Chapter Text
The Spirit of Fire, a hulking relic of steel and circuits, meandered through the cosmic void like a lost tourist in a foreign city. Its engines purred a soft, monotonous tune that would've put any insomniac to sleep, reassuring the bleary-eyed crew who were just stumbling out of their cryosleep pods, like bears from a winter hibernation. They stretched, yawned, and grumbled about the stiffness in their joints, while clumsily trying to remember how legs worked.
In the command center, Captain Andrew Del Rio stood with a nonchalance that belied his impressive resume as both a shrewd ONI politician and a decorated UNSC officer. His crisp, navy-blue uniform was almost too clean, as if it knew better than to wrinkle under his command. Del Rio surveyed the scene with an eagle's precision, noting every salute sharp enough to cut glass and every status update muttered under breath.
"Report, Dot," he barked, sounding more like he was ordering his morning coffee than initiating a briefing. His voice managed to be both commanding and oddly comforting, like a drill sergeant who might also tuck you in at night.
With a swirl of digital particles that looked suspiciously like someone shaking a snow globe, Dot, the ship's AI, materialized in the center of the room. Her holographic form glowed with the enthusiasm of a librarian about to reveal a rare book. "Good morning, Captain. We're currently loitering—excuse me, orbiting around Tau Ceti. Preliminary scans are in, and I’ve stumbled upon a cosmic oddity that might just make your day," she chirped, her voice a synthetic blend of intrigue and silicon.
Del Rio leaned in, his curiosity now visibly tickled. "Do enlighten us, Dot," he urged, his fingers interlocked behind him like a schoolboy about to hear a good story.
Dot projected a hologram of a gigantic ringworld, its dimensions so ludicrously vast that it could host an intergalactic marathon. "Behold, Tau Ceti’s latest accessory, a ring structure encircling the star, spanning about 600 million miles in diameter. It’s like Saturn got into real estate and built a luxury neighborhood," Dot explained, her tone teetering on the edge of mockery.
The crew, now a huddle of wide-eyed toddlers at a magic show, ogled the rotating hologram displaying the ringworld in vibrant blues and greens. The structure spun with a calm dignity, oblivious to the stares.
"And in a thrilling twist, this celestial spectacle is also our last known location of the research team sent here for a routine 'poke around and see what happens.' Their last communication? A distress beacon that cut off quicker than a celebrity marriage. So yes, Captain, it's quite the mystery wrapped in a riddle inside an enigma," Dot added, with the dramatic flair of a reality show host at a season finale.
Del Rio’s face morphed from awe to resolve, a seasoned veteran steeling himself for yet another space oddity. "Right, let’s not get all starry-eyed yet. Prepare for a detailed survey of the ringworld. We need to approach this beauty with the caution of someone texting an ex. Let’s move, people. The universe didn’t just throw us a bone; it threw us a whole skeleton," he commanded, his voice a blend of excitement and the weight of command.
The calm aboard the Spirit of Fire shattered abruptly as Dot flickered erratically, her holographic form blurring and distorting with electronic spasms. Warning klaxons blared, casting a red glow that washed over the faces of the crew, now etched with sudden tension and confusion. Panels and screens that had moments ago displayed the serene majesty of the ringworld were abruptly hijacked, replaced by the grim visage of a Covenant Elite.
Commander Var 'Gatanai, clad in the ornate armor of a Zealot, his mandibles twitching with barely contained zeal, dominated the screens. His voice, a harsh growl laced with contempt, boomed through the command center. "Humanity's destruction is the will of the gods. And we, The Covenant, are their instruments!"
As his image faded, the ship jolted violently, the shock of nearby slipspace ruptures sending tremors through the hull. Crew members grasped at consoles for stability, papers fluttered like caught leaves, and the constant hum of the ship's operations grew to a cacophony of alarms and running feet.
Captain Del Rio, maintaining his composure amid the chaos, turned sharply to the glitching form of Dot. "Status report, now!" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise with the precision of a seasoned commander.
Dot stabilized momentarily, her voice still tinged with static as she relayed the dire situation. "Multiple Covenant corvettes have exited slipspace at close proximity. Hull integrity is compromised in sections 3A through 3C. Shields at 40% and falling."
