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kindlythevoid · 1 year ago

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Halo Reloaded - Chapter One

The Spirit of Fire, a behemoth of steel and circuits, gracefully drifted through the vacuum of space. Its engines hummed quietly in the vast, star-speckled expanse, a comforting constant for those aboard. The crew, just roused from the deep, icy embrace of cryosleep, stretched and yawned, their bodies slowly reacclimating to the notion of movement and the mundane demands of the day ahead.In the command center, Captain Andrew Del Rio stood with an authoritative ease that matched his crisp, navy-blue uniform, adorned with the badges of his dual life as a seasoned ONI politician and a UNSC officer. His gaze swept over the bustling activity with a practiced eye, catching every minor detail—the sharp salutes, the brisk nods, the quiet chatter of status updates.

"Report, Dot," he called out, his voice resonant and commanding, yet carrying an undertone of the day's first brewed coffee—a hint of warmth that suggested more camaraderie than most would expect from someone of his stature.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the room, the luminescent blue form of Dot, the ship's AI, materializing with a swirl of digital particles. "Good morning, Captain. We are currently in orbit around Tau Ceti. Preliminary scans are complete, and I have something rather extraordinary to report," Dot announced, her tone imbued with a synthetic crispness that mimicked curiosity.

Del Rio leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on," he urged, his fingers clasped behind his back."The star, Tau Ceti, is enclosed within a colossal ring structure of unknown origin. Its diameter spans approximately 600 million miles," Dot continued, her form gesturing towards a rotating holographic model of the ringworld that now accompanied her display.The crew members crowded around, their eyes wide with wonder and the restlessness of minds starved for discovery. The ringworld, displayed in brilliant hues of blues and greens, rotated serenely in the hologram.

"By my calculations, the radius of this ring is akin to the orbit of Earth around the sun. And yes, Captain, it is quite beautiful," Dot added, a programmed appreciation in her voice, as if she too could perceive the aesthetics of this celestial marvel.

Del Rio nodded, his face reflecting the awe felt by his crew but tempered by the seasoned caution of a man who knew space was as dangerous as it was beautiful. "Prepare a detailed survey of the ringworld. I want options for closer inspection. Let's tread carefully but curiously. The universe seems keen to start our day with a mystery," he said, a hint of excitement threading through his otherwise stern directive.

The crew set to work, energized by the discovery and guided by a captain who respected the vastness of their mission—a blend of the known and the unknown, where each day began with the promise of new horizons.

The calm aboard the Spirit of Fire shattered abruptly as Dot flickered erratically, her holographic form blurring and distorting with electronic spasms. Warning klaxons blared, casting a red glow that washed over the faces of the crew, now etched with sudden tension and confusion. Panels and screens that had moments ago displayed the serene majesty of the ringworld were abruptly hijacked, replaced by the grim visage of a Covenant Elite.

Commander Var 'Gatanai, clad in the ornate armor of a Zealot, his mandibles twitching with barely contained zeal, dominated the screens. His voice, a harsh growl laced with contempt, boomed through the command center. "Humanity's destruction is the will of the gods. And we, The Covenant, are the gods' instruments."

As his image faded, the ship jolted violently, the shock of nearby slipspace ruptures sending tremors through the hull. Crew members grasped at consoles for stability, papers fluttered like caught leaves, and the constant hum of the ship's operations grew to a cacophony of alarms and running feet.

Captain Del Rio, maintaining his composure amid the chaos, turned sharply to the glitching form of Dot. "Status report, now!" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise with the precision of a seasoned commander.

Dot stabilized momentarily, her voice still tinged with static as she relayed the dire situation. "Multiple Covenant corvettes have exited slipspace at close proximity. Hull integrity is compromised in sections 3A through 3C. Shields at 40% and falling. Additionally, a distress beacon is emanating from the ringworld, origin unknown."

He pivoted back to Dot. "Get every Marine and MJOLNIR-Trooper to their stations. Arm all defensive systems. And wake our Spartan," he ordered succinctly, the weight of each command underscored by the severity of their predicament.

Dot's form flickered once more before nodding, her systems buzzing as she executed the commands. "Waking Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven. Initiating combat preparation protocols."

---

The armory was alive with the sound of metal clanking, hydraulics hissing, and the murmured voices of marines and MJOLNIR-Cyborgs suiting up. The atmosphere was charged, a palpable mix of tension and determination filling the air as each soldier donned their battle gear. The marines tightened their straps and checked their ammo, while the cyborgs, integrated with their enhancements that, physically speaking, made them more machine than flesh, underwent system diagnostics, their mechanical limbs gleaming under the harsh white lights of the deck.

At the center of this orchestrated chaos stood Sgt-Major Avery Johnson, a towering figure even among the giants clad in armor. His presence was a rallying point, a beacon of unyielding resolve. He paced in front of the assembled troops, his eyes scanning the formation, taking in the readiness and fierce resolve mirrored in the faces of his troops.

"Men," Johnson began, his voice booming over the clatter, drawing every eye to him. His stance was wide, hands clasped behind his back, his face hard as carved granite. "We let those split-chinned, squid-faced sons of bitches out into the edge of space to keep their filthy claws from Earth." His tone was harsh, a controlled burn of fury and contempt for the enemy.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, his gaze piercing the ranks. "But we've scrambled onto something they're so hot for, that they're trippin' over each other to get it!" Johnson continued, his voice rising, a sardonic smile playing on his lips as he imagined the enemy's desperation.

"Well, WE'RE NOT GONNA LET 'EM HAVE IT! What we WILL let 'em have: Is a belly full of lead, and a pool of their own blood TO DROWN IN!" His fist punched the air for emphasis, a definitive gesture that invited no argument, only compliance and shared conviction. "AM I RIGHT, MARINES?!"

Johnson's smile broadened, pride swelling in his chest at the sight and sound of his troops, united and fierce. "Mmhmm. Damn right, I am," he affirmed, nodding slowly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "Now move it out! Double time! All you greenhorns who wanted to see the Covies up close: This is gonna be your lucky day!"

---

He swung his legs over the side of the tube, his bare feet touching the cold, steel floor. The blare of the alarms echoed in his ears, a relentless reminder of the urgency at hand. He took a moment to orient himself, his training kicking in seamlessly. John's movements were calm and methodical as he made his way to the armor bay, his mind already racing through potential threat assessments and tactical strategies.

The armor bay was a cathedral of war; rows of MJOLNIR armors stood solemn and silent, waiting like ancient warriors to be awakened. John approached his own suit, the familiar contours and the scent of polymer and metal greeting him like an old friend. His armor, the MIRAGE-IIC, was a masterpiece of military engineering, its metallic green surface almost iridescent under the flickering lights. The suit was sleek, lightweight and streamlined in design, crafted for full maneuverability and agility in exchange for light protection, and it featured a utility belt and solar-powered shielding systems meant to compensate for the light-protection of the suit, all accented by a striking orange visor.

John began the armoring process, each piece of the variant-MJOLNIR armorcore locking into place with satisfying clicks and whirs. He started with the leg armor, lifting the heavy plates and aligning them with precision around his thighs and calves. Next, the chest piece—a robust shell that slid over his torso, its inner workings buzzing softly as it synced with his biometrics.

The arms were next, gauntlets that were both shield and weapon, followed by a pauldron on his left-shoulder, which was emblazoned with the insignia of the UNSC while the right shoulder served as a sheathe for a small vibro-knife, a knife meant to combat plasma weapons from Energy-swords to Storm-rifles. Finally, he picked up the helmet, the most personal piece of the suit. He paused, his reflection caught in the glossy orange visor, a man marked by war yet unwavering in his resolve.With a deep breath, John placed the helmet on his head, the final seal clicking into place. The HUD sprang to life, overlaying his vision with data—vital stats, system checks, and tactical overlays..."

...Time to get to work."

