- we just got ourselves a ride home."

      "Already en route, sir. We'll be there momentarily."

      Johnson turned to survey the bridge. All around, men and elites were moving the corpses of brutes, digging for ammunition, salvaging what little was left for the taking. It was a shaky alliance, at best, but it proved quite effective given their situation. He grinned- this would mark his second escape from a Halo. If he ever met one of these so-called Forerunner creatures, he would give them a swift kick in the ass. Near one of the main control panels, the Arbiter was busy at one of the terminals, calling out orders in a Covenant tongue towards the engineers. He looked quite comfortable at the helm.

      "It is just as I suspected," the Arbiter said as Johnson approached. "I was not certain, but somehow I knew..."

      "Knew what?"

      "This ship that we have commandeered," he answered, sounding distracted. "Perhaps it is fate." At that, he left the terminal, taking giant strides towards the group of soldiers below.

      "We met here once before," Halfjaw announced as he entered the room triumphantly, plasma rifle in hand. Behind him, a train of marines and elites followed, along with Thomlanson and Miranda Keyes, looking quite overjoyed themselves. "Does it feel good to be back, Arbiter?"

      "Wait," Johnson interrupted, looking back and forth between the two. "You two know this ship?"

      Halfjaw let out a noise that could have been a laugh. "Know it? Human, this is the Arbiter's former vessel, the flagship of the Fleet of Particular Justice that surrounded Halo. The Arbiter is home!" At that, the Spec-Op elites raised their weapons, shouting in unison. Johnson stole a quick glance at the former commander, who seemed to beam with a simultaneous mixture of pride and humility. So this had been his ship, stripped from him after his "heresy".

      "Yes, elites," the Arbiter said after a moment of silence, standing to his full height. "And it is aptly named for our task." The alien turned to face Johnson, then. "Humans, welcome aboard The Seeker of Truth."

Whispers of the Fallen: Chapter 6- Why's It Gotta Be Black?
Date: 27 October 2006, 4:32 am

Chapter 6: Why's It Gotta be Black?

      Symbols. Symbols on the walls. They were closing in on him from every side. John sprinted down the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him. He could feel stone and dirt underneath his feet, hear the clamour of his boots pounding against the ancient floor. He had to escape.

      I freed myself from bondage. Why can't you?

      Suddenly, a wide chasm opened in the floor beneath him. The Spartan soldier jumped over the gaping maw, opening into a black pit beneath him as he sailed through the air. When his feet hit the other side of the gap, he couldn't believe it. Without missing a beat, he pulled himself upright and began his sprint through the twisting, turning hallways. He had to escape. The walls around him were rumbling now, shaking powdery dust from years of dormancy. It clogged his visor, but he pressed on. Symbols. They were starting to glow a bright yellow as he passed them. What symbols were these? They seemed so familiar to him, but every time he thought he had it the information retreated further into his brain. John tried to clear his head as he ran. The symbols didn't matter. He had to escape.

      The symbols are everything. Look closely...

      John tried to look at them while he ran. The walls were closing in. He was being chased. He was going to be crushed. What were the smybols? He saw a wall of water. Birds. Fire. Giants. Water. Water. Flood.

      "Return to me," an audible voice called from behind the Spartan. "Sleeeeeep..."

      Without warning, he slid into another solid rock wall, this one covered in moving, transparent symbols. The petty officer couldn't make them out, they were rearranging themselves with such speed. He heard footsteps in the darkness, echoing throughout the halls of this place.

      "Return to me."

      "Who are you?" John called out.

      "I am," the void called back, in a voice thin like smoke. "The Sleeper. Return to me, John."

      "Return to you?" he answered. "I don't even know where you are..." The walls began to quake again- the whole structure was trembling with the weight of giant footsteps. Coming in his direction. His vision blurred, rendering the walls unintelligible to him. He had to see who was talking to him. He took a step forward. "Where are you-"

      John didn't have time to finish as enormous hands gripped his throat like a vise. He could feel steel fingertips clamping around his neck, lifting him from the ground, thrusting him against the wall at his back. A Spartan stepped out of the shadows, clad in jet black armor, pressing an eerie visor close to his own. "Follow the symbols!"

