Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 Two Attacks At Once

Planet Vahrian

Location [ Unknown]

In the echoing halls of an ancient, unnamed castle, night held sway like an omnipresent guardian. The corridors, lined with flagstone and cloaked in shadow, echoed every footstep as though whispering secrets of the past. A solitary figure cloaked in sumptuous reds and somber blacks moved silently through this maze of history. His presence was measured and deliberate, a traveler well-versed in the unspoken language of magic and memory.

Even as the cloaked man advanced, the ambience around him was not merely still; it was alive with the weight of countless untold stories. Flickering torches, mounted in ornate sconces, played their part in the quiet drama of light and darkness. As his senses attuned to the familiar hum of arcane power that ran as lifeblood through these ancient walls, the old man allowed himself a momentary pause. A subtle tranquility filled him with a gentle, yet almost imperceptible hum of inner peace that belied the gravity of the task ahead. Yet even that solace had its price, and he quickly allowed it to slip away into the fabric of his long-held burdens.

His hand closed around the hilt of his staff, worn smooth by centuries of use and spellcraft. In a display of practiced ease, he raised it aloft and recited words imbued with centuries of secret lore. In response, the torches along the corridor flared in synchrony, on a ballet of luminous tongues that chased away the oppressive darkness, revealing a path that had been hidden for far too long.

A measured three-minute stride, later each step echoing with the cadence of remembrance, he found himself before an ancient door. This entrance, constructed of aged wood and reinforced with weathered metal bars, had long been swallowed by the passage of time. Rust had claimed the metal, crafting a patina of resignation and endurance. Yet under his magical influence, the very chains of time began to undo themselves. With another carefully spoken incantation, the metal bars shuddered; a hush fell as each piece detached with deliberate precision from the stone mortar. In mid-air, they danced like fragments of an old enchantment, finally coalescing into the familiar yet eerie shape of a doorknob.

With measured deliberation, the cloaked man grasped the newly formed handle. His fingers, though weathered by centuries, moved with the dexterity of a practiced artisan. He twisted slowly, and the door creaked open, a sound that reverberated like a keening ghost cry. But as it opened, a torrent of blinding light swept forth. For heartbeats, the brilliance threatened to overwhelm his senses, and he squinted against the onslaught until his eyes, honed by numerous nights spent in shadowed corridors, adjusted to the radiance.

Quietly, he closed the door behind him, and stepped into a realm that felt as though it had been untouched by time. The interior of this chamber was bathed in a soft, almost ethereal glow, a stark contrast to the harshness of the hallway he had left behind. Shadows gave way to intricate carvings on ancient walls, each telling silent stories of bygone eras of valor and sorrow.

It was then that, barely five yards ahead on the polished floor, another figure emerged from the liminal space between light and shadow. The presence of his old friend was as palpable as the memory of their shared past. A gentle smile played at the corner of the man's lips, a smile that mixed bittersweet familiarity with the weight of unspoken memories.

"Hello, old friend," the cloaked man intoned, his voice carrying a timbre of both warmth and regret. "I see you have been awaiting my presence. I trust you understand the reasons behind my delay."

His companion's reply was measured, almost ritualistic. "Apologies, apologies, apologies," came the repetitive murmur, a cadence that resonated with a hypnotic, almost incantatory quality. "You are fortunate that I alone have ever heeded your call, dark apprentice."

The salutation hung heavily in the air, punctuated by the silence that followed a silence dense with shared history and burdened destiny. In that fugitive moment of connection, the older man reached up slowly and pulled back the folds of his hood. The revelation was both a comfort and a torment. His face, while preserved by ancient magics, betrayed the passage of time through a constellation of fine wrinkles and weathered lines. Notable among these markers was a scar, a deep, searing cut that ran boldly across his eyes. This was no ordinary mark but a curse, a reminder remnant from the fateful encounter with a father and daughter duo whose betrayal had altered his very essence.

That scar was an ever-present emblem of his cursed fate, a wound not merely of the flesh, but of the soul. With every recollection, its meaning deepened. It stood as a symbol of the curse laid upon him by Morgana, the dark enchantress, whose power had once piqued his ambition before turning it into his most enduring agony. The scar whispered stories of lost promises, shattered allegiances, and a destiny that inexorably bound him to the whims of fate.

For a heartbeat, the old man's gaze drifted as if lost in the corridors of memory, flashes of conflict and betrayal that had seared themselves into his long life. Then, his eyes refocused on his companion. "You see that scar," he said, his voice low, "and you know the costs that I carried over these endless centuries. It is a constant reminder of the day the curse was sealed upon

a day marked by betrayal, by the unyielding hand of a half-elven curse. Morgana's enchantments have left me with this burden; I have yet to find respite, even amongst a thousand years of power."

His comrade studied him silently, his eyes reflecting the flicker of torchlight and the gravity of memories unspoken. "She is, after all," he remarked softly, with a sigh that mingled both respect and admonition, "the daughter of a half-elven queen. Her heritage grants her potency beyond that which mortal men could fathom."

A bitter laugh escaped the old man. "Her lineage may have blessed her with formidable gifts, but it is also her greatest curse. Blood or not, kin or not—this half-blood, who shaped her in both power and cunning, is more dangerous than many dare to admit. It is precisely why I have chosen to bide my time, to wait until the tides of fate have turned."

The conversation, imbued with a lifetime of shared burdens, shifted effortlessly. "Yet, you dare to say you have waited; some might call that fear," his companion teased gently, his voice laced with a wistful irony that belied the severity of their predicament.

"Fear?" the older man repeated, his tone rising into a controlled fervor. "Am I afraid? Never have I been afraid. Instead, I rely on the wisdom of restraint. This witch, Morgana—cunning, powerful, and resourceful enough to have extinguished the light of nearly every coven in existence—deserves not the brash fury of a reckless heart, but the calculated precision of measured vengeance. Fear is a luxury for the unwise."

His friend's eyes glinted with a combination of admiration and sorrow, the unspoken memories of battles fought and alliances shattered reverberating between their words. "I remember her well," he said quietly. "Her strength was unquestionable, her intelligence peerless. Yet even she, with all her might, has a moment of blindness—a flaw that you may yet exploit."

There was a long pause as memories mingled with the present. The corridors around them, adorned with relics of enchantment, echoed the distant murmurs of old legends. "And let us not forget," the old man murmured, "the man who stood guard at her side—the enigmatic watcher whose name has been lost to time, known only to a select few in whispered lore. They say he is none other than the son of the Empress herself."

"A myth woven into the very tapestry of our destinies," his colleague added with a sad smile. "A constant reminder that power and lineage often dance a dangerous waltz, one that leaves scars far deeper than any mere mortal can comprehend."

Their voices mingled with the soft sounds of the chamber—a low, rhythmic throb, like the heartbeat of the ancient castle itself. As they moved through the labyrinthine space, the walls seemed to come alive with the legends of old. Intricate carvings depicted scenes of heroic sacrifice and tragic downfall. Statues, half-shrouded in dust and cobwebs, watched impassively as the pair passed by, silent sentinels bearing witness to the unfolding saga.

The older man paused near a carved mural, his eyes lingering on an image of a mighty figure—cloak billowing, sword aloft—a hero of forgotten lore, perhaps another soul who had fought against the inexorable tide of destiny. He traced the chiseled lines with his fingertips, each groove a testament to lives lived in pursuit of immortality, both celebrated and cursed. In that quiet moment, the burden of his own long years pressed upon him, each heartbeat a reminder of battles fought, loves lost, and quests half-fulfilled.

"These walls," he whispered, more to himself than to his friend, "have witnessed empires rise and fall. They hold within them the echoes of hopes, dreams, and the relentless pursuit of redemption. And yet, here we are—two souls entangled by fate, clawing at the remnants of power that once promised salvation."

His companion offered a quiet nod, his expression softening with empathy as he regarded the severity etched into his friend's demeanor. "We all have our scars," he replied gently, "and each one carries a story that we cannot easily lay to rest." The statement, both poetic and painful, underscored the shared nature of their experiences—a bond forged through countless trials and battles that neither time nor curse could erase.

They resumed their passage down a corridor that gradually opened into a vast, domed chamber. The space was filled with an otherworldly glow emanating from stained-glass windows that depicted scenes of mythical battles and celestial beings—the interplay of light and shadow a metaphor for the eternal struggle between dark forces and fragile hope. At the center of the room stood an alabaster pedestal, its surface etched with symbols that pulsed faintly, as though imbued with some ancient, living magic.

Drawing closer, the older man paused before the pedestal. His eyes, still glimmering with the weight of memories and the ever-present scar, scanned the carvings as if in search of answers long buried. "It is here," he murmured, "where we once sought guidance—a sanctuary of sorts for those who dared to defy fate." For a brief moment, the memory of younger days, filled with fervor and idealism, stirred within him—a time when magic was not yet tainted by the scars of loss, and every promise held the sparkle of endless possibility.

The silence in the chamber was profound, punctuated only by the faint whisper of wind as it sneaked through ancient cracks in the stone—the voice of a forgotten past urging him forward. He allowed himself a deep, measured breath, every inhalation a reminder of both the beauty and the burden of his prolonged life. "The answers we seek often lie not in the forces around us, but within," he intoned, his words resonating with the quiet authority accrued over centuries of living and learning.

As the old man spoke, his companion watched him with a gaze full of unspoken admiration. There was a subtle shift in the air—a shared understanding that the true battle was not fought solely in the realms of magic or physical might, but in confronting the remnants of their own inner darkness. "We must be as resolute as these walls," his friend remarked softly, nodding toward the ancient stone that had borne silent witness to the ebb and flow of history. "For only in our capacity to endure can we hope to reshape the curses that bind us." 