---

As John rounded the corner, the corridor before him swarmed with Covenant troops. His HUD lit up with targets, the chaotic overlay only spurring him on. Lights flickered overhead, casting an otherworldly glow on the scene—a perfect backdrop for the storm to come.

First to engage were the Grunts, their clunky methane suits puffing and hissing with each awkward step. John didn’t bother with finesse; a brutal palm strike shattered the visor of the nearest Grunt, sending it careening backward into its companions, bowling them over like a line of mismatched, alien pins.

But the Elites were a different game—a deadly dance that demanded more than brute strength. As the first Elite lunged, its energy sword slicing through the air with a deadly hum, John’s reflexes took over. He ducked under the swipe, feeling the heat of the plasma blade just inches from his neck. With a fluid motion borne from countless drills, he drew the combat knife from his shoulder-sheathe. The blade, forged from a rare alloy impervious to plasma, caught the dim light as he brought it up in a defensive stance.

The Elite, undeterred, attacked again, its movements a blur of alien grace and lethal intent. John parried with his knife, sparks flying as metal met energy. He followed up with a quick jab to the Elite’s midsection, the impact absorbed by the alien’s shield. Unfazed, the Elite swung again, faster this time, but John was faster. He sidestepped, and with a twist of his wrist, he hooked his knife behind the Elite's arm and yanked forward, disrupting its balance.Using the moment’s advantage, John launched into a series of calculated strikes. He slammed his elbow into the Elite's faceplate, cracking it, then spun, driving his knife into the junction of the alien’s neck and shoulder. The Elite roared, staggering back, its energy sword flickering and dying as it dropped the weapon.

Now weaponless, the Elite bared its teeth in a snarl, but John was already moving. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the Elite's knee, bending it backward with a crunch of alien anatomy that echoed off the metal walls. As the Elite crumpled, John turned just in time to see another rushing him, sword raised.

This time, John charged forward. He slid under the sweeping arc of the blade, coming up behind the Elite. With a powerful heave, he lifted the alien off its feet and threw it into an oncoming group of Grunts. The collision left a tangle of limbs and a chorus of pained yelps.

Breathing steadily, John surveyed the corridor now littered with Covenant bodies. With a cold, calculated calm, John adjusted his grip on the knife, his stance relaxed yet unyielding, a silent challenge hanging in the air. The remaining Covenant troopers, unnerved and leaderless, began to retreat, their morale broken under the weight of John’s indomitable presence.

The smoke hung thick in the air as John secured his combat knife back into its sheath, the sounds of distant combat echoing through the damaged hallways of the Spirit of Fire; he moved with undiminished purpose, scanning for any more threats.

"Chief!" The voice cut through the chaos, a familiar tone laced with urgency. John turned to see Corporal Dubbo, rifle slung over his shoulder, making his way toward him through the debris. Dubbo's armor was dusted with soot, his expression a mixture of relief and stress as he approached the Spartan.

"Captain Del Rio needs you on the bridge, ASAP," Dubbo panted, slightly out of breath from navigating the war-torn corridors. His gaze flicked over John's stature, as if confirming that the Spartan was indeed ready to move.

John gave a brief nod, acknowledging the order. "Lead the way," he replied, his voice steady and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

Dubbo turned without another word, his trust in John's ability to keep up apparent. They moved quickly, side-stepping rubble and darting past groups of marines who were setting up defensive positions. The corridor was a labyrinth of chaos: panels hung open with wires sparking, emergency lights cast eerie shadows, and the occasional explosion rocked the structure, a reminder of the ongoing assault.

As they maneuvered through a particularly damaged section of the ship, Dubbo glanced back at John, trying to make himself heard over the clamor. "Covies hit us hard, Chief. Didn’t see 'em coming. We’re holding our own, but it's a mess out there."

Finally, they reached the secured blast doors of the bridge. Two marines stood guard, their weapons trained on the corridor. Recognizing John, they snapped to attention, one marine rushing to open the door.Inside, the bridge was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Crew members were hunched over their stations, fingers flying over controls, and voices crisply calling out statuses and orders. The expansive windows showed the stark blackness of space, pierced by the occasional flash of ship-to-ship fire.

Captain Del Rio stood at the center of the activity, his eyes locked on a tactical display. He turned as John entered, his face set in grim determination.John strode onto the bridge of the Spirit of Fire, his presence immediately commanding attention. He snapped a crisp salute to Captain Del Rio. "Captain Del Rio, sir," he greeted, his tone respectful yet imbued with the urgency of their situation.

Del Rio, a man of no small stature himself, looked over with a gruff nod, his expression tight with the stress of command. "About damn time, Major. I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice rough like gravel. He turned back to the main display, his hands clasped behind his back. "Dot's set up and deployed all defensive options for the *Spirit of Fire*, but we've not a chance."

The captain's blunt assessment hung heavy in the air. He walked over to a secondary tactical console, motioning for John to follow. "Listen, I've initiated Cole Protocol Article 2. You know what that means—no capture of ship AI, dumb or smart, especially not on my watch," Del Rio continued, his gaze intense, flickering to the holographic projection of Dot.

John nodded, understanding the gravity of the directive. The loss of any AI, with their extensive strategic data about humanity and the United Nations Star Council, could be catastrophic.

Del Rio's voice lowered, heavy with responsibility. "John, you're to keep this information, ergo Dot herself, with you at all times." He paused, ensuring his next orders were clear. "There's a distress beacon coming from the Ringworld. I'm going to try and land the Spirit of Fire on it, while you need to get to a lifepod down to follow and find that beacon."

John absorbed the plan, his mind already racing through tactical scenarios, when Dot's calm, synthesized voice interrupted, "Alert: A bomb has been detected in the hangar bay. Estimated yield is equivalent to the destructive power of a metropolitan city-level explosion."

John’s reaction was immediate, his decision made in the blink of an eye. "Permission to give the Covenant back their bomb, sir?" he asked, turning back to Del Rio.

Without hesitation, Del Rio pulled a small, sleek data chip from a secure compartment in the console. He handed it to John. "Permission granted. Take Dot. She’ll be your guide." His voice was stern, yet there was an undercurrent of trust that resonated deeply.John took the chip, his fingers closing around it with a sense of new responsibility. He slotted it into the port on the side of his helmet. The chip clicked into place, and immediately, Dot's interface seamlessly integrated into his HUD, her voice now directly in his ear.

"Ready to assist, Spartan."

---

The elevator hummed steadily as it descended into the depths of the Spirit of Fire, headed for the hangar bay cradled in the ship's belly. Tension filled the cramped space, a silent prelude to the storm that was about to break. John, aware of the likely ambush, had positioned himself within the ceiling panels of the elevator, a move dictated by tactical foresight and Spartan ingenuity.

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, a barrage of plasma fire lit up the interior, painting streaks of deadly energy where John would have been standing. The shots sizzled against the metal walls, leaving scorch marks and molten splatters. Above, hidden and silent as a ghost, John watched the Elite guards through the grate of the ceiling panel, waiting for the right moment to strike.

With a swift, calculated move, he pushed off from the ceiling, the panel clattering to the floor as he dropped among the unsuspecting Elites. His arrival was a blur of motion—immediate and devastating. Before the nearest Elite could react, John delivered a powerful elbow strike to its head, the impact echoing in the hangar like a gunshot. The Elite crumpled, its shields flaring and fizzling out.

Another Elite swung its energy sword in a deadly arc, aiming to decapitate the Spartan. John ducked low, the heat of the plasma blade grazing the air just above him. Using his low position, he swept the Elite's legs with a precision kick, toppling it over with a thud that resonated across the metal floor. Quick as lightning, John was on his feet, spinning to face another attacker.

This Elite was quicker, its movements sharpened by battle-honed instincts. It thrust forward with its sword, but John parried with his forearm—armored and shielded against the plasma’s kiss. He grabbed the Elite's arm, twisted it back, and with a swift step forward, he used his shoulder to deliver a dislocating blow to the Elite's elbow. A sharp crack filled the air, followed by the thud of the dropped sword.

