- Wolverfrog
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- Fabled Legendary Member
Mendez walked around Installation 07's control room anxiously with a cigar held absently between two fingers in his right hand. Melancholy Prejudice hadn't stopped talking for hours. Even Pentient Tangent seemed bored by his words, which was certain testimony to how dull the monitor of Installation 07 was.
"It disgusts me, Reclaimer," Prejudice told Mendez with an accusatory tone. "I've maintained stringent containment protocols for over one hundred thousand years, and not a single Flood spore has escaped. If you wish to carry out an inspection to see yourself, I would be happy to show you."
"Err.. maybe some other time," Mendez retorted, too tired to tell the monitor to shut up. He stared at the spiralling holographic image of the Halo ring, wondering how something so serene could be so dangerous.
"Tomorrow, then?" Prejudice inquired, relentless.
"There might not be a tomorrow, dammit!" Mendez snapped, his temper getting the better of him. That certainly shut the pretentious Monitor up, but not for long.
"I apologise, Reclaimer. I did not intend to cause offence. It has simply been so long since someone other than I has walked these halls," Melancholy Prejudice said with a sigh, softening the tough shell of Mendez a little.
"I sympathise, I really do," he told the monitor sincerely. "But I don't think I'm qualified to carry out such an inspection, nor do we really have the time. Once this is all over though, I can guarantee there will be many... Reclaimers wishing to inspect this ring."
"Really?" Prejudice asked, hope obvious in it's voice. Mendez nodded, thinking of all the scientists that would want to pick apart at this place.
"Really," he affirmed, sitting down again. Melancholy Prejudice cheered up considerably after that, and no longer vented rage towards Mendez. Penitent Tangent was not so lucky.
"I understand you are the one responsible for all this," Prejudice accused Tangent with clipped, haughty tones. The Monitor of Installation 05 immediately rose up to challenge the Monitor of Installation 07's words. Mendez groaned.
"I beg your pardon?" Tangent asked in shrill tones, setting Mendez's teeth on edge.
"Unless your audio-receptor unit is faulty, I'm certain you heard me quite perfectly, 2401. Had you not shown lax regard for even the most basic of containment protocols, the Flood would never have--"
"I showed the utmost regard for all protocol, you... you antiquated cad!" Penitent Tangent answered angrily, moving slightly towards Prejudice.
"Watch the language, kids," Mendez intoned with amusement.
"Then how is it that the infection we reliable constructs are now having to deal with originated from the Installation you were charged with protecting? An Installation which, I might add, you have abandoned."
"That is not my fault. A Gravemind was contained in inadequate holding chambers, and I was not granted clearance sufficient enough to fortify them."
"Excuses," Prejudice dismissed disdainfully. "Not only did you fail to contain the infection, but you also allowed your person to be taken captive by the Flood. I fact, I shall strongly recommend to a figure of authority that you be deactivated as soon as possible."
Mendez could see that Tangent was close to physically retaliating to the pretentious Monitor's words, and decided to step in.
"All right, that's enough. I'm tired, I have a headache the likes of which you wouldn't believe, and it's possible that I might be destroying the galaxy at some point later today. So I am not in the god damn mood for your petty little childish spats. Am I understood?!" he roared at them, employing a tone similar to the one he had used with the Spartan trainees on Reach and Onyx.
The two Monitors looked at each other, before turning back to face a raging Mendez and nodding curtly.
"Yes, Reclaimer," they squeaked to him in tiny voices. Mendez nodded, before sitting back down and lighting another cigar. His voice was still echoing around the gigantic control room of Halo.
"Good. Now quieten down, I'm going to try and get some rest. God knows I need it."
The worn CPO closed his eyes, and felt sleep descend upon him. Suddenly, a bright light permeated his curtaining eyelids, and his eyes snapped open.
In the midst of a glowing, golden teleportation light was a sight which made Mendez's blood run cold.
343 Guilty Spark.
We've lost. The Flood have won, and I need to activate Halo and kill every sentient being in the Galaxy, Mendez realised, horror descending upon him. He stood up, eyes watering and heart constricted.
"Oh, hello," 343 Guilty Spark said to him pleasantly. "Shall we go, then?"
"G-go where?" Mendez asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
"Well, I could take you directly to Earth, but the teleportation-link would be difficult to set up, and the time lapse could be great. Whereas the 'tunnel to Sangheilios', to speak in layman's terms, is already active and established, and we could rendezvous with the others there."