The conversation took on a reflective tone as they began discussing the deep scars of both memory and flesh. They debated the philosophy of power—its alluring promise, its inevitable cost, and the interplay between destiny and free will. The dialogue wandered into the realms of regret and redemption, exploring whether it was possible ever to outrun one's fate or if every mortal and immortal alike was doomed to be defined by past mistakes. In the cavern of ancient stone, every word carried the weight of wisdom, and every silence, the burden of secrets kept too long.

Before departing the chamber, the older man turned to his companion with a question that had long stirred in the depths of his enigmatic soul. "Do you ever wonder," he asked quietly, "if the curse that marks my face might one day give way to a path of redemption—a transformation not of power seized in vengeance, but of power embraced in healing?" His voice was soft yet laden with the echoes of a thousand lost years, each syllable a prayer to the possibility of absolution.

The reply was slow in coming. "Perhaps," came the measured response, thoughtful yet cautious, "the curse is not merely a chain that binds us to our past, but also a spark—a reminder that even in our darkest moments, the potential for renewal exists. It is in our scars that our stories live on, and in that living memory lies the hope for tomorrow."

As the two figures left the chamber, stepping back into the labyrinthine corridors of stone and enchantment, the heavy questions of destiny and redemption lingered in the air—a promise of future revelations. The corridors welcomed them once more, echoing every step as they moved deeper into the castle's mysteries. The interplay of light and shadow appeared to mark the beginning of a new chapter—a time when the forces of the past would finally confront the present, and the path to redemption might yet be carved upon the slate of endless history.

At that moment, the echoes of their conversation, the interplay of fraught dialogue and introspective monologues, became part of the castle's narrative—a story that was both eternal and fleeting. Every stone, every whispered incantation, and every glimmer of forgotten magic seemed to chant the same refrain: every scar bears a story, and every story holds the promise of redemption.

As they continued their journey, the older man cast one final, lingering glance at the pedestal—a silent vow that the quest for redemption, the quest for peace, and the quest for understanding would persist as long as the echoes of history could be heard. And with the passing of time measured only by the steady, implacable march of fate, he stepped forward into the shadows, his heart weighed both by sorrow and an almost imperceptible hope that one day, his cursed past might be reconciled with the promise of a kinder tomorrow.

---

In these moments, within the ancient corridors of magic and memory, the characters—bound by destiny and driven by the undying spark of hope—carried on. Their journey was far from over, and every step forward was both an answer to and a question of the burdens they bore. The light of the torches, the whisper of enchanted incantations, and the silent testimony of centuries of struggle all bore witness to the truth that though scars might define us, they need not confine us.

Thus, with hearts steeled by experience and souls weathered by time, the old man and his confidant disappeared deeper into the castle's embrace a promise of more secrets to be unveiled, and a destiny still yet unfulfilled.

"Come old friend, the others are awaiting our arrivals."

[Secret Hall]

Within the secret halls, various figures are present, each adorned in outfits that closely resemble one another. Though, that does not mean they wore the sameTunic shirts or pants are both options, but one notable aspect of their clothing is the color, specifically red and black.

The elderly gentleman and his companion, who were likely aware of the numerous observers around them could tell that some of those watching was judging the two of them underneath their masks, yet, despite that, neither of the two seemed bothered, as they proceeded to their selected seats.

"I Got to say, you two sure have made some of our friends quite displeased with your late arrivals."

The old man and his friend overheard the one who spoke. The person was one of the members of this council of cults. The man, in particular, was observing the two with a smile, and the elderly gentleman was fully aware of this, particularly as he could see the grin reflected on the crystal of his staff.

"Just because we work under the same person, does not mean we are friends, child." The old man says hitting a nerve on the young cult member.

The sniveling man when hearing that materializes a needle size dagger in his finger, as he was thinking of sending the attack right at the back of the old man's neck.

"Careful boy. If our so called friends weren't here, I'd turn you into a chicken, and skin you alive." The old man said giving a fair warning to the young man.

The young man of the cult smirked, a hint of malice beginning to surface within him. Although he intention to launch his attack at the old wizard, he also noticed how quiet his companion was, with his head slightly turned back and left eye focused on him, as if waiting for him to make a mistake he so soon to be take.

Nevertheless, a voice captured his attention as well as that of everyone else's, the voice of their leader.

"Greetings everyone!"

Everyone in the room gradually quieted down in a unified manner as their leader spoke those words.

And that after he had spoken, he scoured the room at each and every figures, who all seem to have awaited his next words.

Once that was done with, he then bellowed out in a slightly louder yet firm tone so that his audience could hear him clearly.

"It is great to see that all of you have arrived here on time, though, some of you didn't make it in time, I will not blame you for being late." The man said hitting some of his cult members in on the spot, for they know he was aware of their delayed timing. "And as for why I've summoned you all here for, I'm sure that you've all are aware of the problematic ties that the kingdoms on the lands seem to be dealing with."

All individuals present in their seats unanimously responded with 'aye' and 'yes' to confirm their understanding of the current issue regarding Vahrian land.

"I See. I am pleased that all of you have kept up with the problem of those royals. But that's not only why I brought them up, there are others, the ones who I fear might be a hindrance to our plan. The man in greens, folks who holds weapon that are far to familiar with the gunners of our world. The one's who had captured the gate on Al us hill, I am certain that they will not remain in on that hill for very long."

One of the cult members sprang up from his seat, the crystal in his wooden staff lighting in an indication that he wanted everyone's attention on him. "Then we must strike them when the times right. We need to attack where they least expected."

"On that I agree zaekiel. But that is where you will start to lose, cause in case you've forgot, the Imperials have tried that once, by sending one of his kingdom states armies, consisted of thousands, to attack the man in greens during the night. Thousands of the troops were slaughtered that time of the night. And I am sure that a good percentage of the state kingdoms armies didn't survive that attempted attack at all."

"It is likely that some of them survived. We could potentially unite the people of the vessel kingdoms with the Balians to strengthen our numbers against these outworlders."

The leader turned to face the person who said that. Though he agreed with her statement, but he also knew that it might not be as easy as she thinks.

"I Wish that was as easy as you say my lady. But the people of the vessel kingdoms won't be as easily fooled as you might think. However, with what you said, it is possible." The leader told her, as he also gained the interest of the others.

One masked man, leaned forth with his one hand running through his facial hair. "And how possible is this my liege. I Assume you have a plan of sort into fooling the civilians of this vessel kingdoms?"

The leader, who's face wasn't concealed in a mask, like many of those within the room, just smiled, teeth as clearer as any of those shone brightly.

"To answer your question, I do. I do have a plan." He said repeatedly, as with his one hand holding his staff, the leader just tapped the ground with it, and following after that was a portal that appeared above everyone in the room.

The old wizard and his colleague, both of them sees this and we're wondering what would happen. The old man on the other hand was familiar with this kind of spell, as after all, he was only a few years older then the cult leader.

"Prepare yourself my friend. This will probably turn your stomach a few lose."

And before any one of them could've react, all of them, every one dissappeared in a show of light, one after another.

Raiders Camp

The camp was finally quiet, the murmur of voices giving way to an expectant silence as the last participants arrived. At the edge of this deliberate chaos, an elderly man trailed slowly behind, his steps measured, as if the weight of every past decision pressed upon him. Beside him, his solitary companion, a trusted colleague had inexplicably appeared and positioned himself just to his right, enough to startle the old man for a fleeting moment.

Once inside the camp's perimeter, a palpable weariness settled over the assembled group. Some individuals almost abandoned their meager meals, overwhelmed by the memory of the arduous journey. Slowly, each person began to regain control, some silently gathering themselves, others scanning the unfamiliar surroundings with cautious wonder. In hushed tones, one cult member, his curiosity as palpable as his apprehension, finally broke the quiet: 

"What is this place?" He inquired, his voice barely rising above the rustling wind.

The old man merely shook his head in response, the answer withheld even from him. It was then that his young companion stepped forward, a gentle tap on the old man's shoulder punctuating the uncertain atmosphere. With a glimmer of hope in his voice, the young man said, "Perhaps that'll give you both an answer."

Following the direction indicated by the young man's outstretched finger, their eyes fell upon a massive, imposing figure emerging from the shadows. A beast of a man, his size and aura exuded power. He was draped in a striking mix of black and brown garments, his fur coat, the hide of some formidable creature flowing behind him like a living cloak. Adorned with armor reminiscent of ancient Viking warriors, he bore a singular shoulder pauldron upon his left frame, a calculated remnant of a bygone era. Around him, a shield measuring just over two feet in length hung loosely from his belt, its rims accentuated with white feathers that whispered of ceremonies and traditions lost to time.

What truly captured the observers' attention, however, was the pair of axes he carried. These were no ordinary weapons; each head was embedded with a crystal, one emitting an eerie green luminescence, the other a cooler blue. The crystal in particular, sent out a small wisps of chilled blue smoke, as if hinting at a hidden, enchanted power. 

In a low murmur, the young man remarked to himself, "I suspect that this behemoth possesses a pair of enchanted axes." 

The old man's eyes met his companion's with quiet affirmation. There was no need for further words as the figure strode purposefully toward the heart of the assembly, nearing the cult leader's side. Within moments, he had stopped a mere four feet away from the unmasked leader.

With deliberate slowness, the raider warlord removed his helmet, revealing a face hardened by countless battles. His eyes, filled with predatory intent, fixed upon the cult leader with a mix of respect and underlying menace as he intoned, 

"You've summoned your folks just as you said, Cyselith. And I have brought with me many of my own." 