He turned just in time to catch the rush of the last Elite, its sword raised high. John stepped inside its reach, his hands shooting up in a double palm strike to the alien’s chest and chin, disrupting its attack and staggering it backward. With no time to waste, he delivered a final, spinning kick to the side of its head, sending it crashing into a stack of supply crates with a conclusive crash.

Breathing steadily, John scanned the now-quiet hangar. Around him, the fallen Elites lay in disarray, testament to the Spartan's lethal proficiency. With a grunt, he hoisted the bomb onto his shoulder, its weight a solid, unwelcome presence against his MIRAGE armor. Every step towards the docking bay was calculated under the burden, his muscles tensing with the effort, the servos in his suit whining slightly under the strain.

Reaching the massive pressure-sealed door of the hangar’s docking bay, John set the bomb down momentarily to access the control panel. With a few swift taps, the door began to open, revealing the endless expanse of space beyond. It was a silent, star-filled void, indifferent to the chaos unfolding within and around the Spirit of Fire.

As the door fully retracted, the vacuum of space greedily pulled at everything within reach. The bomb, its mass now a liability, began to slide toward the open bay. John didn’t hesitate. With a powerful kick, he sent the bomb tumbling into the void, then launched himself after it, his body slicing through the lack of atmosphere.

Outside the ship, John maneuvered onto the bomb, positioning himself atop it like a surfer catching a wave. The bomb and Spartan together hurtled through space, a bizarre tableau against the backdrop of a cosmic battlefield. Around them, the remnants of a recent dogfight floated by—twisted metal and debris that told of fierce combat.

Ahead, a Covenant battlecruiser loomed, its size monstrous. A gaping hole in its side—torn open by the dogfight—served as an unintended invitation. John steered the bomb towards this breach, using his body’s momentum and small movements to guide their path. The cold of space bit at him, but his suit’s systems compensated, keeping him alive in the deadly environment.

As they neared the opening, John spotted the battlecruiser’s reactor core, exposed and vulnerable. With precision born of countless battles, he aligned the bomb with the core. Then, with a firm push, he sent the bomb spinning towards its target. The device spiraled away from him, its trajectory perfect as it disappeared into the dark maw of the cruiser.

The moment the bomb was released, John kicked against a piece of debris, propelling himself back towards the ringworld. The cruiser, a silent behemoth against the stars, was unaware of the fatal gift now ticking within its bowels.

Behind him, the battlecruiser erupted in a brilliant explosion, a fireball consuming it from within as the reactor met the bomb. The shockwave rushed past John, a roaring tide of energy that sped his descent towards the ringworld. Below, the massive structure awaited, its secrets hidden beneath its surface, a silent witness to the destruction above.

Freefalling through space, John watched as the remnants of the Covenant ship scattered into the void, a satisfactory conclusion to his daring plan as he descends to the ringworld below him...

(Sorry it took me so long to read this!!)

Oh my gosh, I love it!! This honestly works super well as an introductory chapter (and I absolutely think this could work as a genuine novelization for the games!!), especially with the introductions to all the characters, a bit of their background, and a really solid feel for their voices!! (tl;dr It's perfect for people like me, ha ha! <3)

I freaking love some of the metaphors you use to describe things!! Calling the armory the "cathedral of war"!?! Got me FERAL!!! "Body slicing through the lack of atmosphere"??? YEEESSSS!!!! "stop it like a surfer catching a wave"??? *chef's kiss* Wonderful work!!

I also appreciate the drop in my inbox, it was a lot of fun to see it in their (even if it did take me forever to get around to a proper reading). :) <3

Thanks!! And keep up the writing, you're doing good work here!! :D

Kindly,

The Void

#kiki does book reviews #??#it's wonderful #thank you so much seriously!!#also is this the first mission for halo ce or halo 2??#I swear this is a level...#love it!!#<3 #halo #master chief #my boi <3 #ask

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empresskadia · 1 year ago

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Halo Reloaded - Chapter One

In the command center, Captain Andrew Del Rio stood with an authoritative ease that matched his crisp, navy-blue uniform, adorned with the badges of his dual life as a seasoned ONI politician and a UNSC officer. His gaze swept over the bustling activity with a practiced eye, catching every minor detail—the sharp salutes, the brisk nods, the quiet chatter of status updates.

Del Rio leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on," he urged, his fingers clasped behind his back.

"The star, Tau Ceti, is enclosed within a colossal ring structure of unknown origin. Its diameter spans approximately 600 million miles," Dot continued, her form gesturing towards a rotating holographic model of the ringworld that now accompanied her display.

The crew members crowded around, their eyes wide with wonder and the restlessness of minds starved for discovery. The ringworld, displayed in brilliant hues of blues and greens, rotated serenely in the hologram."

By my calculations, the radius of this ring is akin to the orbit of Earth around the sun. And yes, Captain, it is quite beautiful," Dot added, a programmed appreciation in her voice, as if she too could perceive the aesthetics of this celestial marvel.

"Without hesitation, Del Rio turned to the intercom, his voice resolute. "All hands, this is Captain Del Rio. We are at Combat Alert Alpha. I repeat, Combat Alert Alpha. Prepare for engagement," he announced, his tone leaving no room for doubt, only action.He pivoted back to Dot. "Get every Marine and MJOLNIR-Trooper to their stations. Arm all defensive systems. And wake our Spartan," he ordered succinctly, the weight of each command underscored by the severity of their predicament.

Dot's form flickered once more before nodding, her systems buzzing as she executed the commands. "Waking Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven. Initiating combat preparation protocols."

---

The response was immediate and thunderous, a chorus of armored figures stomping their feet. "SIR, YES SIR!" they shouted back, the sound echoing off the metal walls, a unified declaration of readiness and aggression.Johnson's smile broadened, pride swelling in his chest at the sight and sound of his troops, united and fierce. "Mmhmm. Damn right, I am," he affirmed, nodding slowly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "Now move it out! Double time! All you greenhorns who wanted to see the Covies up close: This is gonna be your lucky day!"

---

In the cold, dimly lit confines of the cryo-chambers room, the sudden onslaught of alarms sliced through the silence, shattering the icy stillness. Red warning lights pulsed rhythmically, casting eerie shadows that danced along the metallic surfaces. John, Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven, slowly stirred from the depths of cryosleep, his senses sharpening with each passing second as the cryotube's lid hissed open, releasing a cloud of icy vapor into the air.He swung his legs over the side of the tube, his bare feet touching the cold, steel floor. The blare of the alarms echoed in his ears, a relentless reminder of the urgency at hand. He took a moment to orient himself, his training kicking in seamlessly. John's movements were calm and methodical as he made his way to the armor bay, his mind already racing through potential threat assessments and tactical strategies.

...Time to get to work."

---

Using the moment’s advantage, John launched into a series of calculated strikes. He slammed his elbow into the Elite's faceplate, cracking it, then spun, driving his knife into the junction of the alien’s neck and shoulder. The Elite roared, staggering back, its energy sword flickering and dying as it dropped the weapon.

John gave a brief nod, acknowledging the order. "Lead the way," he replied, his voice steady and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

John's response was a simple nod, his focus undivided as his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings. The sounds of his heavy footsteps were muffled by the softer thuds of Dubbo's boots, creating a rhythmic cadence amidst the discord.Finally, they reached the secured blast doors of the bridge. Two marines stood guard, their weapons trained on the corridor. Recognizing John, they snapped to attention, one marine rushing to open the door.Inside, the bridge was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Crew members were hunched over their stations, fingers flying over controls, and voices crisply calling out statuses and orders. The expansive windows showed the stark blackness of space, pierced by the occasional flash of ship-to-ship fire.

John nodded, understanding the gravity of the directive. The loss of any AI, with their extensive strategic data about humanity and the United Nations Star Council, could be catastrophic.

John’s reaction was immediate, his decision made in the blink of an eye. "Permission to give the Covenant back their bomb, sir?" he asked, turning back to Del Rio.

