Centurion
Dark Council Elite
“Dov'kahs centi delashas,” Fleetmaster Rak'sul Tel'fasee commanded to the Sangheili standing next to his 'throne' of sorts; a command chair on the bridge of the Adjacent Glory, Rak'sul's personal and command ship of the Dawn of Retribution. The Dawn was relatively tiny in comparison to some fleets among the Covenant, having only four ships in total, Adjacent Glory included in that four; but Rak'sul did not mind this – he found it much easier to maintain command with fewer ships, and he was right. Never once had there been an attempted mutiny in his primarily Sangheili fleet, and he was quite proud of that; most other fleets in the Covenant that had hundreds more ships involved had suffered through a large number of mutinies in their service time – though some fleets, despite their large size, were under very influential Fleetmasters that had kept their warriors under control. “Ital'tefas jutsxa irredian olvier, 'Indifference,' ut kav Forerunners,” He continued. “The god world, it is there. We have found it.” Rak'sul preferred speaking in the Human's most commonly used tongue over his natural Sangheili – and though it bothered some of the 'Elites' (as they were called) under his command, he simply had any that spoke out against him crushed in a fairly one-sided duel. Rak'sul was a powerful warrior, there was no doubting that; he stood at a tall seven feet and eight inches tall, with a very muscular form. His nearly impenetrable armor shone gold, his energy shields a shimmering blue. While he rarely had them powered up on the bridge, it was common for him to have them active at any other time, earning him the nickname “Jutlaskis,” or “Ever-Wary,” by some of the lesser soldiers on board his ship. Their fleet had been tasked with locating the Forerunner shield world 'Indifference,' which had been marked by the previous artifact – Installation 04's – navigational map. At last, after scouring the stars for nearly a decade, they had found the Shield-World's resting spot – hidden away in the Ayteris system, home to only one inhabitable planet, Dov'khas.
“It been here whole time?” Fujos Unbdee queried, his less-than-average ability to speak the Human tongue seemingly taking a chunk out of his immense intellect, which was actually very high – even by San'Shyuum, or Prophet, standards. He stood a bit shorter than Rak'sul, at the average height of seven feet and four inches.
“Yes, right under the San'Shyuum's noses.” the Fleetmaster answered back, a slight bit of amusement in his tone. “Should go?” Fujos asked, then shaking his head and speaking in his natural sangheili language.
“Hujok tel'is junglatod interator?” Rak'sul gave a nod, and Fujos rushed off to relay the command to the other Sangheili aboard the bridge, who subsequently rushed to the controls they were assigned to and began maneuvering the ship towards the shield-world. As they drew closer, however, much to Rak'sul's distaste, it was apparent that Indifference had been through quite a large, destructive force. Half of the world's outer shell had been entirely stripped away, and the former land could be seen clearly as the fleet moved around the outer surface and approached the torn open area. The artificial sun had been destroyed, and the complex that had generated it now floated lifeless among other large sections of rubble.
Further in to the depths of what remained, there were several large structures visible, all of which floated miles over the actual terraformed dirt and landscape that had been implemented. The structures stood long and thin, very faint blue glow emanating from a few small crevices in their respective hulls. “Ships,” Rak'sul started, standing from his throne and walking towards the large screen showing what was visable. “Ships that the Gods once commanded, now drifting lifeless,” Now that the Fleetmaster was closer, he could see that below where the ships drifted, there were several large metallic structures dug in to the dirt and still standing, though now silent rather than busy with the happenings of Indifference's former owners. “There,” Rak'sul started up once more, louder now, to gather the attention of the crew on the bridge. “There is where we will send a party. I will lead it; Fujos – I want you at my side, your knowledge of the Gods' technology will come in handy.”
“Interator,” the Sangheili replied, a way of conveying 'Yes,' or 'Of course,' in the way that humans would use it. “Gather thirteen other Sangheili, bring them to hangar bay three. We will descend as soon as we are prepared.”