At these words, Cyselith, a figure whose calm presence belied the tumultuous weight of unspoken histories stepped forward. Moving with the ease of one accustomed to both power and diplomacy, he circled the warlord, seemingly unaffected by the scrutinizing gaze of the guards that trailed behind the raider.

Ascending a small cliff that overlooked a winding river, Cyselith surveyed the sprawling camps below. Amidst the organized chaos, a rich tapestry of beings from every corner of Vahrian's lands mingled. With a discerning eye, he absorbed the sight of mixed races, each one a puzzle piece in the grand design of this unpredictable convergence.

After a measured moment, Cyselith descended and faced the raider warlord squarely. "I see your armies do not consist solely of humans, old friend," He said, his tone both inquisitive and challenging. "Why the sudden change of heart? I thought a man of your caliber shunned alliances beyond our own kind."

The warlord's reply was a low, dismissive huff, not out of disdain for the unfamiliar, but at the audacity of the wizard's assumption of friendship. "I have made a wise choice, wizard," He declared, his voice layered with both pride and regret. Stepping past Cyselith, he positioned himself mere inches behind the elder. "I have witnessed what my armies can achieve. As formidable as they are in this land, they can be undone easily by their foes, enemies who are unafraid to wage any form of battle."

Cyselith's eyes flickered with understanding as he continued, "These forces, drawn from various corners of Vahrian, serve many purposes. Some follow only to earn wealth and renown, forsaking any true commitment to your cause." His tone hinted at both sorrow and a tacit reproach for such opportunism. 

The warlord's response carried the weight of personal stakes. "It is not merely for my benefit, wizard. I fight also for the well-being of the Red Legion, and for the sake of my families future rule."

At the mention of the Red Legion, a murmur of familiarity passed between them. Cyselith's voice was soft yet knowing, "The Red Legion... So it was they who bolstered your forces?" A subtle challenge hung in the air, a reminder of alliances past and the fragile nature of trust.

The warlord trekked past the wizard, hand on his waist, while set the other down on a boulder of rocks in his left side. Then as he does so, his head turned to look down upon the many armies his managed to round up.

"I've had many bad feelings about the word Legion. Of course, which is mainly due to the ones who once owned that name." The war lord said recalling back to when those of a certain invaders first arrived, not in a form of peaceful negotiations since vahrians natives first met them, no, but to slaughter any that they set their eyes upon, all except for those that follows them.

"Ahhh, yes. Those outworlders, invaders is more to say." Cyselith said uttering the words to himself, clear enough that the warlord could very well hear him.

"Now that you said that. It reminds me of the new players amongst our lands."

Cyselith took a few steps forth and halted next to the warlord. "The man's in green, and the so called, sky people."

"I Guess that is of a more fitting name for our new found foes." Says the burly man as he gripped the hilt of his one other axe, with his mind set on one being, one who was solely responsible for the death of his son.

"There are rumors suggesting that the two unidentified forces are beginning to form an alliance with one another... Though, with this, it might pose an issues of problems for us." Cyselith said expressing his uncertainty, somewhat disturbed by the fact that others have witnessed their collaboration in subduing not just two, but three dragon kin, that is until he'd been reinformed by a spy of his, that only one had died, slained by a flying metal bird.

"You know. I do not engage with rumors to the same extent as others; however, based on what I have heard about these outsiders or outworlders, my instincts are prompting me to be as prepared as possible." Stated the warlord enthusiastically, as he himself was quite eager to test himself against the very Foes that were able to fend off the empire of that egotistical self centered of an emporor.

"Then I presumed that you think this is all you will need for taking care of that problem?" Cyselith added surmising that the warlord might have other ideas up his sleeves.

"I Do. I won't be using just mans and beasts." The warlord responded nonchalantly, gesturing in another direction for Cyselith to observe. "Take a look wizard, for I want you to see, that I am not only relying on brute force alone."

The cult leader first stared at the warlord skeptically, as he was contemplating whether this was merely a typical display from the individual in question; however, given his unique nature, Cyselith ultimately conformed to his gesture.

As he trekked forth; with one to three steps till he came to a halt, his head then turned to glance down at the sight below him.

From his vantage point, Cyselith observed a large mechanical bot, one he recognized immediately.

Though he couldn't tell the exact sizes of the automatons below him, Cyselith was fully cognizant of the impending consequences that would arise following the devastation caused by these metal beasts upon their victims. While maintaining his gaze on the automatons, the cult leader observed that it possessed a single, notably large head, with eyes resembling glowing hot fire, akin to molten lava. Cyselith clearly understood that this being was infused with a combination of magic and technology, a skill that only certain kingdoms of dwarves excel at. Conversely, the automatons possessed two feet, which was unlike the typical ones he had encountered throughout his life. Instead of five toes or a rounded metal foot, the mechanized entities featured three large claw-like feet, designed specifically for close combat to pierce any foes that approached them. Although its arms may seem unlovable, similar to various other automatons, it compensates by effectively grasping items like debris and anything that can be utilized as a weapon.

Veering his head, he looked at the warlord in a mere fatuous. "What deal have you've made with the dark Dwarven's. I can recognize the craftsmanship of Dwarven work from a distance, particularly their unique style."

The warlord, with a smirk on his face, just stared down at the mage. Internally, the warlord had desired this type of power previously, but he believed that with the agreement he struck with those dark dwarves, they would eventually uphold their end of the bargain.

Though he wanted more then a hundred, the dark dwarvens had only constructed less the eighty of the monstrous automatons. Something that the warlord was greatly irked by. But be that as it may, he could not bring himself to blame them. After all, it takes alot of time and excruciating hard labor of work in constructing this amount of beastly automatons, not in just building it with tech, but also having to infuse magic into it.

"The deal that I've made with the dark dwarvens, is of no business of yours mage." The warlord says as he turned and looked at the armies below him. "And as for those I've set my troops upon, they will all soon, know the atrocities that I'll soon unleash for all to see!"

Green Team & Blue Team

Riding in her warthog vehicle, spartan, grace, Sierra zero nine three was having only one thing in her mind. And that was to meet him again, to see her stoic silent spartan of a brother once more.

"Grace! The least you could do is slow down." Robert-025 said to her, trying not to fall off while holding onto the warthog rails.

Asta-017, who was operating the turret, was vigilantly observing every passage that their vehicle passed, ensuring there were no ambushes. And that upon hearing Sierra zero-two-five, she contributed to the situation with her own light-hearted comment.

"I'd say let grace have her moment." Spoke Asta as she took a quick glance up at the sky. "As you can see, blue team are also heading towards gate Two's location."

"I'm just trying to outpace Kelly. She's quick on her feet, and now she's ahead of me in the air too!." Grace spoke and then accelerated, causing the speedometer to nearly reach its maximum of seventy-eight miles per hour.

"It seems highly unlikely. One should consider the situation more carefully, Grace. A pelican can surpass the speed of any land vehicle on this planet, as it can fly at speeds exceeding one hundred seventeen miles per hour." Spoke Robert, who was very knowledgeable about the differences between the two vehicles.

"That is true." Added spartan tedra grant.

"I am already aware of that information, so there is no need to reprimand me regarding the facts about the pelican's ability to fly." Grace said making a brief comment before accelerating without informing the team, causing the speedometer to eventually reach its maximum limit.

"We are fortunate enough to have our gear on; otherwise, surviving a fall from this vehicle would be challenging!" Tedra grant said as she held on for dear life.

"Anyway, how long till we reached the gate?" Asta inquired, as both she and the green team were eager to meet Koa.

"The team stationed over there by the two rivers, reported back that it'll only take us a few minutes till we reach it." Answered robert-025 as he had checked the time not long ago.

From their elevated position, the group could hear the thruster engines of the Pelican accelerating as it surpassed the sound barrier, eventually vanishing from view.

"Looks like you lost this time grace." Said Asta as she held out her hand towards Sierra zero nine three. "Now, give me the credit you owed."

It is evident that she had undoubtedly lost a wager that she and Asta had placed after they boarded the warthog, and so Grace reaches into her right pocket and retrieves a few credits to cover her food expenses for the time being.

"Fine, but your paying for our teams next dinner after this task mission of ours." Grace told Asta, with her voice carrying a hint of disdain.

_______________

Blue Team

Positioned in the cool shadows of the hangar, the Master Chief leaned against a battered wall, his visor lowered in quiet contemplation. Beyond the hum of machinery and scattered mission briefings, his thoughts danced with memories of lost comrades and the risks looming ahead. His gloved hand rested near the fading imprint of a name—a constant reminder of those who had perished and the hope that still flickered in every new beat of the UNSC's heart.

Fredric One Zero Four's alert had just arrived—a coded transmission from a ground team member in Dr. Halsey's unit. The message spoke of a long-forgotten gate and a soul thought dead, a name that stirred both hope and dread. "Fred, any news from Halsey's ground team?" came the measured inquiry from Kelly-087. Her voice, exact and calm, barely betrayed the undercurrent of concern that lay beneath her reputation as one of the UNSC's finest.



Before Fred could fully answer, Linda Zero Five Eight stepped forward, her tone both playful and edged with worry. "If you're here, then who's piloting?" she asked, her arms uncrossing as if to physically release the tension coiled within. Her eyes, sharp and protective as ever, scanned the faces around her—the weight of responsibility evident even in these small moments.