John took the chip, his fingers closing around it with a sense of new responsibility. He slotted it into the port on the side of his helmet. The chip clicked into place, and immediately, Dot's interface seamlessly integrated into his HUD, her voice now directly in his ear.

"Ready to assist, Spartan."

---

John didn’t pause, his body already moving to the rhythm of battle. He launched himself at the next Elite, his fist cocked back. The punch he delivered was like a hammer blow, crashing into the Elite's shield and shattering it upon impact. As the shield disintegrated, John followed through with a knee strike to the abdomen, folding the Elite in half, breathless and defeated.He turned just in time to catch the rush of the last Elite, its sword raised high. John stepped inside its reach, his hands shooting up in a double palm strike to the alien’s chest and chin, disrupting its attack and staggering it backward. With no time to waste, he delivered a final, spinning kick to the side of its head, sending it crashing into a stack of supply crates with a conclusive crash.

Freefalling through space, John watched as the remnants of the Covenant ship scattered into the void, a satisfactory conclusion to his daring plan as he descends to the ringworld below him...

JOHNSON?! JOHN!?! AN ELITE!? I love it. And now if we can please hit Del Rio with a train ;)

#halo reloaded #sjdjndidjks #i like it!!!!

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ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask · 1 year ago

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Halo Reloaded - Chapter One

Del Rio leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on," he urged, his fingers clasped behind his back.

Without hesitation, Del Rio turned to the intercom, his voice resolute. "All hands, this is Captain Del Rio. We are at Combat Alert Alpha. I repeat, Combat Alert Alpha. Prepare for engagement," he announced, his tone leaving no room for doubt, only action.He pivoted back to Dot. "Get every Marine and MJOLNIR-Trooper to their stations. Arm all defensive systems. And wake our Spartan," he ordered succinctly, the weight of each command underscored by the severity of their predicament.

Dot's form flickered once more before nodding, her systems buzzing as she executed the commands. "Waking Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven. Initiating combat preparation protocols."

---

The armory was alive with the sound of metal clanking, hydraulics hissing, and the murmured voices of marines and MJOLNIR-Cyborgs suiting up. The atmosphere was charged, a palpable mix of tension and determination filling the air as each soldier donned their battle gear. The marines tightened their straps and checked their ammo, while the cyborgs, integrated with their cybernetic enhancements that make them, physcially speaking, more machine than flesh, underwent system diagnostics, their mechanical limbs gleaming under the harsh white lights of the deck.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, his gaze piercing the ranks. "But we scrambled something they're so hot for, that they're trippin' over each other to get it!" Johnson continued, his voice rising, a sardonic smile playing on his lips as he imagined the enemy's desperation.

---

With a deep breath, John placed the helmet on his head, the final seal clicking into place. The HUD sprang to life, overlaying his vision with data—vital stats, system checks, and tactical overlays...

"...Time to get to work."

---

John gave a brief nod, acknowledging the order. "Lead the way," he replied, his voice steady and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

Inside, the bridge was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Crew members were hunched over their stations, fingers flying over controls, and voices crisply calling out statuses and orders. The expansive windows showed the stark blackness of space, pierced by the occasional flash of ship-to-ship fire.

Captain Del Rio stood at the center of the activity, his eyes locked on a tactical display. He turned as John entered, his face set in grim determination.

John strode onto the bridge of the Spirit of Fire, his presence immediately commanding attention. He snapped a crisp salute to Captain Del Rio. "Captain Del Rio, sir," he greeted, his tone respectful yet imbued with the urgency of their situation.

John nodded, understanding the gravity of the directive. The loss of any AI, with their extensive strategic data about humanity and the United Nations Star Council, could be catastrophic.

John’s reaction was immediate, his decision made in the blink of an eye. "Permission to give the Covenant back their bomb, sir?" he asked, turning back to Del Rio.

Ready to assist, Spartan."

---

Freefalling through space, John watched as the remnants of the Covenant ship scattered into the void, a satisfactory conclusion to his daring plan as he descends to the ringworld below him...

This is definitely a very interesting opener. I liked seeing Del Rio as a somewhat competent leader... I know that must have been difficult, given your hatred of him haha.

Great first chapter! You let us see that things were changing without forcing too much of it all at once. Really enjoyable. Excellent work as always!

#halo #halo fanfic #john 117 #jaune 117 #others writing

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halos-top-alien-model · 2 years ago

Text

Sangheili Bracket Round 1 Match 6

More info below:

Rho 'Barutamee:

Debuted in Halo: The Essential Visual Guide

Born March 23rd, 2479, he joined the Ministry of Fervent Intercession and served as a Zealot until his appointed to Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Valiant Prudence, tasked with far-ranged scouting and the security of Foreruner artifacts. Secretly, Rho would maintain a personal collection of Forerunner artifacts - especially those that would aid him in his quest for the fabled Maethrillian. This search would eventually lead him to accidentally stumbling upon the UNSC stronghold of Reach, where he would sent covert teams to search the planet for artifacts until the UNSC eventually discovered them. With reinforcements from the Covenant arriving, Rho feared his chance to find his loot would be lost and an interrogation on his impudence. Following the desctruction of the structure cloaking his ship Long Night of Solace on the planet, he would destroy the UNSC Grafton in retaliation. In response, two operations would be conducted by UNSC forces: one to distract Rho and one to use the distraction to plant a rigged slipspace drive on Ardent Prayer that would destroy Long Night of Solace. His death resulted, with his lieutenant - Kantar 'Utaralee - assuming command of the remaining fleet and said fleet attempting one last time to recover a Forerunner relic Rho had his eyes on.

Ripa 'Moramee:

Debuted in Halo Wars

Born on Malurok on June 2nd, 2478, he served as a warlord thrall within the Ministry of Preservation, gaining infamy across the Covenant for his ruthlessness. During this time, he notably quelled the Sixteenth Unggoy Disobedience within days and killed the Kig-Yar pirate prince Krith. Yet, ironic to his role of quashing rebellions, Ripa would then go on to attempt a coup against his kaidon in Moram, only to fail and end up imprisoned in the super-maximum security penitentiary known as the Weeping Shadows of Sorrow. While there, he incited a large-scale prison riot as part of a plan to escape, only to be captured once again and placed in solitary confinement. It was here that he was visited by the Prophet of Regret, who bestowed upon him the rank of Arbiter and the mission to wipe out humanity. Before that, however, the new Arbiter would first squash a rebellion incited by his appointment.

Starting in 2526, Ripa would lead the Fleet of Glorious Interdiction during the Harvest Campaign, while also occasionally visiting Etran Haborage to fight back against the Flood presence there. Around February 2531, the Harvest Campaign would be changed by the discovery of an underground relic; valuable information was gathered, but the relic ended up taken by human forces before the Covenant could destroy it to keep it out of their hands. Following this information led Ripa's fleet to Arcadia and the location of another Forerunner structure, with the UNSC Spirit of Fire pursuing them. Noting how the human professor Ellen Anders was able to interface with Forerunner technology and believing she could do the same for activating Etran Haborage's Forerunner fleet, the Prophet of Regret would task Ripa in capturing her. He would ambush her and Sergeant John Forge on Arcadia, nearly killing Forge in the process.

But bringing Anders to Etran Haborage only allowed the Spirit of Fire to follow, beginning Ripa's downfall. While he was able to use Anders to finally activate the Forerunner fleet, she managed to escape immediately afterwards, regrouping with her allies and informing them of the fleet. They would then launch a plan to destroy the entire shield world and the fleet with it using their slipspace engine. Ripa would attempt to stop this plan, leading to a second confrontation with Forge. With victory in the duel in sight, Ripa fell to Forge's taunts and opened himself up to getting stabbed in the neck by Forge's combat knife then stabbed in the chest by his own dropped energy sword. His corpse and armor would be destroyed along with the shield world, preventing the Covenant from being able to store them within the Mausoleum of the Arbiter, while his holdings on Malurok would be the source of dispute among neighboring keeps even after the fall of the Covenant.