Without hesitation, Del Rio turned to the intercom, his voice resolute. "All hands, this is Captain Del Rio. We are at Combat Alert Alpha. I repeat, Combat Alert Alpha. Prepare for engagement," he announced, his tone leaving no room for doubt, only action.
He pivoted back to Dot. "Get every Marine and MJOLNIR-Trooper to their stations. Arm all defensive systems. And wake our Spartan," he ordered succinctly, the weight of each command underscored by the severity of their predicament.
Dot's form flickered once more before nodding, her systems buzzing as she executed the commands. "Waking Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven. Initiating combat preparation protocols."
---
The armory was alive with the sound of metal clanking, hydraulics hissing, and the murmured voices of marines and MJOLNIR-Cyborgs suiting up. The atmosphere was charged, a palpable mix of tension and determination filling the air as each soldier donned their battle gear. The marines tightened their straps and checked their ammo, while the cyborgs, integrated with their enhancements that, physically speaking, made them more machine than flesh, underwent system diagnostics, their mechanical limbs gleaming under the harsh white lights of the deck.
At the center of this orchestrated chaos stood Sgt-Major Avery Johnson, a towering figure even among the giants clad in armor. His presence was a rallying point, a beacon of unyielding resolve. He paced in front of the assembled troops, his eyes scanning the formation, taking in the readiness and fierce resolve mirrored in the faces of his troops.
"Men," Johnson began, his voice booming over the clatter, drawing every eye to him. His stance was wide, hands clasped behind his back, his face hard as carved granite. "We let those split-chinned, squid-faced sons of bitches out into the edge of space to keep from getting their FILTHY claws on Earth." His tone was harsh, a controlled burn of fury and contempt for the enemy.
He paused, letting his words hang in the air, his gaze piercing the ranks. "But we've stumbled onto something they're so hot for, that they're trippin' over each other to get it!" Johnson continued, his voice rising, a sardonic smile playing on his lips as he imagined the enemy's desperation.
"Well, I don't care if it's God's own 'Anti-Sonuvabitch Machine' or a giant hula-hoop! WE'RE NOT GONNA LET 'EM HAVE IT! What we WILL let 'em have is a belly full of lead, and a pool of their own blood TO DROWN IN!" His fist punched the air for emphasis, a definitive gesture that invited no argument, only compliance and shared conviction. "AM I RIGHT, MARINES?!"
The response was immediate and thunderous, a chorus of armored figures stomping their feet. "SIR, YES SIR!" they shouted back, the sound echoing off the metal walls, a unified declaration of readiness and aggression.
Johnson's smile broadened, pride swelling in his chest at the sight and sound of his troops, united and fierce. "Mmhmm. Damn right, I am," he affirmed, nodding slowly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "Now move it out! Double time! All you greenhorns who wanted to see the Covies up close: This is gonna be your lucky day!"
---
In the cold, dimly lit confines of the cryo-chambers room, the sudden onslaught of alarms sliced through the silence, shattering the icy stillness. Red warning lights pulsed rhythmically, casting eerie shadows that danced along the metallic surfaces. John, Spartan-II, designation Sierra-One-One-Seven, slowly stirred from the depths of cryosleep, his senses sharpening with each passing second as the cryotube's lid hissed open, releasing a cloud of icy vapor into the air.
He swung his legs over the side of the tube, his bare feet touching the cold, steel floor. The blare of the alarms echoed in his ears, a relentless reminder of the urgency at hand. He took a moment to orient himself, his training kicking in seamlessly. John's movements were calm and methodical as he made his way to the armor bay, his mind already racing through potential threat assessments and tactical strategies.
The armor bay was a cathedral of war; rows of MJOLNIR armors stood solemn and silent, waiting like ancient warriors to be awakened. John approached his own suit, the familiar contours and the scent of polymer and metal greeting him like an old friend. His armor, the MIRAGE-IIC, was a masterpiece of military engineering, its metallic green surface almost iridescent under the flickering lights. The suit was sleek, lightweight and streamlined in design, crafted for full maneuverability and agility in exchange for light protection, and it featured a utility belt and solar-powered shielding systems meant to compensate for the light-protection of the suit, all accented by a striking orange visor.