      Master Chief gasped, struggling for breath. The black Spartan continued to press him against the stone, harder and harder, until his MJOLNIR armor cracked. It more than cracked. It shattered underneath the weight with which he was being assaulted. It fell off piece by piece, as the rumbling of the walls grew more and more violent. Suddenly, a white light emanated from the other figure, enveloping both of them in its warm glow...

      Fear not. It is I.

*****

      Two and a half months ago, two weeks after the initial Covenant assault against Earth...

      Master Chief's eyes opened widely, his mouth open and sucking in air as fast as possible. It was all he could do to breathe. Above him, a bright hospital light shed its blinding gaze against his eyes, causing them to water. People were rushing about him. Shouting. Talking. Panicked. What was going on? He could barely think straight. Almost separate from his body, he could feel the pieces of his MJOLNIR armor being violently ripped from his limbs.

      "Get that bloody armor off!" someone shouted, a woman with a british accent. He winced in pain as something grabbed at his stomach, yanking forcefully.

      "What is his status?" a male voice rose over the din. Lord Hood.

      "Sir," John tried to say, but his mouth was dry. He tried to roll his tongue around, tried to form a sentence, and tasted blood. What had happened?

      Suddenly, it came back to him. A mission in Kenya. His team, intercepted by a party of brutes. Everyone had been lost. His memory was still fuzzy. He remembered firing round after round from his M6D, felling brutes from a distance as they charged he and his men. Overhead a banshee bore down on them, shredding through their ranks like a hot knife through butter. To his left and right, men hitting the grass, screaming in agony while their bodies were singed and fried from plasma burns. One of the brutes closed in, firing brute shot rounds with wild abandon. Soldiers were torn apart everywhere, their screams filling the African sky. He retrieved his shotgun from his back, pumped it once and blasted a nearby brute almost point blank, leaving a yawning hole in its chest. Several more brutes fell in succession, peppered by his shotgun pellets, decimated by their force. John was one with his weapon, dancing, strafing, rolling, dodging. Brute after brute went down, his shields screaming in protest while he weaved in and out of the swinging bladed brute shots. He had to save his men.... He had to... A blade sliced across his abdomen, spilling his blood over the edges of his metallic suit. John's vision blacked out, spun. he had to save his men...

      A jarring pain brought him back to the present. He gripped the table with his gloved hand, bending its metal as he shouted.

      "He's awake!" One of the nurses shouted. "Sedative!"

      "Master Chief," Lord Hood hovered over him, his wrinkled face looking simultaneously pleased and worried. "You fight through this soldier, these men and women are going to fix you."

      "Pardon me, sir," a woman interrupted, nudging the commander out of John's field of vision. He knew her face well. The short red hair, the green eyes peering down at him...

      "Cassandra," he whispered through bloody lips.

      "It's me, John," she said, bending low to him. He could feel her warm breath on his face. His eyes started to droop. "I need you to hold on, just a few more moments, John." He felt his exposed midsection quiver, felt the blood running down his torso. The sinking sensation came over him of having the walls close in on him...

      "The black Spartan," he said, suddenly. "The black Spartan."

      "What, John?" Cassandra asked, a look of confusion wrinkling her brow.

      "I have to find him!" John shouted. He could feel the Spartan's hands closing over his neck, could hear it's whisper boring in through his ears, surrounding him like a fog. It was suffocating, personal, and was creeping closer every moment.

      Sleeeeeeeeep, it cried.

      "We're losing him," someone shouted.

      "John!"

      And then everything went black.

*****

      One month later...

      John leaned back in his chair, feeling his muscles relax after a long week. Lord Hood had ordered his personal oversight on many recon missions over the last few days, scouting Covenant strength around areas of Africa. The UNSC seemed to carefully be calculating its moves, while the Covenant took their time doing whatever it was they were doing out in the desert near New Mombasa. Or the ruins of New Mombasa, rather. He still found it hard to believe that the once thriving coastal city was now wiped off of the map, all because of Regret's carelessness. Yet another strike towards the Prophets. He had nearly lost his life, then. And the entire In Amber Clad, too. Since then, he couldn't count how many times his life had been in jeopardy. He absentmindedly traced the scar covering his abdomen with a calloused fingertip. So many scars...