Without missing a beat, Kelly directed a steady finger toward the young Marine at the controls. "Our new pilot is in charge. We'll be arriving at the second gate shortly." There was a subtle note of admiration in her remark—an acknowledgment of the promise held by someone raw and untested, even as the stakes demanded perfection.

A wry smile flickered over Fred's scarred features. "The poor girl's just graduated from the academy, and now she's flying for Spartans. Nervous hands might falter, but they also carry that unyielding spark of hope." The gentle slap of a magazine into his BR85HB Battle Rifle punctuated his light teasing, though his eyes betrayed a wistful echo of his own first taste of responsibility.



Linda shook her head lightly as she moved past a flank of marines to secure her sniper rifle. "Every academy seems to be pumping out blood and promise these days," she mused, her voice softening with a hint of bittersweet irony—a quiet longing for the days when experience had been the steady hand guiding the chaos of war.



"The captain reckoned that the UNSC's position on Vahrian was ripe for some real field training," Fred continued, his tone balancing respectful pragmatism with a mournful nostalgia. "It's a shame the veterans had to stay back on Travelyan. Their hard-earned wisdom might have steadied these new hearts." His words carried the weight of memories from endless battles—memories of brothers and sisters lost in the dark corridors of conflict.

Linda paused in her stride, her gaze drifting toward the lead of the blue team. "John, what's your take on all these new faces?" she called softly, as if the question itself could thaw some of the time-worn tensions etched into their souls.

At that moment, the Master Chief—Sierra One One Seven to some—lifted his eyes from an earnest yet pained discussion with his personal AI partner, Corey (the endearing creation of Dr. Catherine Halsey). "Even if it seems odd," Corey confided in a tone both playful and piercing, "I don't think bringing the aliens here was ever a misstep." Referencing the enigmatic purple-skinned, horned beings gathered silently near the hangar's exit, Corey's remark hinted at alliances and mysteries far beyond the conventional battlefield.



Slowly rising from his crouched position, the Chief moved with deliberate grace, retrieving the MK50 pistol that had slipped from his grasp earlier. Each measured motion—securing the weapon onto the magnetic holster, pausing to survey the array of marines, scientists, and even unconventional friends spoke of a man who bore the weight of loss with quiet dignity. His glance was enough to send a ripple of resolve through his team.

"Everyone, gear up," he commanded, his voice resonant with the authority of one who has seen too much and yet dares to hope. The response was a chorus of nods, a blend of silent acknowledgement and steeled determination. Turning to a nearby sergeant, he added in a tone laced with mentor-like care, "Sergeant, is your unit ready?"

The sergeant's reply was swift and affirming: "Yes, Chief—just putting the fresh blood through their paces for their first deployment." Behind those simple words lay a mosaic of promise and the harsh reminder that every new face would soon be tempered by the fire of combat.

Surveying his assembled team with a keen yet tender eye, the Master Chief then strode past Fred, Kelly, and Linda, each step echoing an unspoken farewell to the past and a cautious welcome of the future. He found himself standing just behind the stark red warning line—a silent boundary marking the edge between safety and peril.

Fred halted beside him, his voice a murmur thick with anticipation and hidden grief. "So, what do you think?" he asked, his eyes searching the Chief's unyielding mask for any hint of emotion.

The Chief met Fred's troubled gaze with a moment of raw vulnerability before replying. "What do you mean?" he asked, his tone steady but laden with the weight of untold stories.

In a rare moment of candor, Fred's hand slapped his handgun back into place against his armored thigh. "Koa… what do you believe about him being alive?" The question, barely a whisper, carried the scars of countless losses—of Spartans like Sheila, Vinh, Samuel, Solomon, Riz, Kayla, Arthur…and many more whose absence had hollowed him out over the years.

For a heartbeat, the hangar fell silent as the Master Chief's mind raced through memories of laughter, shared battles, and the silent agony of farewell. When at last he spoke, his voice was a layered blend of sorrow and resolute hope: "I'm just grateful that even in the darkness, our family endures. Yes… it's good to know that five is still alive."

As he lifted his Mjolnir helmet and secured it with the familiar hiss of a magnetic lock, every audible click seemed to pulse with the profound truth of their journey—love knit with loss, courage twined with regret, and above all, the undying ember of hope that flickers even in the most turbulent of times.

Upon reaching the gate, the pilot informed those in the back hangar to prepare for disembarkation as the aircraft was descending.

"About this gate, what is it, and why's it so important to you and your people?" One of the purple skin horn'ed aliens said asking a member of blue team.

Fred, noticing that he was the closest to the woman, turned his head in her direction and responded."I am not fully aware of the actual reasons behind our leaders' interest in this matter. We understand that it is something extraordinary. If you are interested, you might consider discussing it with the doctor when you meet her."

The alien woman tilted her head to the left, indicating her confusion regarding the identity of this doctor or individual."To who'm might these doc is?"

"She's the head scientist and doctor of the unsc. Other affiliation of hers, let's just say we can't speak about it to anyone, of her personal work that is." Linda said mentioning that only the blue team and the other two's were aware of the secrets that Halsey had them promise to keep confidential.

The Pelican produced a significant noise upon landing, signaling that contact with the land had been established. Fred-One O Four gently tapped the master chief's left shoulder and began to speak. "Come on John, time to meet the big guy."

"Big guy." Linda says chuckling at the mention of the nick name that she and her spartan brothers and sisters used to call Koa and the others. "I've never thought we get to use that name, ever at all."

"We'll, let's not waste the chance to call him that name." Kelly said responding to Linda's remark.

_______________

It did not take long for the spartans and the other passengers to feel the Pelican touch down on the ground whereas, the rear hangar of the ship gradually opens, enabling the blue team and all others to exit the ship simultaneously.

"Where to now?" The alien woman said in an inquiry.

"Blue team, over here!"

The spartans and their new found friends turned to their right, at another direction, where they saw a woman dressed in a white and blue lab coat.

She was seen waving over for the master chief and his squad to come over, to which the spartans and their new friends gladly adhere to her call.

And as they reached the woman, she went forth, with one hand holding onto her tablet, and the other where she uses it to hug chief and each member of blue team.

"I can't wait to tell you about what we've found! Oh!" The lady says spotting the horned purple skinned humanoid beings standing next to chief and the spartans. "Who's is this?"

In response to the woman's inquiry, the chief was about to answer her; however, the horned woman interjected before he could speak a word.

She took two steps forth and brought her right arm up in an indication that she wanted to shake the human's own. "Greetings, I am nerella of the draenei's. To whom may you be?"

Initially, the woman was perplexed and struggled to understand the race of the beings before her. Nevertheless, she decided to put those questions aside and responded afterward. "Bethany, you can just call me Beth for short."

"Then Beth it is." Replied nerella as she then turned and gestures towards the other four of her kinds. "These here are my companions, gazari, olanrah and valzra. We are draenei's, though we once called ourselves eredar, we now use draenei, for it is more fitting for personal reasons."

Beth tilted her head slightly to the side, unsure of how to respond to the situations involving the draenei, However, she was aware of the importance of addressing matters in a civilized and respectful manner, and she intended to question Nerella later regarding her statement.

"Well, it is a great honor to have you all here on Vahrian, my dear draenei's. Please, allow me to escort you all and blue team to the station." Beth guided them along a different path that led to the location of the gigantic gate.

During their previous meeting with the captain, blue team had been given a good look on the other gate, which was something that somehow is able to connect this world of Vahrian with the twenty first centuries, something that still quite baffles the minds of blue team for a while.

As they neared the gate, Beth went off another way and came back, holding with her a dagger, who's hilt looked oddly different then the ones that any spartans or unsc servicemen wore with themselves.

While beth grasped it in one hand, she went forth and presented it directly to Fred, who was taken aback by receiving such an offer at this early stage.

"What is this?" Fred remarked while observing the dagger in question.

"Take it." Uttered Beth urging for the Spartan to accept it. "Though, I will say, that dagger has some special power with it. I and our group found it amongst one of the slain Foes in our earlier confrontation. But be careful with it, it is made of some special metal, one able to cut through flesh very easily."

"I Doubt it could cut through their mjolnr at all Beth!" Quipped one of the Marines that passed on by.

"I'll take your words into consideration ma'am." Fred told her to which Beth just smiled back at him with a nod of appreciation.

"So, Beth. Where to now?" Kelly asked of her.

"Eager to get out of here, are you?" A Respondent Beth returned with a droll expression across her face.

"You could say so." Fred said answering for Kelly.

"Ms Beth. Is doc Halsey here?" The master chief said fiy speaking after everyone.

"Not quite." Replied Beth in a threshed way, as she then pointed at the gate. "She and the others are on the other side of the gate. She, Miranda, green team and the Lopez family were eager to see someone for certain... Halsey wanted me to tell you guys that, once you've arrived. Though, I don't know about your new found friends here. No offense Ms. Nerella."

"None taken." The draenei returned with a simple gesture of understanding. "Master chief, shoul-

The draenei couldn't finish her sentence when one of the villagers, bloodied and wounded came running, not towards the spartans or any of the twenty sixth and twenty first century folks, but that of chieftain Maya, second leader of the village, and the current main head of the two rivers.

"Help! Somebody Please Help!"

Maya, who had been focused on assisting a villager, stepped forward and caught the young man just before he fell exhausted. She and another woman assisted the armored youth by guiding him to a seat, ensuring they could provide him with better support following his unexpected arrival.

"Wha-What's the matter, tell me what happened kid!?" An Alarmed Maya said asking the young man what had gotten him to be this way.

The young man, who seems to be in his early to mid twenties coughs one to three times after gulping down a mug of water, and that once he was done, he handed over to the woman standing next to chieftain Maya.