John began the armoring process, each piece of the variant-MJOLNIR armorcore locking into place with satisfying clicks and whirs. He started with the leg armor, lifting the heavy plates and aligning them with precision around his thighs and calves. Next, the chest piece—a robust shell that slid over his torso, its inner workings buzzing softly as it synced with his biometrics.
The arms were next, gauntlets that were both shield and weapon, followed by a pauldron on his left-shoulder, which was emblazoned with the insignia of the UNSC while the right shoulder served as a sheathe for a small vibro-knife, a knife meant to combat plasma weapons from Energy-swords to Storm-rifles. Finally, he picked up the helmet, the most personal piece of the suit. He paused, his reflection caught in the glossy orange visor, a man marked by war yet unwavering in his resolve.
With a deep breath, John placed the helmet on his head, the final seal clicking into place. The HUD sprang to life, overlaying his vision with data—vital stats, system checks, and tactical overlays...
"...Time to get to work."
---
As John rounded the corner, the corridor before him swarmed with Covenant troops. His HUD lit up with targets, the chaotic overlay only spurring him on. Lights flickered overhead, casting an otherworldly glow on the scene—a perfect backdrop for the storm to come.
First to engage were the Grunts, their clunky methane suits puffing and hissing with each awkward step. John didn’t bother with finesse; a brutal palm strike shattered the visor of the nearest Grunt, sending it careening backward into its companions, bowling them over like a line of mismatched, alien pins.
But the Elites were a different game—a deadly dance that demanded more than brute strength. As the first Elite lunged, its energy sword slicing through the air with a deadly hum, John’s reflexes took over. He ducked under the swipe, feeling the heat of the plasma blade just inches from his neck. With a fluid motion borne from countless drills, he drew the combat knife from his shoulder-sheathe. The blade, forged from a rare alloy impervious to plasma, caught the dim light as he brought it up in a defensive stance.
The Elite, undeterred, attacked again, its movements a blur of alien grace and lethal intent. John parried with his knife, sparks flying as metal met energy. He followed up with a quick jab to the Elite’s midsection, the impact absorbed by the alien’s shield. Unfazed, the Elite swung again, faster this time, but John was faster. He sidestepped, and with a twist of his wrist, he hooked his knife behind the Elite's arm and yanked forward, disrupting its balance.
Using the moment’s advantage, John launched into a series of calculated strikes. He slammed his elbow into the Elite's faceplate, cracking it, then spun, driving his knife into the junction of the alien’s neck and shoulder. The Elite roared, staggering back, its energy sword flickering and dying as it dropped the weapon.
Now weaponless, the Elite bared its teeth in a snarl, but John was already moving. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the Elite's knee, bending it backward with a crunch of alien anatomy that echoed off the metal walls. As the Elite crumpled, John turned just in time to see another rushing him, sword raised.
This time, John charged forward. He slid under the sweeping arc of the blade, coming up behind the Elite. With a powerful heave, he lifted the alien off its feet and threw it into an oncoming group of Grunts. The collision left a tangle of limbs and a chorus of pained yelps.
Breathing steadily, John surveyed the corridor now littered with Covenant bodies. With a cold, calculated calm, John adjusted his grip on the knife, his stance relaxed yet unyielding, a silent challenge hanging in the air. The remaining Covenant troopers, unnerved and leaderless, began to retreat, their morale broken under the weight of John’s indomitable presence.
The smoke hung thick in the air as John secured his combat knife back into its sheath, the sounds of distant combat echoing through the damaged hallways of the Spirit of Fire; he moved with undiminished purpose, scanning for any more threats.
"Chief!" The voice cut through the chaos, a familiar tone laced with urgency. John turned to see Corporal Dubbo, rifle slung over his shoulder, making his way toward him through the debris. Dubbo's armor was dusted with soot, his expression a mixture of relief and stress as he approached the Spartan.
"Captain Del Rio needs you on the bridge, ASAP," Dubbo panted, slightly out of breath from navigating the war-torn corridors. His gaze flicked over John's stature, as if confirming that the Spartan was indeed ready to move.
John gave a brief nod, acknowledging the order. "Lead the way," he replied, his voice steady and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.