      Luckily, he had been able to rationalize his behavior during surgery to Cassandra after regaining consciousness. For some reason, she insisted that this dream had some kind of merit to it, had urged him to let Lord Hood or even Dr. Halsey know that it had happened, but he had politely refused, explaining that it was just his mind playing tricks on him while he was in a fragile state. A near death experience could produce any number of unwanted side effects, the least of which being a hallucination. Still though, he couldn't shake how real the dream had been, or how it had played itself constantly throughout the week during his slumber. A new one had joined in recently, of Cortana, with its own bizarre nuances. He had been fighting in this war too long.

      The Master Chief stared at the message which still flashed on his screen, the one he had been perusing for the last few minutes.

      Why did you never return my letters while you were gone?

      Just curious,
      Cassie

      He ran a hand over the stubble on his hardened jaw, and sighed. Because he couldn't. Because the Covenant were coming. Because he was a soldier. Because... there were any number of reasons to pick from. He was happy that Cassandra had found a place to serve in the UNSC after all that she had been through. She had been on a private escort, a corvette class carrier, ensuring the safety of an anonymous UNSC official's family when they had been hijacked and boarded by Covenant soldiers. She was fortunate to have lived at all. He admired her resolve, and more importantly, appreciated her smile. While some of the other soldiers tended to keep their distance from him, Cassandra had known him since childhood from the SPARTAN program- they treated one another like equals, and like friends. It was enough to keep a man going, particularly with the other Spartans on a mission to Onyx.

      John rested his head against the back of his chair, still glancing at the monitor from time to time. Just a few months prior, after the events of Alpha Halo, he had thought his Spartans all gone and dead. To this day, he was still unsure as to how he was able to get off of that ring in one piece, "knowing" certainly that they had all perished on Reach. Perhaps it had been hope- hope that he might see them again one day. Hope that they had somehow survived, against all odds. That same hope had driven him to a near suicide mission back to Reach to rescue them. He hoped that wherever they were now, they were safe. The Spartan shook his head, sitting up. It never helped to think of what dangers they might be facing. Cassandra always tried to change the subject whenever he started wondering aloud how they were doing. His thoughts drifted back to the woman. Sometimes, he wished that he had met her under different circumstances, but it was never too benificial to dwell on those thoughts for long. Not while the Covenant still occupied Earth. Maybe after the war was done...

      A message light blinked on his monitor then surprisingly, minimizing the blank message he had never typed back to Cassandra. With it, came a picture of Lord Hood, several people behind him rushing frantically in the communications room.

      "Spartan 117," the man said quickly, not waiting for an acknowledgment.

      "Sir?" Master Chief responded.

      "You might want to get down here, and quick."

      "Is something wrong, sir?" John sat up in his chair, quickly throwing a shirt on as he spoke.

      "It's the Spartans on Onyx- they're in trouble."

      John didn't even hear the end of the statement before he had left his room, the door swinging wide open behind him.

Whispers of the Fallen: Chapter 7- Father Wounds
Date: 3 November 2006, 6:39 am

*****

Chapter 7: Father Wounds

      John arrived in the communications room to find chaos. Uniformed men and women were rushing here and there, comparing data read-outs, calling out questions, spilling cups of coffee. The Master Chief, still armorless, had to be careful not ro run anyone over as he navigated through computer monitors and desks. A few in the room glanced up at him as he took giant steps past their workstations, but he didn't pay them any mind. He was used to the stares. And right now, there were other, more important things on his mind. What had the Spartans run into on Onyx? Why would the Covenant be all the way out there, when their battle for the Great Journey was happening here, on Earth? Nothing made sense to him right now. In the central chamber, Lord Hood stood defiantly, barking orders.