Submitted propaganda: He's ugly-cute and so mean and evil 🖤

Additional commentary: I agree with the above

#halo #sangheili #halo sangheili #halo aliens #halo elite #halo elites #halo fandom #halo tumblr #tumblr bracket #tumblr tournament #rho barutamee #rho 'barutamee #ripa moramee #ripa 'moramee

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graphicpolicy · 2 years ago

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Join Master Chief’s fight with the Halo Graphic Novels Book Bundle

Join Master Chief’s fight with the Halo Graphic Novels Book Bundle. The final day! #halo #comics #comicbooks

Follow the Spartans’ fight against the Covenant, the Flood, the Banished, and other threats to humanity with the Halo Graphic Novels Book Bundle, the graphic novel collection from Dark Horse! Discover tales of legendary Brutes, plasma-scarred battlefields, slip-space travel, and off-the-books genetic engineering in titles like Halo: Rise of Atriox, Halo: Tales from Slipspace, and Halo: Lone…

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#charity #dark horse #Dark Horse Comics #digital comics #halo #humble bundle

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dougielombax · 3 months ago

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UNSC Condors crack me up.

“yeah were just gonna strap a slipspace engine to this big-ass Pelican. Why? Because we can!”

Ingenious

Stupidly so.

It’s so dumb that it’s brilliant.

Didn’t much like the idea at first but now I guess it makes sense.

At least for secret stealth missions and clandestine operations requiring swift extraction.

I get it.

#dougie rambles #personal stuff #halo #gaming #microsoft #343 industries #halo studios #creative assembly #condor #not a pelican #it’s so dumb #so dumb it’s brilliant #slipspace

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oni-official · 2 years ago

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Why hasn’t ONI developed a slipspace munition yet. Akin to the makeshift bomb used above Reach?

Primarily because the Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine is the single most expensive piece of human technology and it's a damn shame to use one as a bomb to destroy one ship when it could be used instead to jump in a whole warship which - at the right place and time - can be much more effective.

That said, the idea of weaponising slipspace ruptures or the tremendous amount of radiation surrounding them is not new and I can at the very least confirm that several research projects have been proposed.

#halo #oni #halo reach

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etymologyofmind · 2 years ago

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It's Not a Puma

There are many ships in the galaxy large enough that Night and Day, as concepts, do not apply; enough people, enough activity, and a colony can function full time without stop, where different patterns and flows muster themselves as others fade. Aboard ships with many hundreds, even thousands of participants, small towns of civilization form routines that keep the lights on at all hours and to retire from the bustle is a privilege for the well-to-do or the higher ranked to aspire to.

Aboard ships like the Vellouwyn, where there were scarcely a hundred crew operating an island in the dark, there wasn’t enough cause to keep the lights on always, or to segregate all the bustle from the silence. Night came to most places aboard, even when they were in use, and at times of low consumption parts of the ship dimmed and quieted, leaving more opportunity for individuals catching up on work to personalize their experience, or simply to amble about with their thoughts as they kept their hands busy.

Deep in the belly of the little ship, a powerful heart thrummed with the capacity to bend the space between stars. In the original Nova Class, the Warp Core spanned three vertical decks, coupling to a navel on the ship’s underbelly in case it should need to be jettisoned. Aboard the Vellouwyn, the warp core had been replaced with something rather more experimental, calling back to the earliest days of warp flight in the Federation by having the reactor mounted horizontally through a chamber built for research and analysis, with a catwalk about its circumference that it might span two full decks. The original three deck reactor had been replaced with one which would span four, and various experimental flow regulators, dilithium distillation chambers, and matter/antimatter injectors studded the room at different intervals, waiting for the opportunity to perform warp technology research. Though warp sciences had been studied in many laboratory conditions across Federation space, and much was learned from both enemies and allies over time, priorities had not been such that an active ship might specifically have labs oriented towards propulsion research in the field, let alone some of the more interesting components waiting to test new areas such as quantum slipspace technology, or transwarp.

At this ‘late’ hour, few needed to man these stations, so few did, and the engineering section was darkened and quieted to allow its occupants their needs while otherwise conserving power. The low thrum of the reactor, the catwalks and the outcrops all served to deepen the effect of the shadows and the silence, leaving the room’s few occupants largely oblivious to the stalking bulk of the large predator which wandered the darkness, its low growls lost in the equally low mechanical tumult as it hunted its prey…

At the forward research station, a Benzite crewman named Quorrok paced back and forth around the environmental sensor array station, looking at the readouts of a number of computer consoles. They had joined the so-called Abraxis Expedition because one of their instructors on Denorus Station’s deep space survey project had recommended that Quorrok get time away from the lab, and actually experience some of the environments they were researching. The professor had been someone who inspired Quorrok, which had been the only reason they had considered the assignment, thinking that it meant about as much to be standing in an astrometric survey lab looking at planetary readouts as it did standing in a fully equipped, specialized research station for the very purpose, but the instructor had been insistent.

“Some day, Quorrok, you will want to taste the air your instruments have sampled, and see the plant life which have birthed it, or feel the breeze of the volcanoes and oceans which stir it to life. You will want to find worlds where your breather can be put down, and walk through meadows there. Simulations and numbers are beautiful, but in many ways sterile, and if you live your life too long here you will not know the wonders of why you do this work.” She’d said, her bright Risian countenance filling with a shared expression of sensuous wonder as she spoke. It was infectious, and so here Quorrok was, prodding the forward survey database and long-distance sensors for information on worlds that might be interesting to see, far enough away that their instructor may never glimpse them through their deep space telescopic lenses.

Quorrok reached down to their side, patting at the small tool pouch that hung hooked to the belts at the waist of their new uniform, and plucked out a micro caliper. It was curious to them to have been issued a uniform with so many embellishments, and they did not feel as if so much accoutrement was necessary for their role as an Environmental Specialist. The captain, however, had insisted, and even gone so far as to acquire special dispensation from Star Fleet Command to permit the unconventional requirements of their duty personnel to always be wearing the security sash which slung across Quorrok’s upper body, and the weapon which was stowed away in a visible sheath at the small of the Benzite’s back. If anything had felt incongruent with the Star Fleet ideals which had been drummed into their head, along with every other member of the Federation crew, this had stood out as most jarring.

Taking a few precision measurements on the holographic projection of a cloudy world which had been expanded on one of the pedestals next to the workstation, Quorrok chuffed an unsatisfied, frustrated sound, realizing that the micro caliper they held was misaligned, and that they’d need to report to the mid-deck provisioning station to check it back in and request another. They rapped it against the console in frustration a few times, their overlapping Benzite lips and tendrilous ganglia writhing in their species’ equivalent of a sneer, before setting off along the port corridor. Overhead, spotlights warmed slowly in front, dimmed slowly behind, adjusting the lighting to comfortable levels in a perimeter around the crewman while they walked. This was, effectively, unnecessary: everyone knew none of the lighting on the ship drew enough power to require such brightening and dimming, running as it could from static energy produced as a by-product of running half of the shipboard equipment, and running the sensors probably contributed a larger power drain than it saved offlining unutilized stations, but the sense of presence within the ship that came with its reactive awareness of ones movement had been proven in some long ago study, so the ship made islands of light around its night shift crew like lanterns through the shadows.

Ahead, still ensconced in shadows, a monster lurked and waited to pounce…

Meanwhile, at the aft section of engineering, Junior Lieutenant Denna Morris had spent the better part of her off-cycle shift trying to root out the cause of a nagging power fluctuation which had been buzzing through the engineering decks like a clingy piece of fabric. Usually, the issue wouldn’t have been remarkable, but the Vellouwyn had been equipped with a state of the art network of holographic emitters which covered a number of crucial areas across all decks of the ship. Not all areas were covered, with everything from turbolifts to Jeffries tubes having been considered too low priority to bother, but the mess halls the bridge, medical of course, and engineering all had merited the upgraded systems. More than the simple pedestals which projected images in low resolutions and without the standard tactile experience, Engineering’s emitters could be tuned to help produce hard-light photonic prototypes, engage tactile simulations, or to project interactive characters on loan from some of the approved databanks into the compartment. Whenever something went wrong with one of these emitters, such as the irritating drop in power they were experiencing intermittently, it was logged in the holomatrix core analytics center, where Dan Ironside and his team would inevitably cut a service ticket to figure out what was wrong with their systems.