The orbit of Reach was rather quiet on this particular day, aside from one transmitting signal that played on repeat across all frequencies that weren't encrypted; “Mayday, Mayday, this is the UNSC Forefront, requesting immediate assistance! Covenant transport en-route to the Ayteris system, heading for Shield-world Indifference! Forces are remaining grounded, we need immediate backup! This message will repeat!”
“To this day,” Jacob-B122, Honor 3, said, laughing as he did. “I have not met one bigger killjoy than you, five!” The Six-Man Spartan team was walking down the hall to the bridge of the UNSC Equilibrium. Having been ordered to get there ASAP, they were walking relatively quickly, but Honors Three, Five, and Two were having quiet conversation.
“And you're the biggest comedian in the entire UNSC fleet, mate.” Honor Five said, his gentle voice intertwined with the slight bit of English accent he had.
“Ladies, Ladies, we're all pretty. Now quiet down before commander Frost gives you both spankings for your arguing!” Honor Two chimed in, her light voice bouncing with amusement. In a flash, Three darted up to her and gave her a friendly – though quite hard – slap on the ass. Almost immediately after, she turned and punched Three square in the chest, her augmented arms packing quite a punch; Jacob was sent back a few feet, landing on his back.
“You know the rules, no touching!” She said, turning back to continue sauntering down the hall, next to Honor One. Honor One was different; he stood at a six feet seven inches, average for a Spartan-II. Of the team, only he and Honor Four were of the original Spartan-II program. Erik-094 was normally very quiet, rarely speaking to anyone but Honor One. His armor was basic MJOLNIR Mark IV Armor, normal for Spartan-II's that were still in existence. “Quiet,” Honor One snapped to his team, voice ridden with annoyance as he tapped a few buttons on the panel to the side of the door leading to the command deck. One-Zero-One-Two-Five-One-Six-Nine-Eight-Two-Five, he thought to himself as he entered the long sequence that unlocked the door. After a few seconds a light beep was heard and the airlock slid open, the hiss of air escaping as it slid to a halt to allow the spartan team entrance. The ship's commander, Andrew Frost, stood at the head of the bridge, staring out through the thick glass at the activities of the fleet.
“At Oh-Two-Hundred This Morning, Reach received a transmission from an outer colony world – one of the few still alive.” The mixed team of Spartan-II's and Spartan-III's stood and listened, daring not to interrupt as they expected their orders to come soon. “The Covenant are in the Ayteris system, going after the shield-world there. We're being sent to investigate, and preferably, eradicate the small force of four ships.”
“Just four?” One said, his voice quiet as if thinking quite hard. “When have they sent four ships after us in the past...?”
“At the Fall of Irilex Four. We were crushed.” The commander said, his voice jaded and monotone as he spoke. “Which is why I doubt we'll be able to destroy them without a superior edge. Our primary mission is to scout ahead and see what they're getting themselves in to with Indifference.”
“Juthrok'Doki,” the Fleetmaster mumbled in prayer as he marched in to the hanger bay; In the center of the area, a pair of Type-52 Troop Carriers sat, hovering just above the floor with a light humming sound. Fujos was there, waiting with a group of Elites that had been suited up in to their low-grav equipment custom built for their fleet – two tanks of the oxygen-based gas that they breathed was embedded on their backs, tubing leading to a link slot at the base of their mandibles, which were covered entirely by the facemask they had to wear. For now, the tanks were shut off as to not waste the precious air prematurely; the masks' air vents open. Attached to the Elites' lower legs were tanks of fuel to power the anti-grav propulsion jets at the heel of their boots. On their forearms were more fuel tanks, with tubing attached to another set of jets, one on the back of their wrists. These pieces of equipment were much more maneuverable with than the basic Sangheili anti-grav suits were, and much more comfortable. As Rak'sul approached, he himself clad in the equipment, his facemask's air vents snapped open so that he may speak, the group of elites turned to him.
“Itvas tel'tisa, Fleetmaster,” Fujos greeted, gesturing to the other thirteen Elites around him.