      "Kazowski get that transmission back online or so help me god-" he was shouting as the Spartan made his way towards him. On the far wall, an image of static hung transposed, illuminating the room with its white tones. "What happened?!"

      "I don't know, sir," a young man answered. "It just went down all of a sudden, I don't think-"

      "Son, I don't care what you think!" The Fleet Admiral exclaimed. "We need that transmission, and we needed it fifty seconds ago!"

      "Yes, sir!"

      John glanced around the room just as he reached the superior officer, noting several high-ranking officials lined along the back walls. Some of them were military, including Fleet Admiral Harper, Admiral Stanforth, Major General Nicolas Strauss, and others, but he spotted a few uniforms with no insignia or rank of any kind- ONI representatives. Most curiously, though, he saw someone he once believed to be dead, until about a month previous- CPO Mendez, the man who fathered the Spartans. Many had assumed that he died when Reach was attacked, yet here he was. He made brief eye contact with John, his old eyes sagging as he stood at attention. The petty officer examined the elderly man, trying to decipher his emotions- did a man like CPO Mendez care about what happened to his friends? Had he shed tears over the Spartans at Reach? Next to him stood none other than Catherine Elizabeth Halsey, jotting down notes and occasionally glancing in his direction. He clenched his fists slightly at her presence- she had arrived just a week or so ago, with Kelly nowhere in sight. Everyone seemed to have forgotten that she left them on the Gettysburg-Justice with no indication as to her heading. She also stole a UNSC vessel and drugged a Spartan. But then again, they were all just tools, weren't they? Tools to win the war.

      "What's wrong, sir?" John asked in a whisper as he came to a stop next to Lord Hood.

      "Spartan-104 made brief contact with us just moments ago, before I called you," the man explained. "He requested to speak to you."

      Fred, John's second in command. The two of them had fought through more than 100 campaigns together, had lost many friends together. He remembered spending days at a time in the woods with Fred during childhood, the two of them teammates in a survival game designed by CPO Mendez, having nothing to call their own but their wits. Communicating primarily through hand signals, the two young boys had come out as the winning pair on more than one occasion. And now he was in trouble... The Master Chief wished with everything in him that he could be there to help.

      "Did he explain his situation, sir?"

      Lord Hood sighed audibly. "Not good, I'm afraid- that's the best we could tell."

      "Sir," Master Chief began, turning to face him silently. "Do you mind me asking what is on Onyx that is important enough to send three Spartans?"

      The commander returned his gaze, looking him over with a quiet intensity. "I wish I knew."

      John stared at him intently, flabbergasted. "Excuse me, sir?"

      "John," Lord Hood whispered. "I don't even know who authorized the mission." His eyes lifted to meet John's then, a look of concern and- worry? He had never seen him like this. John was just about to ask him a follow up question when the static roared to life, the blurry image of a Spartan filling its screen.

      "This is... 104.... do... copy? Ov.." John recognized Fred's voice, certainly not panicked, but worried all the same. And that was when he knew- something had gone terribly wrong.

      "Spartan-104, this is Lord Hood, what is your situation?"

      More static filled the speakers, booming throughout the room eerily. John winced as it cut through the air. "...dead.... All dead... Too strong... seen anything... Not Cove..all dead."

      "Who's all dead?" Lord Hood demanded as he slammed his fist on the table. He grit his teeth with frustration. "Can somebody fix this damn signal?!"

      "Tell one-one-seve... tell John... we're... we're...We...come..."

      Several sounds came from off camera then, and the screen grew blurry and frenzied with activity. John listened in horror as the sound of gunshots and screaming filled the air. "They found us!" someone bellowed. He knew that voice- Linda. Three consecutive sniper rifle shots could be heard, one after another, as the video cut in and out from the transmission. Suddenly, a large moving object seemed to collide with the viewer, and the camera, attached to Fred's helmet, tilted and collapsed to the ground, leaving the world to be witnessed upside down. John could make out the dark red pool of blood as it slid around the floor, flowing with heavy viscosity. His stomach wrenched as the sound of more gunfire could be heard. Fred had died. And Linda would be next.