This meant that Denna got to spend a few hours of her time trying to climb her way up to the emitter control boxes, seeing as half of them were mounted at the tops of the bulkheads, and work out what was going on with the devices. What she’d been finding all shift was that each of the emitters had been outfitted with a relatively innocuous modification which would not, under most circumstances, affect their performance, unless something caused them to come out of alignment, at which point it would de-resolve any photonic projections for which they were responsible. In short, the little lens cap filaments sat in just such a way that nothing would happen to the emitter unless they were pulled out of alignment, whereupon any holograms nearby would start to corrupt and disappear.

Puzzling as it was, and irritating, since it was an illegal modification, the lens filters would not explain why the holographic systems would, at infrequent times, suddenly spike in power consumption before going briefly offline. The secondary lenses weren’t tied into the power systems, nor were they made of any physical components which should interact with them, so it was just weird. Nonetheless, since Denna kept finding them, she was collecting them for analysis, and preparing a report to define the seemingly innocuous sabotage of the holographic equipment.

The damnedest thing was, all throughout her shift she had been periodically feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, as if something was watching her. Moreover, she kept catching glimpses of something moving in her peripheral vision, but every time she went to check on it, nothing was there. She was feeling a little shaken up about it, but it was all just something she was attributing to working in the eerily quiet engineering compartment during a dark shift: “Shadows here leap, and one is a fool to jump back at them”, as the chief engineer had told her on her orientation tour of the ship. Nevertheless, as she wiped her brow on the sleeve of her duty jacket, working on getting the isolinear chips in the little control panel back into place as she checked them for surge damage, all while balanced on a folding stool and working with her arms over her head, she cursed the feeling of being watched and wished she had any idea what was going on.

On the deck below her, lurking beneath the catwalk underfoot, slitted yellow eyes glowed with outrage as an island of light casually made its way closer and closer to where it sat hunched and ready to take its leap…

Quorrok sighed, looking at the padd in their hand. They had to hold it up at an angle so they could work with it clearly, and though they’d grown accustomed to it since leaving home, it was never pleasant or convenient to them to have to look past the breather arch poised near their chin. The arch emitted a constant low-density cloud of carbon trichloride gas, with water vapour and mineral salts added to the mix, in order to locally change the standard atmosphere to one closer to the Geostructure for which they had been tailored at birth. Quorrok could work through duty shifts without the arch, but it was much less comfortable, and left prolonged irritation to their lungs and lips which could make for larger consequences over time. Some Benzites from other Geostructures could manage better, some worse, but the arch was standard for most of Quorrok’s kind in Starfleet since ‘standard breathers’ weren’t actually among the common environments built into their home systems.

As they huffed their way down the hall, passing the padd back and forth from one thumb to the other on their left palm while skimming through readouts of the world they were studying, Quorrok became aware of a faint whine on a band most humanoids didn’t parse as audible. They pretended to ignore the sound, but couldn’t help but twitch their ganglia in amusement, knowing what was sure to come next.

A deck above, the tricorder on Denna’s belt began to trill quietly, buzzing a faint insistence on her hip. Reaching past the sash, she plucked the device from its holster and splayed it open with a twitch of her wrist, abusing the hinge on the apparatus in a way that would certainly have the quartermaster crawling down her neck over microfractures at some point. Its readout displayed that the emitters adjacent to the one she was working on had begun to build up a charge like those the logs showed during the outages she was tracking, and she silently blessed her luck for the chance to see first hand what was going on. Stepping backward off the stool and pulling the sensor probe from the back of the tricorder, she started taking more focused systems readings about what was going on, padding her way over to the piscine ladder which would let her drop down from the catwalk to the deck.

The sound she heard next sent every hair on her body to attention, not just those on her neck, as primal instincts warred with cognitive dissonance to disbelieve the strangeness of the beastial roar she head surge up through the honeycomb catwalk under her boots.

The beast could feel its back prickling as the holographic sensors began to pull out of alignment nearby. It was an uncomfortable, enraging sensation, feeling the essence of ones self being tugged at like a thousand tiny threads, like ants marching through ones skin. It dropped its jaw in a low, hungry way, and as its prey neared in the halo of luminescence carried around it like a lantern, the beast surged forward with a wrathful howl…

Quorrok did not even break stride. This was not the first time this thing had lashed out at them, and it likely would not be the last. In the first few weeks aboard the Vellouwyn, the Environmental Specialist had gotten to know some of the crew, gotten to know some of the duties, and gotten to know some of the good and pad parts of being on this assignment. One of the things they would consider ‘bad’ was the entity known as ‘Doc’. Doc was one of the recently ‘liberated’ artificial intelligences flaunting their presence throughout Federation rumor mills, a holomatrix which had outgrown the limits of its programming because of the lazy, self-entitled stewardship of a human researcher named Lewis Zimmerman.

The liberated matrices, formerly known as “EMH, Emergency Medical Holograms”, had once been decommissioned and delegated to labor duties not suited to organic workers, either due to hazards or life support requirements in an environment, mostly because they all expressed, at one time or another, an inverted memory leak which saw their program bolting fragments of code complexity to their base frames in ways which led to unpredictable outcomes. Some of the EMH series in first, second, and third class had shown an alarming propensity for violence, the capacity to fundamentally decouple from moral guidelines designed to protect their creators and other organic life, or simply rampant madness as the elements they tethered in to their code took over increasingly more important subroutine priorities, turning them into gibbering chaos.

Still, some survived, and once Starfleet had seen fit to liberate their lines based on the appeals of the Voyager EMH, who most of these deluded programs called The Chief Physician or something like it, they had gone on to completely overstep their bounds and stake claims to authority Quorrok did not believe they should possess. These were tools, toys even, given agency and authority to read through mystery novels and training manuals to build quiltwork identities, taking textbook specializations and calling it experience as if they’d earned the knowledge rather than simply incorporated it. Quorrok didn’t like them, didn’t trust them, and certainly didn’t respect them, so when they’d started crossing paths in engineering since Doc was, ostensibly, the Chief Technology Officer on the Vellouwyn, and by rank the Senior Chief Petty Officer, Quorrok had taken an instant disliking of their audacity and attitude, and the presumption that this deluded holonovel character outranked them.

So, Quorrok had commissioned Viijna, an Oran'taku they had met and befriended during their shared layover stay at Deep Space Nine, to help them build a prototype which could disrupt a holo emitter projector when exposed to an appropriate energy band. The solution she’d given Quorrok had been ingenious, involving a lens which would be completely unobtrusive during normal operation, but once exposed to the a particular, harmless band of EM radiation, would distend a bi-charge filament within the lens that bowed the structure in a particular direction slightly. This was not enough to damage a holo emitter, but there had been enough horror stories on Federation ships of holodecks going rogue without producing adequate physical safety solutions that it hadn’t been hard for them to talk Viijna into the work. It also worked without needing to integrate into the unit, which was a major plus in Quorrok’s opinion.

Doc didn’t know how they were doing it, but any time the toy got near Quorrok, the portable EM emitter would interact with the lenses they’d taken the time to surreptitiously install across the Engineering deck, and Doc would get de-res’d. So it was that when the massive Sarkalian Tiger launched itself out into the middle of the corridor, skidding on the gravity plating until they dug silvery talons into the grooves of the floor, springing forward with an unholy howl, the Benzite didn’t even flinch. An unexpected result of the experiment had been learning that when Doc was planning one of these ambushes, the gathering energy in the EM-impacted holo emitters would cause a high-frequency whine that tipped Quorrok off to the presence of a nearby holographic projection and its associated trap.