Wiping his mouth, the young man then glanced up at Maya and answered her.

"Chief Maya. The trolls, they, they've came out of nowhere. Me and the others, we were out to do some trading with one of the nearby villagers. We-

"Villagers!" Sputtered Maya, fearing of what had happened to that certain village. "Which one kid, waeyr's or front ro-

"Front rocks, ma'am." The young man responded quickly cutting her off.

"What happened to them?" Another one of the villagers asked, one who had aided Maya with the young man.

The youth just held onto his injured arm, wincing in pain as it was being patch by another person to keep it from bleeding out any further.

"Their village was being attacked by Raiders, but."

"But what!?" Maya uttered, expressing her curiosity with a sense of urgency, eager to discover what additional information the young man possessed that she and the village were unaware of. For she was not only worried for the villagers, but a friend of hers as well.

"Raiders, trolls, fels. Too many to count. I Tried to tell the others to run back with me, back home. However, Jacky, she intended to assist one of the villagers who was fleeing from the attackers. We tried to save some of the fleeing folks, but, the enemies, they were just too many."

Following the young man's expression of distress, the sound of numerous footsteps can be heard approaching them, growing louder with each steps.

"Spartans?" Maya said uttering the name, aware of the spacefaring soldiers, thanks to Soren who had informed her about five when he arrived earlier.

One of them, a particular green-armored Spartan, looked down at the trio, particularly at the young man, who, along with Chieftain Maya and the other woman, gazed up at the four towering armored figures.

"How many!" The Master Chief stated, conveying a sense of urgency in his tone.

"Hundreds, possibly a thousand or more of them." The youth said in a hurry as he slumped back on a wooden stool.

"Can't we just set a bomb on them, you know, before they could even arrive here?" A Marine commented seeing no problem but to incinerate the enemy.

"And what, start a conflict against a nation that owned the lands. We can't do that sergeant, just not now. We deal with the coming Foes with what we have." Frederic told the marine, earning a lookful of dissatisfaction from the youth.

"How fow are they?" The master chief said asking the man.

"Well, with how fast we have had to run from the scene, I'd say about less then twenty miles or so." The youth said responding to the chief.

"We should get every civilians back into a place, far away from the coming battle ahead of us. Chieftain." The Spartan said turning to the woman in question. "How many of your people can fight?"

Maya did not respond immediately as she turned back to observe the villagers of the two rivers behind her.

The man's and woman's, whose faces displayed a combination of apprehension, alertness, and fear. Additionally, there were numerous expressions on their faces, each of which she could interpret from each and every one of them.

And therefore, after she took in what she needed, Maya then turned and looked up at the green armored being and answered to his inquiry. "Enough of my man and woman can fight. What is it you require?" The chieftain says eyes filled with renewed determination, preparing to take on the role as the sole leader for her people.

"You need to assemble those who have decided to take a stand. Tell them to get inside the village, set any blockage around from the inside. Block every entrance and exits your people think the enemies might find easy to break through."

"We can fight as well!" The same Ole young man from before said brushing aside a woman's hand who was tending to his injury. "I'll stand against them, even if it cost me my life! This is my home and my people. Let me fight in the front lines with you sky people!"

Unlatching his assault rifle from the magnetic holster, the chief made sure that the safety was still on, for he'd soon have to switch it off... Afterwards, he faced the young man infront of him and spoke.

"You'd be much of a liability, not only to us, but to yourself. You'd put yourself out there as an easy target." Chief told the youth gesturing to the young man's tattered outfit, with blood staining the fabric of his tunic. "You'll stay within the village, with the the rest of your people. We'll handle the outside force for as long as we can."

Right after chief had informed the young man of the senseless act he was about to unfold, he and blue team turned to walk away, unfortunately, the youth spoke up again, causing the three spartans to watch the youth in mere intrigue as he questions John over on what he said.

"And what if you don't live. There's less then fifty of you all here." The young man says in defiance as he then pointed at the direction in which he came from. "For out there, there's thousands of them!"

"We'll hold on for as long as we can kid. You want to help, do it by defending your people from the inside." Fred stated plainly that, despite his age, the patience he had cultivated was beginning to diminish, for he was starting to get tired of childish acts, in the middle of a dire situation.

The young man was preparing to speak once more as the Draenei and Sky People departed to fulfill their responsibilities in readiness for the impending conflict. But before he could even utter a word, chieftain Maya set her hand on his left shoulder, causing him to a halt on the moment at hand.

"Let them go gaven." The woman said with an reassuring smile spread across her face. "Besides, the sky people are right about one thing, you aren't fully healed from your previous encounters with the ones who attacked you... And if you so desire to fight, do it by defending your village, protect your friends and family from withing. Understand!?"

The now young man, who's name was gaven, stood there, with a incredulous look fixed on the woman. Wanting to question him, the youth was put to a stop when Maya ordered him to help with gathering the villagers into the village, for the commencing blockade.

"Go, now. You'd be much better with aiding the others, rather then getting yourself killed!" Maya told the gaven voice slightly higher with a clear tone of demand.

Bowing his head slightly, gaven evantually adhere's to his chieftain and strolled off to do as he was told, but not before shooting one last glance at the retreating forms of the sky people and that of the man in greens.

"Thanks for the aid, Fred. I didn't know when that kid would stop persisting," Kelly said as she flicked an extra mag into Blue Two's waiting hand, her tone calm and measured despite the chaos around her.

Fred accepted the magazine with a quick nod and attached it to the magnetic holster at his armored waist. He then moved on to inspect the scope on his DMR with the meticulous care of someone who had seen too many battles. "No problem… My patience for senseless chatter from those making foolish decisions hasn't worn thin yet," he remarked over his shoulder, just as the unmistakable voice of one of their alien allies cut through the din.

"Isn't it wiser to refrain from calling for aid?" Nerella interjected, glancing first at the master chief before directing her attention to the assembled marines. "We have barely fifty of your so-called marines, yet thousands of enemies are on the move."

Before Nerella could finish her thought, a figure clad in green stepped forward from the ranks. Captain Price, flanked by his squad, sauntered into view. With the practiced ease of a veteran soldier, he declared, "So, you lot must be Spartans as well, I take?"

Kelly, who stood closest to the newcomer, recognized his distinctly British accent immediately. "You've heard of us?" she replied, a spark of amusement flickering in her eyes.

Captain Price nearly twisted his neck as he leaned in, incredulity evident in his stance. "You speak British! You're from the United Kingdom—I take?"

A subtle shift crossed Kelly's expression, her grip tightening on her M90 shotgun as memories of other worlds stirred within her. "No, I wasn't born in the United Kingdom. Nor was I born anywhere on Earth," she explained evenly, her voice carrying both mystery and resolve.

"Then where were you born?" Price pressed, his curiosity piqued by the enigmatic warrior before him.

"Imber, if you must know," Kelly replied with effortless nonchalance, all the while aware that every word was being recorded by those hovering on the periphery. "It's a planet far removed from what you'd call Earth."

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause before another of Price's squad members couldn't help but inquire, "If you weren't born on Earth, then why do you still have the accent?"

Kelly's gaze remained steady as she let her fingers drift along the cool metal of her shotgun. "I have this accent because it's simply the way I speak—it's woven into the fabric of who I am. And if you're wondering why it sounds British, think of it as a heritage—a way of life that stretches across many worlds, including my own."

"Space British. Neat," a twenty-first-century chaff trooper joked, his tone light, drawing a burst of laughter from some of the onlookers. For a moment, the tension softened, though the soldier who had spoken looked noticeably uneasy until Kelly's teasing words eased the sting.

"Space British… Never heard that kind of jest before, little man. I like it," she said with a wry smile, her warmth easing the man's discomfort. Even Linda and Fred allowed themselves a brief chuckle as the camaraderie filled the space between combat and conversation.

Amid this blending of cultures and eras, the disparate factions—the UNSC, known in some circles as the "Sky People," alongside a contingent of twenty-first-century fighters—readied themselves for what was to come. Unnoticed by most, a news camera crew lay concealed behind an old Gause warthog, silently capturing every unfolding moment.

A UNSC marine, ever the sentinel, advanced toward the group to scold them for drawing attention in the heart of a combat zone. Yet his words were cut short as a sudden flash erupted just fifty feet away from the defensive line. Out of the glowing portal surged Raider troops, joined by countless other hostile beings, all screaming a unified war cry.

"Marine, fire that tank now!" bellowed a UNSC officer. In an instant, the crew of the M808B scrambled to align the 105mm cannon. Without delay, they delivered a thunderous shot, an explosion ripping through the ranks of the attackers.

Kelly's Bulldog thundered. The first shell slammed into a raider's chest, sending him flying backward like a rag-doll, his body cartwheeling into his comrades, spraying them red. The shockwave rattled Kelly's bones and yet she didn't falter from it and just continued loading shots into anyone that closes in on her shooting range; she tasted ozone in her mouth and smelled scorched flesh. Without waiting for the echoes to fade, she ducked a thrown spear, tight-roping the trench wall in one fluid motion. Her blade hissed free in her hand, muscle memory honed through countless drills until a panicked scream froze her mid-reach. 

Across the churned earth, a young Marine lay pinned beneath a gargantuan bat-like horror. Its leathery wings beat the smell of wet fur and fear into his face, talons gouging plate and muscle. Kelly's pulse hammered in her throat as she sprinted forward, every Spartan instinct screaming to protect. 

