Ultimatum

"Look at your facility…"

Captain Livingston ejected a mag from his M6/SOCOM as he stumbled through the foyers of Fort Mercia's barracks. Everywhere he wiped was smudged with his sweat and grime, the apple in his throat throbbing as he violently wheezed into the shade, but he had to regain focus and composure.

He shakily reached into his black Navy coat, pushing aside the ONI pin which was partially seared And withdrew another magazine. He brought it to the hole of his pistol and with a click, it slid in and he reloaded. Several deep breaths huffed from his nostrils, but he turned to face the danger it had already caught up to him.

He whipped his pistol around only for an invisible force to swing out of the palm of his hand, throwing him two meters across the room. The light beneath the solely active lamp shimmered awkwardly, Livingston clasping his chest as he looked upon the warped air which took the form of an absolute nightmare–an Elite.

"You possess something I want," a deep, borderline demonic voice rumbled to the human agent who remained defiant, stumbling onto his feet and wiping a hand over his bruised lip.

But as he looked up, his defiance shattered like glass as the alien's mask glared daggers into his soul.

"Weak," the Elite remarked, barely reacting as Livingston threw a frantic punch into his infiltration harness, only yelling out as his first fingers broke down. "Timid. Broken, battered..."

As he cradled his hand, it swung and backhanded the Captain into the titanium floor, shattering away several teeth. It lowered its hand and pulled him by the nape, clasping hard enough to cut off air. He flailed around, gagging for air as his adam's apple was slowly fastened by the large hinge-headed alien who gleamed into his eyes.

"Useless."

Livingston gagged no more, instead, his eyes broadened in a second as a twin-pronged blade drove deep into his chest, sizzling and burning away clothes and flesh until the tip of the energy sword jutted out from his back. His arms and legs went limp like a ragdoll and the Elite raised his blade high with the former ONI Captain skewered to it like a shishkebab. The warrior then swung his blade downward and the captain's body whipped into the plated floors, a big black hole in his stomach radiating a horrid aroma that shuddered his mandibles.

Slowly running his energy blade against the polycrete, cutting a thin black line between him and the Captain, the Elite deactivated his blade and clipped it to his harness's hip before taking a brief look around.

They were too late.

Gekka 'Rosumai bowed his head in bitterness, closing his quad-fingered fists. How could they have possibly known that THEY would be the escorts for that prisoner?

'Rosumai didn't look as two heavy footsteps clanged behind by the doorway, stopping to kneel and bow with respect. His copper combat armour somewhat twinkled against the shadows of the barracks, a design pattern, simple and not overly raucous compared to other harnesses worn by Officers.

"Blademaster," the Officer named Cyla 'Tacamee addressed his superior. "It would appear that the vile humans had escaped... with the heretic in their captivity."

"Indeed. I am aware," 'Rosumai turned to face the lesser Sangheili, motioning for him to stand with a simple wave of the palm. "I presume the processing had already begun?"

"Yes, we have that T'vaoan's lance scouring their terminals as we discuss, but practical knowledge is relatively insufficient," 'Tacamee rose to his feet, flexing his mandibles.

The Blademaster bowed his head and nodded forward, motioning for the Officer to lead the way which he heeded with considerable obedience.

The two aliens made their way through the decrepit grey corridors, dimly lit with the faint pops of human weapon fire still battering outdoors. The unbroken cracks of their loud weaponry caused the Sangheili to grumble as it reminded them of what the Jiralhanae utilized, crude and unnecessarily loud. Like a song, the chorus came to a close and the cracks slower before silence. Although, jettisoned after-explosions continued to flare, a hush set in among the human fortress implying one thing: The battle was over.

Meridian's twilight washed over the building as they stepped out of the doorway, clamping his heavy boots into the deserted soil. He could see lightly armoured Unggoy already gathering human corpses, playing with their bodies, stripping them of all materials as would lowly pirates, even leaning to consume them.

'Tacamee clobbered forward and barked aggressive orders at the file who immediately dropped everything to scurry away like pests. 'Rosumai raised his head up with interest, but his emotions remained indifferent.

"Vile and meek beasts," 'Tacamee swore with animosity.

"They are only as meek as we allow them to be, brother. Come." 'Rosumai paid no mind, not bothered even in the slightest which annoyed his old friend, but ultimately kept his adverse sentiments to himself.

'Tacamee never truly got over the Grunt Rebellion. Even when they demonstrated their worth in combat, he remained inflexible about his beliefs that they, the Unggoy, were nothing more than vermins. Not as ample as the humans were, but enough to warrant a vast amount of scorn from the officer.

The remaining lances scavenged all that lingered from the aftermath, but all that remained was unusable and heretical. An orange hue painted over the duo Sangheili as a lamp post tilted over, wailing as it struck and ignited by a wad of fire. As the gap between them and the specialist lances shrank, 'Rosumai took a peek at the ash clouds to where the Ultimatum had fled when it was struck.

The Ultimatum, the Makar-pattern light corvette that had loomed in to provide storm over the facility, now smouldering somewhere in the distance undergoing restorations. It sustained heavy devastation during the battle, something 'Rosumai personally blamed himself for. If it weren't for those damn, forsaken Demons they hadn't accounted for, this would've gone much smoother.

Oh, what the Blademaster would give for an element of Silent Shadow, to hunt with him, to purge those Demons. The last time he had stared into the visor of one was over two years ago, on the planet the humans called Skopje.

How a single armoured specimen could cause so much devastation was beyond him. But he had seen more than enough to acknowledge the threat they posed to their Covenant.

The two Sangheili neared the door to the main center, tracking dust through the titanium tiles. When they entered, 'Rosumai overlooked the progress overdone by the Kig-Yar.

"Greeeetings, Blademaster," addressed a foremost T'vaoan smoothly caressed her claws on one another, bestowing pleasantries to the entering Sangheili. Her full-golden combat garb flashed with her feathery headdress denoting her status distinguished from the rest of her avian kin.

Tok Mun led the officers through the computer rooms, where the Kig-Yar had shaved the machines of everything even conceivably considered useful. From the data on their drives, to the wiring and circuits in their chassis, nothing went unchecked and nothing was left the way it was.

Tok Mun made a show of displaying her lance's hard work, "Everything is in decree–as you can see."

She fluttered her hand elegantly.

The Blademaster bobbed his head with acknowledgement, but he was nonetheless, thoroughly impassive to her pleas for praise.

"Save you show, Champion," 'Tacamee cut in without a spare of sympathy, brushing past the nonsense like a dirt stain. "We have come for importance."

"Indeed, indeed," Tok Mun clicked her beak. "The humans have left quite an amount of data to our picking–very, very ripe. No worlds, but routes."

"And I presume these routes correlate with that ship not so long ago?" 'Rosumai stepped forward.

"Possibly!" Tok Mun lifted a finger, then brought it back to her other hand. "But we will see. We shall scrutinize this information further aboard our Makar." Gekka 'Rosumai bobbed his masked face in acknowledgement, but a seed of doubt remained in him.

"'Tacamee," 'Rosumai addressed his ally without turning to meet him. "Signal the transports. Gather the Warhost for departure. We are done here."

"Of course, Blademaster." The officer bent down on one knee in tribute of the higher warrior, before lifting back up and lumbering away, leaving 'Rosumai to observe Tok Mun's people.

When the Ministry of Inquisition permitted him on this mission, he cared little about proving his honour as other warriors believed. His incentives for being the undertaker were much deeper instilled than a shallow quest such as that.

He had an oath to fulfill, and not even the Covenant and their divine journey were going to stop him from upholding it. Not even that.