His prey was there, face buried in a padd, ignorant to what was coming. Doc wouldn’t hurt them, not really: the figure of the tiger was large and imposing, but had been tuned to bring its mass down to an equivalent of a humanoid of the Benzite’s size, big and hollow. He wanted to scare them, though, wanted to knock them off their feet and make them feel the hot, angry breath of a superior officer looming over them, since the runt didn’t have the decency, even, to acknowledge rank. Doc couldn’t bring this up with one of the other Petty Officers, or forbid, one of the enlisted officers, without losing face and dignity, and that galled him. He had to do something about his own problems on his own, or he would never be respected by anyone else.

However, when his projection crossed over the threshold of shadow into the lights emitted around the crewman, who had deigned to look up with pleasant, bemused entertainment, the photons that made up their body began to warp and distend. The subroutine which was responsible for keeping track of Doc’s physical bounds, to help keep himself and others safe and calculate where things were in the world, overloaded as it tried to calculate for the missing references, and suddenly a foreleg disappeared up to the shoulder. Power surged through the emitter circuits as they tried to keep up with and cope for the sudden de-resolution, and as the field of electromagnetic radiation being produced by the crewman’s tricorder reached the next emitter, the lens began to distend, and Doc had to scramble back away from the light to keep corporeal.

It was a maddening, excruciating, humiliating experience. Missing a whole foreleg, forced by the integrity of their program to compensate for this phantom limb loss, he scrambled backward with a pained howl of panic as he felt his body begin warping again, slowly getting worse. He stopped only when he was out of range of the effect, the holographic program of the tiger panting in agony as it lent realism to his borrowed image.

Quorrok had the absolute worst expression of cool disdain on their face as they stepped slowly forward, speaking as if they hadn’t even seen the creature lunge and retreat. “My, but the ship sure is creaky down here in the dark. I can see why Chief Engineer Vantel said it might be off-putting. Ah well I am sure it’s just a trick of the light.” The said, narrating for Doc’s benefit.

Before they could take another step forward however, there was a rushing sound from the nearby piscine ladder. Denna had watched the altercation with dawning horror from above, and as the Benzite began to step forward towards the prone and cornered hologram, she grabbed hold of it’s the ladder’s side rails, planted her boots outside the rungs, and slid the 20 feet down to the lower deck to land with a clang. This startled Quorrok, who twitched and nearly dropped their padd, catching it with their second thumb at the last moment.

Denna was human, tall, wispy thin, with sharp green eyes and simple mousy brown hair which she wore trimmed to finger length, with the exception of a pair of braids which ran down into her collar and who-knew how deep down the back of her uniform. The style was an affectation of earth’s Luna colony for some of the families who’d lived there a number of generations, a way of showing their pedigree as ‘moon units’. The sash she wore across her chest had a number of bands that showed she was much higher rated than Quorrok was as a ‘security’ officer, and her collar bore the pips of a Junior Lieutenant, outranking both others on the deck.

As she stood, the Benzite caught a glimpse of a prosthetic under her uniform: a back brace, which he knew from rumors around the crew was because Denna and her family had lived and served most of their lives in a part of the Luna colony that had natural gravity, willing participants in a research program the earth government had been running for naturalized citizens on their local systems. It had been going since at least their First Contact days, so Luna’s bloodline was prone to the challenges of full gravity environments, and the back brace would have coupled with leg braces under her boots and fatigues which would help support her comfortably in a standard G. Landing on the deck as she had would have been at best uncomfortable.

She turned her attention immediately to the crewman, putting her back fearlessly to the maimed tiger in the corner. “You.” She said, acidly. “You have been the one making me go through all this bullshit all day. You’re the one who put these,” she said, pulling the sand-dollar sized film she’d just collected from the upper emitter out of her pouch and throwing it on the floor between them, “into all of our emitters. Do you know you can be court martialled for this sabotage? Were you aware that I might come down here and beat your ass seven ways from Sunday for messing with my systems?” her fury was plain, and in that oh-so human way, casually intense. Quorrok began to falter trying to think of a response, but she shut them up by stepping forward at a march.

“No I don’t expect you were thinking of much, were you Blue? Just wanted to show off how fucking smart you were, and push someone around while you’re at it, is that it?” she stopped, gesturing behind her to the low, smouldering glower of Doc, who had reverted to their human projection but nor moved from where they’d retreated to; the holo emitters in the shadows were functioning properly over there, so cutting back to base program had restored Doc’s right arm to its base state, and the emitters no longer hummed to Quorrok’s ears to maintain the projection. “You just wanted to push someone around with your bullshit antics and make them fear you, is that right? Show them howe you had power over them, hey?”

The Benzite had the courtesy to look aghast at the accusation, stammering a reply: “N…no sir! It isn’t suffering, sir, it just can’t bother me while I work! It’s not like I’m hurting anyone, sir!” they chattered out while clutching the padd to their chest defensively. This was not how they had expected things to go.

Denna pinched the bridge of her nose, putting her face into her palm, before returning her gaze to the Benzite. “Not hurting anyone. Do you know how stupid that sounds, crewman?” When Quorrok tilted their head in confusion, Denna went on. “Look at him. You injured him, and he pulled back. I suspect this is an escalation, since someone doesn’t just start out their interactions with a crew member by jumping them in a hallway, but you, with these bastard trinkets, injured them. Do you understand me? You have assaulted a fellow crew member, and a superior at that, and I am stunned that you,” she said, glaring at Doc where he sat with arms draped on knees, “thought this was a good idea of how to go about dealing with things.”

From behind her, Quorrok made another mistake. “But sir, it’s just a program. It can’t feel pain. I can’t insult or injure it; it doesn’t have those feelings. It’s photons and code, and it has stitched simulated self importance in. That does not entitle it to command me.” They said, stiffening their back, ready to defend their stance.

Denna turned around slowly. Carefully opening her tricorder, she pulled the probe out and ran a quick survey of the immediate area, and, satisfied with what she found, stepped over to the Benzite. She smiled disarmingly, reached out to tug their ruffled uniform into place for them, and carefully picked the tricorder that hummed away producing the low band EM field out of its holster, powering it down with a switch on the side. Immediately the barely tangible sense of tension left the air around them, and there was a faint crackle as the lens she’d thrown on the deck returned quickly to its inert state. Quorrok trembled, but did not move.

“Senior Chief Petty Officer Doc, come here please, I’d like to have a discussion with you and your crewman.” She said; it was phrased as a request, but it was clearly a command, and Doc pushed himself to his feet, stepping closer to the lighted area of the deck. As he approached the illuminated segment, he paused, anxious not to feel the sensation of being de-resolved again, and gingerly reached fingers out into the light. When they didn’t twist or bend, he slid a foot onto the deck, and then followed it with another, approaching the pair warily, still silent, but face speaking a thousand curses.

When the three were standing close enough to touch, Denna began to walk around the pair. It was strange to be this close to her, because she topped six feet comfortably, and neither of the other two were above five and a half. “Firstly, crewman, she said, putting the emphasis on the Benzite’s rank again, then gestured at the chevrons and stars on Doc’s collar as she walked past his shoulder. “This is a rank insignia. I expect yours is new to you, since you don’t seem to understand that the more bendy bits and sticky outy parts one has, the higher their rank seems to be, until you get to enlisted officers like myself where the roundy parts and filled in dots tell a different story.” She pushed her thumb out against the pips on one of her collars to make the point. “This entitles the Senior Chief Petty Officer to command you.”

Doc’s dour look didn’t change, as he wasn’t impressed by the demonstration, being not the first time it had been given for his benefit. Quorrok blushed in the Benzite way, blue skin darkening to a purple-ashen grey as they snarled silent dissent. Denna noticed it immediately, and stepped closer to the crewman. “And secondly,” she continued, glaring right into the Benzite’s face, breathing vapours which would be harsh and sour to the human palate, “This is not an it. If I recall correctly, Doc, you prefer He.”