The Marine's eyes met hers wide, drowning in terror. The creature's tail arced like a scythe, foaming at the tip, inching toward his throat. He scraped backwards across stone, knuckles spurting red, and clutched at a jagged boulder. Time slowed. Kelly saw the rock shudder under the tail's impact, fracturing in two. The Marine's scream cut the chaos like a blade. 

In that heartbeat of silent agony, all Kelly felt was the Marine's ragged breath and the wet snap of his bones yielding under the claw's curve. Blood pooled on his chest plate, warm against the cold of the dawn light. And as the creature reared back to strike again, a spear, thrown on pure instinct whistled through the debris. It buried itself in the monster's back with a deafening crack, pinning it to the ground with an echo that outlasted the beast's scream. 

Kelly skidded to the Marine's side, adrenaline unspooling into dread as she tore off his gauntlet. The claw had sliced deep through his palm, flexor tendons exposed, pain shining in his eyes brighter than fear. She pressed her blade's flat against the wound, twisting her armor toward him. "Hold still," she barked, voice a low promise. "I've got you." 

The creature thrashed, but the spear kept it pinned. Around them, the firefight roared back to life, Lasers sang, rifles barked, Spartans advanced with lethal precision. Kelly met the Marine's gaze, saw his jaw clench through the haze of pain. In that tortured moment, the battlefield sharpened to a single truth: they survived or they died together. 

Kelly's boot thudded against the blood-slick earth as she crouched beside the wounded Marine. The nearby forest around them had stilled, rifle fire and plasma rounds faded into muffled thumps, as if the world itself were holding its breath. A single raindrop fell from Kelly's visor, mingling with the salt of sweat and the metallic tang of blood. She pressed her blade's flat against the mangled wound in his palm. The Marine's breath hitched, each inhale a rasping plea.

His name was Daines, she remembered Private Daines, nineteen and already pinned beneath nightmares. His eyes, glazed and darting from her face to the pinned bat-creature, were wide with a fury of pain. Kelly leaned close, voice low and steady. "You're doing fine. I need to clean this." She wiped grit from his palm with her sleeve, the cloth sticking to torn flesh. He flinched; she flinched back. Every nerve in her forearm burned with the urge to recoil, but she forced steady calm into her tone. "Focus on my voice."

A distant crack snapped through the trees as another spear shattered a branch. The beast, its ebony wings like torn shadows, thrashed against the spear's shaft. Its scream echoed, a guttural keening that vibrated through Kelly's bones. She met Daines's gaze again, saw his jaw clench as he clenched her hand. That pressure gave her purpose. She tore a strip of fabric from her belt, wrapped it around his wrist above the wound, and twisted. The Marine's head fell back; his teeth bit into his lip. For a suspended moment, Kelly felt the pulse of his fear as if it were her own heart.

Behind her, John and Fred advanced in perfect tandem, rifles raising and lowering in a staccato rhythm. Their breaths came in shallow bursts, each exhale curling in the cold air like smoke. Shell casings pinged against stone and root, moments like these, John always noted, were measured in sparks of light, bullets tracing fleeting constellations. He steadied his grip, thumb brushing the safety catch. Fred flanked him to the left, scanning the tree line for more of the bat-creatures that had ambushed them.

An explosion of shrieking death erupted abruptly when Linda's sniper rifle barked twice from a ridge. The first shot punctured a creature's lung; the second cracked its skull. Linda exhaled slowly, a hollow release that shattered the lull. Below her, the forest shuddered as the corpse crashed through limbs and leaves. For Linda, each pull of the trigger was a code she cracked: breath, squeeze, count, exhale. Two down, six more to go. Her visor fogged with her own respiration; a single bead of moisture traced the curve of her cheek. She blinked it away and refocused.

Back in the trench, Kelly finished tying the tourniquet. Daines's hand throbbed, the fabric tight and unyielding. She tucked the excess strip into his gauntlet. His fingers fluttered, then flexed a small victory carved out of agony. "You're going to walk off this," she promised, though her throat tightened. He managed a weak nod, eyes drifting shut.

A hush spread, broken only by the creature's labored breathing and the crunch of debris under the Spartans' armor. Kelly straightened, wiping her blade on a scrap of cloth. She met John's eyes across the trench. His nod was curt but laden with unspoken respect.

Then a tremor ran through the ground subtle, like a distant heartbeat. Fred's brows shot up. "Something's moving," he muttered. The forest stirred: leaves skittered across the soil, shadows shifting against dappled sunlight. Kelly's adrenaline coiled in her gut, a cold snake tightening its grip. She tapped her comm. "Team, eyes up. We've got more company."

A chorus of flapping wings answered—battalions of the bat-like creatures, their forms sketching nightmares against the trees. They landed, talons gouging at roots, wings folding back to reveal serrated tails. The creatures' red eyes scanned for prey, tongues flicking greedily.

John lowered into a firing crouch, breath stuttering. "We can't hold them here." His voice was taut wire. "On my mark—suppressive, then fall back to secondary line." He counted off on his fingers: three Spartans, ten Marines, and the 21st-century soldiers who'd rallied behind their trench. Their next position lay fifty meters east, past a shattered cabin half-swallowed by ivy.

"Wish we had called for reinforcement earlier." Uttered Fred as he sent a right hook that took the head of a raider and blocked an attack meant for a twenty first century woman. "We need to move back for better cover."

"Cory, have you sent a call yet?" Master chief asked his A.I. partner while giving cover fire as others retreated back into a close torn down building.

Kelly's throat tightened at the thought of leaving Daines. But the tourniquet held for now. She flicked on her knee-light, painting the trench walls in harsh white. "We move in five," she relayed. Then she knelt by the Marine, voice soft so only he could hear. "I'll patch you up once we're clear." His eyelids fluttered; he nodded against his will.

Luckily, for everyone, a unsc Pelican whirled in surprising some of the defenders. The pilot, effortlessly dodged a fireball from a dragon looking beast kin. And returning back with a fiery burn of its 70mm burning rotary cannon. Each single round tearing through the waves of bat like monsters, some attempted to chase after the flying metal of monstrosity, but evertime one nears it, it either get blasted into a explosion of meats, popping like a balloon, except this time, instead of air, it's their guts bones and body parts raining down into the land.

"Good thing we have our two pilots with us." A Unsc marine let out with his back up against a wall.

The not the marine had spoken, a stray light of red soured through the air and took off an entire right arm of a marine six feet away from him. The man dropped his rifle and reached out to tend to the immense pain, unfortunately, he hadn't had the chance to do so as one of the bat creatures flew down from the air and pierces him from the back of his lower waist, just near his belly button. And while the marine had lost his right arm, along with the excruciating pain that came with it, he pushed all that pain away for a short amount of time and pulls out his pistol and began loading seven rounds at the monster lower jaw.

Linda who saw this leaped over a boulder, and while doing so, she uses the head of her sniper, held onto it and batted one of the bat creatures aside, all just so she could make towards the marine. She was glad the man had took care of the monster, however, she notices that he would need immediate aid with what he had just been through.

Thankfully she wasn't needed to save him all on her own, for she saw one of the twenty first century folks pulling the tail off and away from the marine. The woman unsure of what to do at the moment looked out for any of the medics, evidently most of them werent here, all except for one of the unsc combat medics.

Linda's scope zoomed out of her earsplitter moment to survey the gathering horde. She whispered her countdown, four, three, then exhaled as shot one flew, and two, and three. Each bullet found a gap in wings or skull, carving breathing space for their squad. "Five down," she hissed. "Two minutes 'til they regroup."

A hushed tension flooded the trench. Kelly felt it—a tangible thread—taut between every Spartan and Marine. This was more than bullets and muscle; it was the space between heartbeats, where survival nestled. She rose, knuckles slick with sweat. Every muscle remembered the drill. Her boot found Daines's shoulder. "Legs," she ordered, voice steel. "You can do it."

He pushed up, face pale as dawn light, every inch of his armored uniform splattered crimson. Kelly offered her hand; he gripped it, teeth clenched in determination. Together, they limped toward the trench's mouth. Each step was a victory over pain. Behind them, the Spartans laid down bursts of suppressive fire—scorching leaves, fracturing bark, buying them seconds.

As they broke through the shattered cabin's beams, Kelly felt the forest exhale with them. They poured onto the open ground, where John and Fred formed a living shield. The horde hesitated, flapping a curtain of wings. And then the ground shook again—this time with far-off stomps, heavier than any beast. Kelly's breath caught. In the distance, through fractured trees, she saw silhouettes that dwarfed the bat-creatures: something ancient, armor-clad, striding toward them like a nightmare given form.

Kelly paused, heart pounding so loud she feared the creatures could hear it. But then she felt Daines's steadying hand on her gauntlet. "We survive," he mouthed. And against every instinct screaming to run, Kelly raised her blade. The forest fell silent, the calm before a storm. 

Around her, Spartans ready weapons, Marines shuffle magazine belts, and Linda's sniper rifle whispers of death from above. And in that quiet heartbeat, Kelly knits together fear and hope, grit and duty, knowing this fight will define them all.

Running after them, captain Price was engaging any of the foes that approached within a few feet of Kelly and the marines, and that after firing the last bullet in his rifle, he quickly slumped back down beside a log tree for cover. "Anybody got an idea of dealing with this bats!?" Price exclaimed while shielding his face from debris being blasted around him.

"Pretty obvious." A Unsc marine said responding to price. "Defend, for that's the common things in this kind of situation!"

"The marine's right." Fred spoke adding in his two cent on their current predicament. "However I wouldn't dwell too much on fear at the moment."