      "They're dead, John," Lord Hood said, half to himself, his face colored with shock. "I'm sorry, John, they're all dead."

      Master Chief stared at the screen as the static grew heavy like snow, listened to the screams and the sounds of a frenetic battle. It would all be over soon. He couldn't pull his eyes away, as much as he wanted to. He had already lost Linda once before. His sweaty palms gripped the railing in front of him, and he felt it bend substantially beneath his grasp while his face maintained a deceptive calm. He felt like he was going to throw up from it. The rest of the room had grown disturbingly quiet. Every eye was watching him, evaluating him.

      Suddenly, a Spartan visor came into view, sparks erupting from the helmet, as well as blood. Linda. The video continued to cut in and out of the transmission. "C...O.... dez... The mission was.... C... dez..."

      "Dammit, fix this signal!" Lord Hood screamed.

      "Found it, sir!" a young man responded. "It's being jammed, sir."

      "Jammed? From where?"

      The soldier took a gulp before speaking again. "Here, sir... inside of Cradle." If the room had been quiet just a moment before, it was the complete opposite now. Heads were turning, and voices rose. He continued to pound away at his keyboard, sweat pouring from his forehead. "Wait, I found it- isolating the frequency- there! It's disabled!"

      As if on cue, the video screen cleared up abruptly, and the audio came through with amazing clarity and distinction. As the words hit his ears, John felt like his heart would beat right ouf of his chest. "The mission was authorized by CPO Mendez!" As she spoke, a large shadow loomed across her visor. She glanced up slowly, and then the transmission ended, a flashing white light left in its place. All eyes turned to the back of the room, including John's. Everything had happened so fast. He was able to just catch a glance of Dr. Halsey being shoved over the railing as the CPO exited the communcation hub, throwing the door open wide as he ran.

      Master Chief immediately broke into a sprint, shouting as he threw himself over a desk, hurling his body over the divisive metal railing and through the door. His massive frame turned over tables and chairs, ripped the door from its hinges as he pounded against it. Rage and confusion clouded his senses, but not his judgment. He would not kill CPO Mendez when he found him, no. But he would get the answers he needed.

      "Spartan, halt!" Lord Hood ordered above the rabble inside, but it was too late. The soldier took off down the hall, covering large distances with each stride as he bore down on Mendez. The old man was incredibly quick for his age. Barefoot, he could hear his elongated feet slapping against the concrete and metal that layered Cradle with each step, could feel it pounding in his bones. Behind him, a few footsteps started to emerge from the communications room, but they were too far behind to be relevant. Ahead, CPO Mendez quickly threw himself against a blast door on the right hand side of the hallway, obtaining his M6D from his holster as he entered. He fired several rounds in John's direction, who promptly threw himself to the floor to avoid the shots. He heard the sound of bullets dancing from the walls, of a man screaming as one of them passed through his body.

      Stealing a look down the dark corridor, he cursed silently as he saw others tending to the wounded soldier. So many lives lost during this damnable war. So many senseless lives lost. He was immediately on his feet again, rushing over to the door that Mendez had just entered. John let out a hushed breath as he saw the markings on the steel entrance. "Medical Bay, Division 1-A". This was Cassandra's wing. He pressed the button that granted him access, making sure to unholster his own sidearm, the M6C magnum, as he entered in a low crouch, gun held before him tightly with both hands. He peered around the corner of the Medical bay, noted the lab equipment and metallic counters, and stepped inside swiftly, fanning the barrel of the pistol across the room, examining each entrance, each corner, each potential point of ambush. Perched on the balls of his feet, he made his way to the open door on the far eastern wall, his movements completely devoid of unnecessary audible sound. Where had Mendez gone?

      He allowed his weapon to enter before he did, scanning the large surgery wing as he moved inward, noting the trail of wet blood that dotted the linoleum. Ahead, he could hear the faint whimpering of a woman with a hand clamped over her mouth.