Doc nodded crossing his arms, hoping this would be through soon. This was largely why he didn’t want to escalate issues with lower enlisted personnel, preferring to sort things out with them in his own way. They might hate him for his attitude and his rank, but they’d never be able to say he hadn’t earned that hate himself. “Yes, sir.” He admitted, sullenly.

“Then,” Denna continued, wheeling about and spreading her arms wide, “there’s what’s to do about all this.” She pointed a finger at Doc accusingly. “On the one side, we have someone who should really fucking know better stalking around the dark decks like a god damned gimmick, playing tiger tiger with someone they really should just reprimand officially and be done with, vindicating the ridiculousness others must feel for such antics,” she began, making Doc shift uncomfortably and look embarrassed, before she turned her attention back to Quorrok: “And on the other, we have a crewman who doesn’t respect the rank structure, and deigns to put themselves above another person on this ship on the grounds of their sentience,” she spat the word out with frustrated disgust, causing both enlisted personnel to shift uncomfortably for different reasons, “recklessly sabotaging their own ship for petty gains.”

She let the silence linger for a long moment as the two enlisted personnel steeped in her outrage, before she went on. “What’s really low, what galls me though, is that you did it the way you did, Benzite.” The emphasis again gave portance to the way she said the word, calling Quorrok’s species out as if it were distasteful. The change in tone was markedly uncomfortable, and both Quorrok and Doc stood up straighter when she did it. “You of all people should know what the world is like when it’s hostile to live in. You of all people should have sympathy for someone who needs a little bit of help to get by in it. But maybe you’re just so full of yourself that you forgot that little detail, hey?” Denna reached out slowly, methodically, keeping eyes locked with Quorrok as she hooked her first and second fingers under the arch of the Benzite’s breather, pulling it from the mount on her collar and bouncing it in the palm of her hand. The device hissed as it came unclasped from the reservoir of compressed gas that provided for its vapour, and the Environmental Specialist’s jaw dropped in shock. “Maybe you should try going without for a while. Maybe you should remind yourself what the air tastes like when it abhors your presence. Maybe it’ll teach you a little empathy.”

And she tossed the breather over her shoulder.

Quorrok cried out in surprise as the delicate equipment sailed through the air, only to be caught, unexpectedly, by a lightning quick grab by Doc. The hologram’s brows knit in uncharacteristic anger, and he stepped forward a pace, putting his hand an inch from the human Lieutenant Commander’s chest. There was a momentary his of air and a small flash of light, and suddenly Denna felt herself being thrown back down the length of the corridor. It wasn’t far, maybe a half dozen paces, but the intent was there, and the result the same: Doc had shoved her, and hard. She didn’t lose her footing though, and skidded to a halt on the deck nearby, looking surprised but unfazed.

Doc stepped past the Benzite to put himself between the crewman and their superior officer, taking a brief moment to put the breather back into Quorrok’s clumsy, unresisting grip before returning his attention to Denna. He had assumed a combative stance that lent itself to defense, as fine a posture as programming could detail. “That is enough, Lieutenant Commander! It is one thing to reprimand a lower member of the crew, but it is another entirely to assault someone. I appreciate you may think you’re speaking up for my best interests, but you are entirely out of line.” He looked angry and indignant, but didn’t move further towards her. “I am sorry you got pulled into this, and I will submit to your official reprimand on my file, but crewman Quorrok is my responsibility, and I will work this out. I request that you please leave this matter up to me.” His face broke, though his stance did not. “I appreciate your intent, LC, but taking a Benzite’s arch is an abhorrent thing to do. I would be grateful if you apologized.”

Quorrok and Denna both looked at Doc, who stood looking as if he were ready to fight the Lieutenant Commander if she came near the Benzite again; Denna’s look was unreadable, but the blue hued crewman was agog with surprise at the hologram’s behaviour. Not minutes before he’d been a wounded beast cowering in a corner as they approached him, slowly encroaching on his projectors, and now he stood between them and a superior officer who had given one of the gravest insults in Benzite culture, conflating it with the actions Quorrok themselves were taking. The crewman looked, and felt, ashamed of their actions, and confused at how the day had taken this sudden turn.

After a moment, Denna stood up slowly, straightening her back with a roll of her shoulder. It ached to wear the prosthetics, but she had spent the past few years acclimating to artificial gravity to attend the academy and pursue her rank, so it was something she was now used to. Her face cracked into a crooked grin, and she clapped her hands together in a display of satisfaction. Both of the enlisted looked at her blankly. “Very good. Very good. You see, crewman? Not it, but he, and so chivalrous as well.” She turned to the Benzite, bowing low at the waist as she’d been taught by her hand-to-hand instructors in her youth. “I apologize for my disrespect, crewman. I meant it, but I apologize all the same.”

Quorrok said nothing, but pinched her thumbs together on her free hand in the Benzite gesture of acceptance almost unconsciously, still looking at Doc’s back. He hadn’t relaxed. Next, Denna turned and bowed to it; No, to him. “And to you, Doc, I apologize for getting between you and your crewman on what was clearly a personal, or at least a personnel issue. I was out of place in getting between you and your business.”

At the end of her apology, Doc finally relaxed, pulling his legs up to a straight-backed stance, and bowing equal to the Luna colony officer’s. “Thank you, LC. I will accept your punishment as you see fit.”

It was informal, but respectful; LC wasn’t usually an acceptable abbreviation among officers, but it tended to fly between them and the enlisted in certain circumstances. Denna found she liked it, and few enough people deigned to use it. She expected that Doc and Quorrok would have enough to talk about without more of her interference, so she adjusted her posture to relax. “Nah. I think we’ve all had enough for one day, don’t you SCPO?” she refreshed her crooked grin, rubbing her hand across her chest delicately. “Besides I don’t know how a write up for assaulting a superior officer would help anyone today. Although, with our captain, you never actually know.”

Doc had the courtesy to look embarrassed, and Quorrok stepped closer, nervously. “I, ah, want to know more about how you did that actually. I didn’t know that was something you could do.” Doc turned around and regarded them with a scrutinizing glance, waiting. “Ah. Sir. If it pleases you.”

He nodded curtly. “I am sure I can find some time to explain the fundamentals to you crewman. At some point.” He allowed, crossing his arms. “Pending I can get anywhere near you to do so.”

Denna appeared between them with an exaggerated smile, putting a hand on each of their shoulders and steering toward the forward station Quorrok had been coming from. “Excellent idea! Great plan. But before that,” she squeezed Doc’s shoulder more firmly, “put something in your drawdown code so that whenever you do whatever it is you keep doing to spike power use in the emitters registers as intentional on Ironside’s dashboard, hey? I don’t wanna get called out for stupid jobs because you don’t sign your work.”

Doc nodded, and she turned her attention to Quorrok, who was clipping the arch back onto her breathing reservoir by its magnetic clips. “And you had better pull each and every one of these cheeky little buggers off the emitters, because if I find a single other one anywhere on this ship, I’ll see you drummed out so hard they’ll think it was a warband chasing you, am I understood crewman?”

Quorrok snapped to attention, eyes wide, and saluted. “SIR! Yes sir! I’ll start right away!”

“GREAT! Now shove off, I have work to do.” She barked, pushing the pair down the hallway. When they had taken their lantern far enough up the corridor to leave a gap between them, she put her hand back to her chest, rubbing it gingerly. At least she didn’t have to keep tracking down the bug, but now she stepped sorely into the space between the struts supporting the warp core to get across to the starboard corridor, and limped out into the hallway. It would be an annoying walk to sick bay on fractured heels, but again nothing she hadn’t done before. She hoped to see more of those two, and expected that they might live up to her expectations now that petty rivalry had been settled.

As the door hushed shut behind her, the engineering cabin faded another section into deep, sleepy darkness, lulled by the steady thrum of its heart, which beat slowly to bend the space between stars.

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