Switching over to Kelly o-eight seven, the Spartan let off a rapid of shots from her bulldog-SG. Though, she has had to break a spell caster's shield with her weapon from afar, after all the weapon was only greatly effective in a closer range of fire. But that didn't save the spell Caster from a third and fourth fire.

From the spell caster's fallen body stood his own allies, though, this one's were heavily armored Raiders. The Spartan noted that the eight Raiders were outfitted not only with armor and swords but also with energy shields that emitted a diminishing glow of light around the shield itself.

"Are those energy shields?" Uttered Kelly who received a response from Linda herself.

"Looks like it!" Linda replied taking a Crack at the Raiders holding the magic infused shields. "But it doesn't look like the typical ones we've encountered before."

Master Chief provided assistance to one of Price's squad members by using his own large frame as a shield to protect the woman from the relentless barrage of arrows, spears and a stray beam of unidentified energy attacks, attacks he assumed was certainly magics of some kinds.

"I'd say it's just some light works from what you call sorcerery." The chief spoke and immediately raised his right forearm, clenching his fist, while an energy shield activated within the forefront of his armored gauntlet; much like that of one jackal usually have with them.

"On that I agree!" Bellany, the woman, positioned herself to the right of the energy shield and retaliated against the archers and their gunners.

Sadly she couldn't stay herself outside for too long and quickly hid back behind the Spartan. As for the said spartan, chief stayed still with great endeavor. The bullets that these gunners of the Raiders were pressuring him on with weren't as much of a problem like that of the ones he was used to taking in his past deployment, nevertheless he simply waited for exactly what he needed to do, which was for the gunners to ceased in their fire as they went to reload... Once they were in the state of doing so, the chief, or John immediately depleted his energy shield and pulled his rifle back out, without even a milliseconds of wasting his time, he pulled back on the trigger, gunning down one raider after another.

"Chief look out!"

John veered his head to the side looking at where blue two was referring to. Fred who had warned him on the process, quickly bursted from his previous spot. Unfortunately for both him and the chief, Fred couldn't get there in time, for the wing creature drop down from the sky at a rapid pace, talons as long as any short blade, curved down, just like that of an eagle... Meanwhile, John found himself unable to move to the side as quickly as he had anticipated. However, just before the creature's talons could seize him, John pushed Bellany out of the way whereas he was swept up from the ground.

Blue team and that of the entirely of the unsc marines and twenty first centuries saw how the master chief looks like nothing but a small deer; in the claws of a winged creature the size of two polar bears in length and size...

"John!" Linda yelled out who repositioned herself and aimed her sniper rifle up at the sky.

"Linda look out!" Fred told her, thankfully he was able to warn her.

Linda who's finger were inches from pulling the trigger, she had a perfect shot at the wing monster's lower abdomen, right where she guessed was it's heart remains... However, with the trampoling Raiders coming her way, she immediately rolled off to the side while also mentally thanking Fred for the heads up.

The Two Raiders infront of her though were quite surprised to have seen these automaton dodging them. But no matter, the two with their enchanted weapons trudged towards her way with a gleeful looks on their faces.

"No Fred." Linda said stopping blue two from budding in on her Foes. "These two are mine, handle the others!"

Linda after ceasing Fred then focused her eyes on the two Raiders weapons, it was unlike the typical axes and swords she saw on TV series she watched in her free time, no, these weapons they wielded seems to have been glowing every few seconds that passes by. She figured that since she and everyone was informed that these planets residents resides with themselves unordinary abilities called magic, but she didn't think it weapons would be an addition with it too.

Deciding she wanted to have some fun with them, Linda latched her sniper on the back where the magnetic holster kept it lock in place. The Two Raiders joined with numerous other of their allies rushes towards her and the others with guns blazing and swords and spears. Once her foes where closed in at an enough range, Linda sped forth and sliced one target where her blade cutted right through his neck. Seconds after that she simply planted her right boot on another raider, that with the force of her kick, she sent woman flying hard into a trio of her own allies.

From her left a two horned being grasped it's ace and swung it at the Spartan; believing that Linda wouldn't see him at all, regardless of what he thought, the the Spartan was moved swiftly around him, and as she does, she followed with a quick sweeping of his leg causing him to fall back on his rear. She had no need to go in for an attack, for blue two, Fred came in and stomped down on his head, squashing it into smithereens.

The Two of them glanced at one another and gave each other a nod of confirmation, but one of thanks from that of Linda.

Enjoying the moment, Linda's eyes notices a glow from the left side of her helm, and acting on instinct, the Spartan moved back just in time as a stray of frost blue light passes by her and struck a marine who was unaware of the attack. Though, the attack didn't kill him upon impact, it did froze him in place with his whole body unable to move.

Linda was about to move in and save him from whatever fate was coming after the poor cadet, but thankfully someone came in clutch and blocked another stray blast.

This one was the brand new species that she and blue team have met in their previous mission.

"Go, I got this one spartsn!" The draenei nerella told Linda.

Linda thankful for the aid from the draenei turned to see where blue one was. As she tilted her helm up at the sky, she saw that John was battling it out with the wing monster.

Unfortunately for her, the enemies on ground wouldn't give her the chance in using her sniper help John... But knowing chief, Linda knew that he could take care of himself, as after all, he had been through worst situations.

__________

Master Chief

P.O.V.

Chief hovered three hundred fifty-eight feet above the shattered plains, his Mjolnir armor groaning in protest against the whistling gale. Thunder rolled in the distance and rain blurred the world beneath him into a wash of gray and black. Each breath he drew felt thin—an acrid mixture of recycled air and ozone from his thrusters. Above him, the creature's wings beat the storm into a frenzy.

Its hide was mottled emerald and obsidian, every scale tipped with razor-edge. He could see the curve of serrated beak, the way its eyes—milky orange with vertical slits—tracked his every move. Five-foot claws, black as scorched steel, clamped into his left pauldron. Every twist of its wing sent jolts through his spine. Wind shrieked in his ears; adrenaline sang through his veins.

He reached for his rifle, but the beast's talons spun him in midair, wrenching it free and sending it plummeting earthward. Instinct took over. He aimed for the closest target: its head. The first two attempts ended with nothing but gusting wind and the beast's mocking roar.

A third swing nearly took his helmet off as the creature's beak rasped across the visor. Sparks danced in his peripheral vision. He swallowed back panic. There was no room for doubt. He ran the angles in his mind, the timing of muscle and momentum: inhale, pivot, strike.

On the fourth swing, as rain sluiced down his visor, he rocked his head left, escaping the snapping beak by inches. His combat knife flicked free, the black blade glinting in the storm's strobe light. With a thunderous crack, the tip shattered bone at the jaw hinge. The creature howled, a sound that rattled his armor and turned his helmet speakers to static.

The talons unclenched. He seized the moment.

Clawing over slick scales, Chief wrapped his gauntleted fingers around the beast's left ankle. It thrashed, wings chopping at the air, trying to dislodge him like a parasite. The roar of its wingbeats threatened to tear the world apart, but he held on. Each breath came in jagged bursts, his lungs burning, but he used the tremor to wedge his boots into its armored hide.

As he climbed, memories flickered—ghosts of past battles: a comrade fallen at Reach, the weight of every life he'd failed to save. He channeled it all into purpose: no retreat, no mercy.

Atop its shoulder, he crouched like a hawk about to strike. Rain hammered his helmet; thunder cracked overhead. His HUD blinked a warning: oxygen levels critical. Power at forty percent. Still, he had one shot left.

He slid his knife along the jagged gap between plates, feeling each ridge under his fingertips. The beast bucked, lightning flashing through its open maw. He exhaled, calm as a winter dawn. With a roar that matched the storm, he drove the blade deep into its neck joint.

Silence erupted. The wings faltered. Claws went slack. Metal met flesh in one final, echoing snap.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved but the rain. Then the creature spiraled downward, earth rushing up to meet it. Chief braced for impact, gripping its neck like a rider on a dying steed. His vision narrowed to the steady beat of his own heart.

When the world leveled out, nothing remained but the howling wind and the distant crack of thunder. Below him, the plains lay still. Above him, the storm began to break.

Chief released the knife and slid off the carcass, jetpack hissing as it tapped the last reserve cells. He touched his visor controls, sealing out the rain. The HUD cleared, oxygen warnings silenced. He straightened, looking out at the horizon.

Opposite to his position, the Spartan sensed the ground trembling, reminiscent of something familiar in his thoughts.

It reminded him of an earthquake, yet this one was alot more smaller then a usual one. He started searching for where it came from... For a short time, he started questioning the location of it, but due to his luck of quick thinking, the Spartan found it.

As the chief gazed forward from his position, he observed a colossal entity. The master chief was taken aback by the size and stature of this being. The size was what left the chief appalled, both in shock from merely observing it and alarmed by its presence.



The tremor came without warning, a deep, resonant pulse that shivered through Master Chief's MJOLNIR frame and lodged in his chest. He knelt behind a fractured basalt outcrop, the gash in his armor still oozing coolant from a skirmish with the wing creature moments before, along with his rifle which he lost with his fight with in the air. At his hip, the MK50 Sidekick pistol gleamed, the lone weapon he had left. 

Around him, the battlefield was a surreal crossroads of trees, plants and grasses burnt to near charcoal crisps. Nearby, a white-and-red cross hovercraft sputtered warning lights, its medevac crew scrambling to treat downed Marines and civilians alike. Amid the haze, Task Force operators in call signs and battered gear slipped through the debris, their suppressed rifles trained on the horizon. 

Master Chief's heads-up display blinked "NO RIFLE" in cold red letters. He pressed one gloved hand to the basalt's jagged groove and rose, aware of Cory's cool voice sliding through the comm channel. 