      "That's far enough, soldier," CPO Mendez's voice disrupted the silence. Abruptly, the lights flickered to life, illuminating the expansive operating room. Against the corner stood CPO Mendez, one arm wrapped around Cassandra's neck, pressing her back against his chest, a combat knife pushed tightly to her throat. The other arm held his M6D square in John's direction. John stopped immediately, his sights setting on Mendez's forehead. From this distance, he had little room to miss... Now that the lights were on, he could make out a pool of blood on Cassandra's lab coat. Her eyes held no fear, but the cool of a trained Spartan. Apparently, Mendez had made sure to injure her to keep her from disarming him while he held her so. It seemed tactically to be the best he could offer- after all, the CPO was quite old. "I know what you're thinking, 117, and it's foolhardy." His gruff voice still sounded the same after all these years. Could this really be the same man that taught him everything he knew, holding a former Spartan hostage?

      "Not if I don't miss, sir," Master Chief added, with a hiss. "Cass- are you ok?"

      She nodded. "I've been stabbed twice, to keep me less mobile- I'm losing blood quickly, but I'll be fine if I get prompt medical attention," she reported, her voice steady. "Also, he has placed a small charge to my back... If we break contact, I believe it will detonate." John felt his stomach flutter, but didn't allow his aim to falter.

      "Always the best at assessing a situation," CPO Mendez said. His eyes were wide like a madman's, and perspiration soaked his face. He looked deserpate, animalistic. "I'm surprised she felt me arm the charge. They say you should always have a backup plan."

      "Have you lost your mind, Mendez?" a voice called from the western entrance as Lord Hood appeared, walking tall. John grit his teeth- the man carried no weapon of any kind. "What is the meaning of this?"

      John took a few steps closer, to which the CPO adjusted for by pivoting his body so that Cassandra was in the Spartan's sights, and now Lord Hood had a gun pointed at him, from merely a few meters away. "Careful there, Master Chief," he said. "You don't want to be responsible for Lord Hood's death."

      "What has gotten into you?" Lord Hood repeated. "Let's talk about this, son." The two men stared at one another, while Cassandra continued to watch John as he made his way nearer. "I'm sure that you can explain whatever has gotten all of us into this mess."

      "I'm just protecting my family," CPO Mendez said. "My granddaughter."

      "From who?" Lord Hood asked. "What is going on, Mendez? We both know this isn't like you. The Civilians are safe under HIGHCOM- Bravo 6, you know that."

      "No one's safe anymore, I'm afraid," CPO Mendez replied. John was attempting to circle around behind him while attention was diverted, placing a metal countertop between he and Mendez. Just a few more steps...

      "Has someone threatened you? Who?"

      "Nobody can stop what's already started... I'm sorry," he said, and John watched in horror as he stepped away from Cassandra. She was staring straight at him. Her mouth tried to form words, but quivered instead.

      "No!" John heard himself shout as the explosion ripped through the surgical bay, throwing the metal counters against him. They toppled over his body, and launched him backwards into the wall. A dead ringing filled his ears as he struggled to his feet, the scar on his abdomen torn open from the force of the detonation of the small charge that CPO Mendez had brought with him. The room seemed to spin inwards on itself. There was almost no trace of Cassandra and Mendez even having been there, and Lord Hood was lying sprawled near the western entrance, his body burned badly, his uniform blackened and shred open. A torrent of medical specialists flooded the room, along with Fleet Admiral Harper, and some of the other top brass. It was hard for John to make out their faces, the way his head was dancing. Cassandra was dead. The Spartans were dead. He felt dead. CPO Mendez, a traitor. How had this happened? What had this war done to them all?

      One of the medical specialists glared at John with tears in her eyes while Lord Hood was examined, moaning loudly as he was rushed into a stretcher. "John, you got too close," he kept whispering.

      "What have you done, Spartan?" Fleet Admiral Harper said, his eyes like drills.

      "Sir, I-"

      "You are dismissed. That's an order."

      Master Chief let his pistol fall from his hand as he exited the room, leaving Cassandra and the only fathers he knew behind him. During his departure, nobody seemed to notice the figure in the crowd, watching him go, smiling from ear to ear. His name was Colonel Ackerson.

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