- soulguard
- |
- Exalted Mythic Member
“No. The commander has given you orders, just as he has to me. We are to get as many regiments to the ring as possible. I wish he would have told me what he was planning…” The doors behind Etah and his pack parted and six elites stormed in. A group of blue armored elites greeted them at the door, weapons at the ready but none threatening.
It is said that wars are started with words, but no one is eager to fire the first shots. Many brutes and elites have killed each other after verbal disputes, but such is the life of a warrior in the covenant; their bonds are fragile.
Etah glared at the elites and brutes, but couldn’t hear what was being said. Every elite, hunter and grunt standing upon the docks was eager to know what was being said, and the dock master sprinted to see what he could do to stall the brutes. He ran closer to the brutes and stepped passed the six elites.
There was a deathly silence within the docks, no shouts, no uproars, nothing. It was the calm before the storm. Throughout the expanse of High Charity, hundreds of elites and brutes were fighting, but their reasoning was to be the first to kill the Demon, but the struggle in the docks would prove to be the real deciding moment of what would become the Covenant civil war.
A ship wide communication opened and Truth’s voice echoed across the docks, “Fear not my brothers, for the Sacred Icon is secure. It was Tartarus and his Brutes who took the Icon from the Flood. For this, they have our thanks.” The communication ended and every elite glared at each other, seemingly dumbfounded by the words.
“What is this?” The spec ops elite stated through snarled teeth. “Not only have they dishonored our honor guards, but now they gain the favor of the Hierarchs?” He spat as he gripped his plasma rifle. He turned to Etah, “Get your grunts aboard the phantom.”
Etah nodded and quickly grabbed Palab, not trusting that his younger brother would keep his mouth shut. The group waddled to the nearby Phantom, other grunt packs were doing the same, but Etah and Palab could not take their eyes off of the elites and brutes near the door.
Again, Truth spoke over the ship wide communicator, “The elites have failed to protect the Prophets, and in so doing put all our lives at risk. Let no warrior forget his oaths. Thou, in faith, will keep us safe whilst we find the path.”
“What are they saying?” Palab mumbled in their native tongue. Behind him stood Etah and his other pack brothers, but also several other grunt packs that were waiting to board the phantom. “The holy one speaks as if the elites have betrayed them.”
“You do not know that, Palab.” Etah returned, gripping his younger brother and pulling him closer to the gravity lift. The purple hue of the lift created an eerie glow around the grunts, but everything was slowly beginning to take shape in Palab’s mind. But the Elites could also sense that something was not right.
The spec ops elite roared as he began to understand. “By the rings! The commander, he knew this was coming!” The spec ops elite turned to Etah. “Quickly, board the phantom. There isn’t much time!” With that the opposite door to the dock parted and dozens of brutes marched in. They were greeted by several elites, and again Etah and Palab could not hear what was being said.
“Damned brutes, they mean to fight!” The spec ops elite grumbled.
Once more Truth spoke, “With my blessings, the Brutes now lead our fleets. They ask for your allegiance, and you shall give it to them.” Every elite within the dock seamed to boil with disapproval. It was as they had feared. The Brutes had taken the favor of the Hierarchs, but there was a darker side to this act, one that only the special operations elites could understand.
Etah pushed and tugged the younger grunts into the gravity lift, forcefully at times. Palab continued to glare at the massing horde of brutes and elites on each side of the dock. The door was quickly filling with brutes and more elites were heading toward them. A powder keg had been lit, and its fuse was about to make contact with its explosive charge. There was no way around it, no way to predict the outcome and no way to stop it.
Truth spoke, “Creatures of the Covenant, the path is clear, and we shall walk it side by side.” The spec ops elite ran toward the dock master, sprinting as fast as he could. He had to warn him, to tell him that it was a trap. He had to pull the elites away from the door. “At this moment, the Council is gathered on Halo to see the Icon Safely placed.”
The spec ops elites reached through the crowd of elites. “Pull back! Get away from them. Dock master!” Yet his words were would not arrive in time.
The burly voice of the Brute Chieftain sounded over the com, “Rise, my brothers! Cast down the Elites!”
No one knew who fired the first shot, brute or elite, but it was no longer a concern. Plasma flowed between the two walls of warriors. There was nowhere to run, no way to get away from the waves of super heated plasma fire that streaked between the two ferocious combatants. At one time they served as allies, but now a blood feud had been uncorked.
For the brutes, years of lingering in the shadow of the elites had been put to rest. No longer were they second, no longer would they be kept out of the Hierarchs graces, and now they could release their anger.
For the elites, it was insult to their pride. They were the glory of the Covenant, and the instruments of the prophets’ will. They had been betrayed, outcast and thrown to the ground. The brutes were beneath them, but they had been lifted above them in one swift movement of Truth’s frail hands.
Elites fell backwards, shields overloaded and vanished, and their blood soaked the metal floors. Brutes were torn in half, limbs singed off by plasma the hair smoking in a flash of dieing cells. Roars came from both sides, anger and curses even before death. If their spirits had substance, they would fight even in death. Hatred. Hatred in its truest form was spilling from each the massive warriors.
The spec ops elite felt the pounds of red plasma rushing across his shields. He reached out and gripped the dock master’s shoulder and pulled him back. The elites began to gather thier senses and began to back away from the doors and sought cover. Plasma grenades littered the doorway but the brutes had already pulled back. The cascading explosion melted part of the door, causing it to jam open. The elites then ran to guard the dock master and the special operations elite as they retreated. The spec ops elite suddenly felt the dock master's incredible weight slump behind him, and turned to see that he was dead; laying face down with a trail of purple-blue blood behind him. He was holding on to the arm of a long dead corpse.
“It will not end this way, brother.” The spec ops elite released the dock master’s lifeless limb, realizing that he had probably died in the first volley of fire. He lifted his plasma rifle and fired a round into the door as a brute attempted to rampage into the room. The brute met a slaughtering end as dozens of wounded, yet resilient, warriors fired into it. The brutes on the opposite side of the door began to fire back with brute shots and three of the weapons deadly arsenals exploded near the spec ops elite. He was tossed back as his shield overloaded and shrapnel splint through his lift side. He roared in agony as he dropped his weapon and crawled back toward the phantom.
Palab had watched it all, and he watched as the elite crawled back to the phantom. This was combat. He had never seen it before, and his training could not have prepared him for it. Etah brushed passed him and quickly waddled toward the wounded spec ops elite.
“Etah, no!” Palab grumbled. “The brutes are coming!”
“We need him to fly the ship, Palab! Help me!” Etah gripped the wounded warrior and began to pull him toward the phantom.
“Elites do not care for us. Why should we help him?”
“Because without him… we will die here!” Etah’s words cut through Palab’s moment of fear. He was right. None of the young grunts could pilot the phantom, and the brutes would certainly kill them. Palab tossed his fear to the wind and grabbed the elite. Other phantoms, carrying hunters, elites, and grunts, were lifting off as the dock hands continued to fight back against the growing brute numbers.
As Etah and Palab rose in to the Phantom’s belly, the last voice they heard was from Truth, “There are those who said this day would never come. What are they to say now?”
End of “Politics”
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The continuation and update to SFFH will be posted on FanFiction.net. Click on the link in my signature. Trust me, it will be the same story, yet sooooo much more. You'll enjoy reading it all over again. See how the Grunt Messiah is REALLY born.
[Edited on 1/11/2006]