"Infrastructure analysis indicates an unidentified animated construct," Cory said. "Magic-based energies, reminiscent of fictional golem lore. Power buildup in regular thirty-second cycles." 

As much as he liked to stick around, the chief understood the circumstances he and every one was in and immediately acted upon it.

"Not much of everybody will survive if we don't do something about that thing chief!" Cory let out reminding her wearer of the issues ahead of him.

"I'm on it!"

He didn't need to be told twice. His visor swept the plain: 350 meters out, the ground arched upward. Then it moved an eighty-five-foot colossus of living stone, its dark grey plates carved with shifting glyphs that pulsed cobalt and white. Veins of lightning ran beneath its rocky skin, like molten blood in an ironwood tree. Each step shook the cratered soil, sending pebbles skidding toward his boots. 

Chief drew the Sidekick, grasping it in both hands. The recoil would be puny against such scale, but bullets at least might fray arc conduits or buy time. He rose fully, shoulders squared, and shelled out a four-round burst. The rounds ricocheted off its ankle plating with sparks that danced into the gloom. 

"Reinforcements inbound," Cory reported. A Chinook's thunder split the air as it disgorged USMC fireteams down the slope. Snipers found perches atop broken girders. A call-of-duty stealth VTOL ghosted low, its rotor tips rendering near-silent. The hovercraft's medical team formed a triage circle behind the half-buried Humvee. 

"Point me at its eye," Chief growled. "I'll draw its fire."

Corporal Martinez waved from behind a Warthog's mangled flank. "We'll hit its legs, Javelins and rockets! Task Force has thermobarics!" 

He nodded, moving with the purpose of a thunderbolt. Marines and 21st-century soldiers took positions on either side, creating a staggered firing line. A .50-caliber mounted on an improvised tripod spat tracer lines that crisscrossed the golem's lower calf. Task Force loaded light anti-tank rockets into an MAAWS, green smoke canisters rolling out of their packs. 

Chief sprinted forward, pistol bark echoing through the ruins. Each step took him closer to the fissures where those cobalt veins crawled. The golem's single eye blazed, turning to follow him as though curious. A shockwave rolled outward when it shifted its weight—he ducked behind a chunk of lava rock and spat gravel from his boots. 

"Charging energy orb," Cory warned. "Eighteen seconds to discharge."



The golem raised its massive fist, drawing arcs of lightning from the pitch sky. Threads of raw energy snaked around its knuckles, weaving a shimmering sphere. Marines planted proximity charges at its ankle; Task Force operators hosed foam grenades into the seams between plates. 

Chief hefted the Sidekick, sliding a fresh magazine home with a click. He darted onto a low ridge at two hundred meters, drawing everyone's eyes. A Marine let loose an M72 round that carved a half-meter crater in the golem's shin. Task Force snipers placed explosive-tipped rounds around its torso, and the VTOL's thermobaric charges shimmered into place on its shoulders. 

"Get clear!" Martinez barked. 

Chief fired at the eye again,each shot pinging like flint on steel, until the orb glowed white-hot. He dove off the ridge just as the golem unleashed its salvo. A wall of plasma-blue flame surged across the plain, vaporizing Warthog hulk and scouring the earth. His armor's dampening systems roared as the blast met him, but he rolled free, visor blacking out for a heartbeat before emergency optics flickered back online. 

He sat up, chest heaving. In the haze, the golem reeled, plating cracked and smoking. Its glyphs flickered out of sync, as though the creature had been slapped dumb by its own power. 

"Now!" Cory's voice was steel. 

Marines fired AT rockets; the VTOL swept its guns in a blistering pass. Task Force operators launched thermobaric canisters into the clefts of its shoulder joints. The medevac hovercraft's crew, locked and loaded, fired twin HE rounds at the conduit beneath the neck plates. 

Master Chief slid to his knees, pistol in hand. His visor's targeting reticle snapped onto the node at its nape where circuitry of magic and stone converged. He adjusted for distance, one hundred meters. Four shots, each timed to the aftershock of every massive exhale the golem released. 

He squeezed the trigger. Round one ripped a spark from the conduit. Round two punched a crater around the glyph cluster. Round three found the heart of the lattice. The fourth ignited a cascade: the conduit shattered, veins of energy erupting like fireworks. 

The golem bellowed, a sound like continents grinding. Its back arched, spine fracturing along the blasted channel. The creature swayed, arms splayed, as bolts of errant lightning shivered into the sky. 

"Fall back!" Martinez shouted. 

Chief scrambled over the ridge. Behind him, the golem tried to steady its weight, but its core was undone. Marines hurled fragmentation grenades into the cavernous hollow at its base. The VTOL's last thermobaric charge blew inward, detonating a storm of shrapnel and steam. 

The sentinel collapsed in a thunderous collapse of stone. Impact gouged a crater thirty meters wide, choking the battlefield in vapor and dust. Chief wiped grit from his visor as the aftershock rolled out, shaking loose pebbles off the basalt. 

Silence hung heavy, cracked only by the hiss of armor systems rebooting. The plateau lay littered with shattered fragments of living stone, each shard still flickering with dying energy. Marines and 21st-century soldiers alike emerged from cover, faces streaked with sweat and soot. Many limped; some carried the wounded. 

Sergeant Martinez jogged to his side, helmet under arm. "You did it, Chief." Her voice was rough with relief. "We've got twelve KIA, thirty survivors. Medics are en route to evac point." 

He inclined his head, scanning the crater. He holstered the Sidekick, its metal cool against his thigh, and offered a single nod. No words could capture the weight of shepherding so many through the storm. 

($)

Task Force sniper team gathered around a downed sharpshooter, bandaging a leg wound. The VTOL pilot idled rotor blades, collecting data from the fractured shoulder plates. The medevac crew radioed landing coordinates. Beyond them, military Humvees from a parallel world unit, bodged into this cross-era combat rolled forward to secure the perimeter. 

"Incoming Pelican," Cory announced. "Extraction point is clear." 

Chief stepped to the crater's edge, watching the eastern horizon where a Pelican's silhouette blotted out the dying sky. Marines organized litters; 21st-century soldiers directed stretchers. A soft wind stirred the dust, carrying away the last sizzle of residual arc energy. 

Bringing his hand up, chief then touched the side of his helm and spoke. "Cory status?"

"Good news or bad news." Cory said in a humorous manner.

"Both." The chief said in reply, already used to this kind of manner from the A.I.

"Well to put it lightly and simple. The invading forces of Raiders and their allies are starting to retreat, some were able to do so thanks to their wizarding portals of magics. Second, the golem I take is dead, thanks not to only you, but that of spartan Kelly. Thir-

"Kelly?" Uttered chief wondering how she had aided in bringing down the monstrosity.

"Yes Kelly. Apparently she was able to run her way up the back of that golem and sticked a bomb on the giant. That's where you notices it earlier when the golem buckled forth." Explained Cory as she also brought an exact report to the top right corner of chief's hud.

"I See. I'll make sure to thank her for the aid." Said John coming into agreement that if anyone can make it fast enough up on that golems back, then it'd be her.

"Chief on your left." Cory told him.

With a just a simple turn of his helm, the people that were heading towards the spartans way all ceased in their track. And not wanting intimidate out of sheer fear of him, chief turned his whole body and face the people, forcing himself to speak in a formal greeting before they do.

"Can I help you with something?" The chief said who's voice manages to hit one of the twenty first century soldiers with an old nostalgic of memories.

"Ummm, yes sir spartan. Our commander would like a word with you?" A Soldier responded immediately as he quickly turn and led the way.

As they strolled off with the behemoth size of the Spartan, one of the twenty first centuries nudged the one in the middle of them.

"Come on man, I know your from a different alternate earth. You are acting like a fan girl, cause what, of this robot!" The man said in an accent closely similar to that of earth's many language called Norwegian.

The Mexican marine briefly glanced at the master chief before turning back and continuing on his way. "The robot you referred to is not merely a fictional creation; so I'd advise you to avoid provoking him for your own benefit."

"What him!" The European soldier said in a bluff doubting the Marines words.

Before the third member of the trio could of spoke up, an older looking man standing beside two others soldier spoke up in greetings to the three of them.

"Gentleman's, thank you for bringing the chief here." The old man said.

"No problem sir. Just doing my job." The unsc marine said in responds to the ex odst.

"Commander stacker. It's good to see you again sir." The master chief said as he also gave the former odst a formal nod of approval.

Marcus Stacker, the former ODST, chuckled softly as he acknowledged the pleasure of seeing a familiar face like that of the Spartan. "There is no need for you to address me as Commander Chief; we have worked in the past during the previous war. Stacker is just fine enough for me."

"Wi'll do so sir." Chief said earning a defeated sigh from the man. "So stacker, sir. What is it you've requested me here for?"

Appreciating that the Spartan addressed him by his name, Stacker responded promptly and casually. "I have just left the second gate following a meeting with the general, and have arrived here at the last known location of the doctor herself in search of her... I Figured with you here, you'd know where she is?"

The chief was preparing to respond to Stacker when Cory's holographic figure unexpectedly appeared in front of her Spartan, interrupting him before he could've spoken.

With Her appearance it left those from the twenty-first century not only shocked but also filled with amazement and surprise. Her radiant blue figure was illuminated by numerous blue and white lights that appeared to adhere to her holographic skin, creating an illusion of reality for onlookers. Her outfit, in contrast to that of the Chief's former companion Cortana, was substituted with a standard UNSC officer's uniform, similar to what an officer would wear on deck of a ship.