“Are the Phantoms ready?” the Fleetmaster inquiried, his voice slightly mechanized when speaking through the facemask he had designed himself. Though not very different than the basic facemask, it had one key difference: a heads-up display in the lenses. The HUD would display time remaining for the tanks of air, possible locations of valuable Forerunner artifacts, tag his Elite allies in case of a firefight. A small camera also sat next to his left eye, which would record the events once activated.
“Interator, Fleetmaster, k'vadas del them.” Fujos answered with an abrupt nod, motioning for Rak'sul to come over to the group of Elites.
“Good,” he said, striding over to the other fourteen Sangheili in a huddle, all facing him. “We will take two Phantoms,” the Fleetmaster stated, bringing up his right hand to gesture at the one to his left. “Seven of you will take this Phantom and investigate the Forerunner ships floating above where my squadron will touch down.” As he finished, looking to Fujos, he spoke slowly and confidently. “Fujos Unbdee, you will lead seven to the ships. I will take six elites with myself,” he said, gesturing to the ship on his right. “We will investigate the structures below. Choose those of your squadron and send the rest to my Phantom.” Fujos nodded.
Stepping up in to the Phantom's troop bay, he sighed quietly. A shame that the Great Journey requires us to be here with the dead relic of Indifference rather than on the front lines, he thought to himself. The San'Shyum are fools, in truth.
After a few minutes, the six Elites assigned to Rak'sul's squad stepped up in to the troop bay as well. Rak'sul was standing at the open airlock to the cockpit, his voice calm yet powerful. “Thos Taz'kat null brek'dos telis aflon,” he said, his voice heightening in spirit as he spoke.
“Ulf'Tas ont Unfes!” The Elites chanted in unison, Rak'sul turning to step down in to the cockpit and shut the airlock, sitting in to the command chair of the Phantom and resting his armored, four-fingered Sangheili hands on the two flight adjusters, his large hooves on two of the six hardlight pedals on the floor. With a blink, he raised his hand up above and pulled a lever back – in the troop bay, the six Elites shuffled in to formation as the back of the dropship lifted itself and sealed itself shut, entrapping the air within.
“Glory in Death, Glory in Ascension,” Fujos replied before Rak'sul grunted in reply, shutting off the comlink. The two Phantoms rose in to the space between the floor and ceiling of the hangar, humming quietly as they started to drift towards the energy field at the exit of the hangar, passing through with a faint fizzle.
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“So let me get this straight, Commander -” Honor Three said, now fully suited in his MJOLNIR armor aside from his helmet, which he held at his side. “We're going up against a covvie fleet by ourselves?” The UNSC Equilibrium was now empty and silent apart from a few crew members that were absolutely necessary to keep the ship running – and even then, nearly all of them were on the bridge, at work in their respective stations.
“Yes, for the most part. We've got Reach on speed-dial if something goes wrong.” the ship's Commander said with a sigh, gesturing for a few operators to warm up for the slipspace jump they would be riding to the Ayteris system.
“And you're saying that'll help us?” B122 sounded genuinely nervous, and rightfully so. The Covenant were not to be underestimated, especially in this day and age.
“Enough,” Honor One interrupted, his arms crossed as he watched the two men talk. “Get back to your quarters, Three. Commander Frost and I have more important matters to attend to than bickering,” Sierra 063 finished. He had been rather silent through the exchange, but now knew it would be time to discuss the plans of action.
Three looked back with the annoyance in his eyes quickly fading, nodding to his commander and heading for the exit of the bridge. The rest of Honor had already left for the barracks, Three having only stayed behind to speak with Frost.
“Buckle in, Spartan, this ride might get bumpy when we exit slipspace,” Frost said, marching up to his command seat and strapping himself in. With a nod, One stepped up to the left him and put his right hand on the armrest, his left hand dropping down to a button on the outside of his right thigh, pushing it in. With a quiet whirr, his boots magnetized themselves to the deck; not an incredibly strong form of it, but enough to keep him stable in slipspace or walk along surfaces in zero-gavity. After a few minutes the humming of the engines could be heard on the bridge, and the portal opened ahead of the ship, its slipspace shields powering up as it moved in.