"What are you talking about, Spark?" Mendez asked, confusion overtaking his dread as a primary emotion. Spark looked at him curiously for a few moments, before laughing capriciously.
"Of course, you don't know. I mean, how could you?"
"Spit it out, Spark!"
"We won, Reclaimer. The Flood is defeated."
* * * * * * * * * *
Swirling colours, dark browns and dreary greys. An everlasting ocean of corruption, stretching beyond the horizon. Looking up, the stars are tainted too, radiating a chilling aura. Walking down the crumbling beach into the stagnated water, and peering down into its murky depths. Darkness. On the surface of the taint, an image begins to appear, a reflection. Crouching down, examining it closely. A mutilated face stares back, his own.
The Flood.
"No!" John cried out, struggling with some encompassing, devouring presence. He struggled, pounding at the relentless force attempting to consume him, feeling the soft, linen material brush against his pained hands--
Blankets.
John looked around warily, getting his bearings. He was inside a small, dimly lit room, and seemed to be lying down in a bed of some sort. A heavy duvet covered his aching body, and he pushed it away, examining himself. Scars and deep, ugly welts covered him from head to toe, and several of his limbs were in hard casts. Tubes were jammed into his arms, pumping him full of drugs which would have no effect on his Spartan body.
With a hand encased within a cast, he swept the tubes away with disgust. Not all of the needles went with them. Ignoring the pain, he swung his legs out of bad and placed them on the floor, before using his moderately good leg to lift himself up.
The floor was humming; a soft, gentle sway which told John that he was on board a ship. Wincing slightly as he took a step towards what seemed to be a door, John's mind began to clear.
I died. That was fact. And yet how could it be, when he was quite clearly alive and breathing? Puzzled, John continued his heroic hobble to the door, when suddenly his legs gave out underneath him. He collapsed to the ground, and despite himself, cried out in pain.
Voices suddenly murmured from outside the room; human voices. John was starting to prop himself up, when suddenly the door burst open.
"You're awake?" a young woman who was unfamiliar to John gasped, looking down at him. She seemed to be wearing medical attire. "But I thought-- oh my. I should go get the Doctor."
"Wait!" John called, finally back on his two legs. "What's going on? Where am I?"
The expression on the woman's face softened as she looked up at John.
"You're on a medical ship, 117. We're part of the convoy heading back to Earth."
"Wait, Earth? What do you--" the medical officer shrugged, cutting John off.
"I'm not sure that I'm privy to all the information you'll probably ask for, 117. I'll go fetch the Doctor. Please get back in your bed."
* * * * * * * * * *
<UNSC Hastings, Observation Bridge>
"Well, it's over," Admiral Preston Cole stated, staring down at Sangheilios.
"What will you do now?" Captain Graham Daniels asked the elderly Admiral, who let out a deep, long sigh.
"Part of me wishes that I could crawl back to my little farm on the outer colonies and live out the rest of my life in peace, but I know that's not possible. What's more, it wouldn't be right."
"You'll be taking charge of the UNSC, then? Good. Hood's long dead, Eden's a traitor, and Harper's dead too. We need firm, reliable leadership."
Cole looked down at the Captain, who was staring down at Sangheilios and the hundreds of ships rising from it's surface, all loaded with soldiers and some loaded with Flood prisoners who had been spared at Mendicant Bias' insistence when the Elite Serpahs had found him and the rest of the strike team, alive but just barely. Cole had been reluctant to approve the decision, but then the Didact had stuck his ancient nose in and of course all the Elites and other members of the Covenant had backed him. What else could he have done?
"Yes," he replied, before echoing the Captain's words. "The UNSC does need reliable leadership. Which is why I can't accept."
That shocked Graham, so much so that he nearly dropped the polystyrene cup of dry, foul tasting insta-coffee he held in his hand.
"What are you talking about? You have to--"
"Let me speak, son. I've abandoned humanity in the past, and whilst I may have had my reasons, the fact of the matter is that I still abandoned everyone who depended on me. I can't accept leadership of the UNSC after that."
"Then who--"
Cole reached into his pocket, and drew out a small silver object from its deep confines. He opened the palm of his right hand, and sitting in the midst of its wrinkled, sun-beaten grasp were the five silver stars of a UNSC Fleet Admiral.