After about thirty minutes or so, the ship came out of slipspace and slowed down drastically, turbulence picking up as it did. Almost immediately, Commander Frost and 063 spotted the group of Covenant cruisers drifting towards the destroyed Shield-world's inner areas, Honor One immediately turning to hastily walk towards the exit of the bridge. “The Pelican's prepped for you, Sixty-three. Get to the surface of Indifference. If they give you any trouble, you kick 'em right in their alligator asses!”
Honor One only nodded.
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And so the Phantoms descended towards the wreckage that remained of Indifference. As the quiet humming of the dropship surrounded Rak'sul, he only thought one thing over in his mind; the Writ of Union. All who walk the blessed path will find salvation, even in death. Out of darkness, these blades will light our way. Glory and honor guide our ascension. On the blood of our fathers, on the blood of our sons. The true devotee honors our name with actions, not words. Victory is secured not from the throne, but from the front lines. With this sacrament of blood we journey into the divine beyond.
“Fleetmaster! Human drop ship approaching!” Fujos's frantic yelling broke the silence, his emergency transmission automatically turning his radio receiver back on. Sure enough, as Rak'sul broke out of his trance, he could see the Pelican approaching in his peripheral vision – incredibly fast. “Evasive maneuvers, Fujos!” Rak'sul shouted, his hands tensing on the control sticks and his hooves moving across the light pedals frantically, causing his Phantom to spiral towards Indifference in a wide arc.
“Attention shitheads!” A new voice broke in to his radio – it was strange, too high to belong to an Elite, but too deep to belong to a Grunt. “It's time to die! Line up!” With a severely angry grunt, he shouted back.
“Human! You will be burnt to glass like so many of your kind before you – we fear not death, for we walk the path of the Great Journey!” And Rak'sul turned to look at the screen displaying the distance from his Phantom the Pelican was. The second blip was only a millimeter away; Rak'sul slammed his hooves down on two of the pedals. The Phantom slowed itself incredibly quick – if not for the harness he wore, he would have flown out of his seat. On the moniter ahead of him, he saw the Pelican shoot past. Narrowly avoiding Rak'sul's Phantom, it kept going – heading straight for Fujos's spiralling drop ship.
“Fleetmaster, we -”
Rak'sul shifted his Phantom towards the now severed nose of the Phantom, bringing his drop ship overhead and pressing the acceleration ability of it to the maximum. Faster, faster, just a little faster! As Rak'sul came directly overhead the falling command section, he kicked the gravity generator on and gripped it as he would a Ghost or Wraith. Slowing his descent, his slow groan rose to a roar of defiance - the artificial gravity of Indifference having not been expected to still be at play. At this point he was trying to go from around two hundred miles per hour to slow enough as to dip the Phantom and avoid a horrid crash straight in to the lifeless forest below – which was accelerating towards him at an incredible rate.
Alarms went off as the Phantom's radars picked up missiles headed for it, Rak'sul's face a determined and stubborn twist of anger. With a sudden jerk on the control stick, he threw the Phantom in to freefall, turning it to face the approaching Pelican and its missiles. Now falling backwards towards the planet, Rak'sul fired the engines once more and slowed his decent more rapidly, locking the speed in to place – throwing off the safety harness and leaping over in to the primary turret control seat. Still yelling out his anger, he kicked the turret in to life and brought it up to fire at the three approaching missiles.
One by one they exploded in what was left of the atmosphere, the Pelican starting to spiral and stabilize its flight path, peeling off of its pursuit as the plasma bursts turned to head for it. The Alarms suddenly burst to life again as he looked above to see the forest of Indifference to be suddenly within two miles of the Phantom's tail. Leaping up out of the seat, he brought the safety harness back down around him and shoved the control sticks forward, pressing down on the outermost pedals; the Phantom started to go over on its back.
Rak'sul's vision faded to black, feeling the hull of his Phantom start to crumple from the trees as it smashed through them, digging in to the soft ground as it slid to a slow halt - coming to rest half a mile from where it started, in the middle of a field.
Silence.
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