Dubbo turned without another word, his trust in John's ability to keep up apparent. They moved quickly, side-stepping rubble and darting past groups of marines who were setting up defensive positions. The corridor was a labyrinth of chaos: panels hung open with wires sparking, emergency lights cast eerie shadows, and the occasional explosion rocked the structure, a reminder of the ongoing assault.
As they maneuvered through a particularly damaged section of the ship, Dubbo glanced back at John, trying to make himself heard over the clamor. "Covies hit us hard, Chief. Didn’t see 'em coming. We’re holding our own, but it's a mess out there."
John's response was a simple nod, his focus undivided as his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings. The sounds of his heavy footsteps were muffled by the softer thuds of Dubbo's boots, creating a rhythmic cadence amidst the discord.
Finally, they reached the secured blast doors of the bridge. Two marines stood guard, their weapons trained on the corridor. Recognizing John, they snapped to attention, one marine rushing to open the door.
Inside, the bridge was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Crew members were hunched over their stations, fingers flying over controls, and voices crisply calling out statuses and orders. The expansive windows showed the stark blackness of space, pierced by the occasional flash of ship-to-ship fire.
Captain Del Rio stood at the center of the activity, his eyes locked on a tactical display. He turned as John entered, his face set in grim determination.
John strode onto the bridge of the Spirit of Fire, his presence immediately commanding attention. He snapped a crisp salute to Captain Del Rio. "Captain Del Rio, sir," he greeted, his tone respectful yet imbued with the urgency of their situation.
Del Rio, a man of no small stature himself, looked over with a gruff nod, his expression tight with the stress of command. "About damn time, Major. I'm glad you're here," he said, his voice rough like gravel. He turned back to the main display, his hands clasped behind his back. "Dot's set up and deployed all defensive options for the Spirit of Fire, but we've not a chance."
The captain's blunt assessment hung heavy in the air. He walked over to a secondary tactical console, motioning for John to follow. "Listen, I've initiated Cole Protocol Article 2. You know what that means—no capture of ship AI, dumb or smart, especially not on my watch," Del Rio continued, his gaze intense, flickering to the holographic projection of Dot.
John nodded, understanding the gravity of the directive. The loss of any AI, with their extensive strategic data about humanity and the United Nations Star Council, could be catastrophic.
Del Rio's voice lowered, heavy with responsibility. "John, you're to keep this information, ergo Dot herself, with you at all times." He paused, ensuring his next orders were clear. "There's a distress beacon coming from the Ringworld. I'm going to try and land the Spirit of Fire on it, while you need to get to a lifepod down to follow and find that beacon."
John absorbed the plan, his mind already racing through tactical scenarios, when Dot's calm, synthesized voice interrupted, "Alert: A bomb has been detected in the hangar bay. Estimated yield is equivalent to the destructive power of a metropolitan city-level explosion."
John’s reaction was immediate, his decision made in the blink of an eye. "Permission to give the Covenant back their bomb, sir?" he asked, turning back to Del Rio.
Without hesitation, Del Rio pulled a small, sleek data chip from a secure compartment in the console. He handed it to John. "Permission granted. Take Dot. She’ll be your guide." His voice was stern, yet there was an undercurrent of trust that resonated deeply.
John took the chip, his fingers closing around it with a sense of new responsibility. He slotted it into the port on the side of his helmet. The chip clicked into place, and immediately, Dot's interface seamlessly integrated into his HUD, her voice now directly in his ear.
"Ready to assist, Spartan."
---
The elevator hummed steadily as it descended into the depths of the Spirit of Fire, headed for the hangar bay cradled in the ship's belly. Tension filled the cramped space, a silent prelude to the storm that was about to break. John, aware of the likely ambush, had positioned himself within the ceiling panels of the elevator, a move dictated by tactical foresight and Spartan ingenuity.
As the elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, a barrage of plasma fire lit up the interior, painting streaks of deadly energy where John would have been standing. The shots sizzled against the metal walls, leaving scorch marks and molten splatters. Above, hidden and silent as a ghost, John watched the Elite guards through the grate of the ceiling panel, waiting for the right moment to strike.
With a swift, calculated move, he pushed off from the ceiling, the panel clattering to the floor as he dropped among the unsuspecting Elites. His arrival was a blur of motion—immediate and devastating. Before the nearest Elite could react, John delivered a powerful elbow strike to its head, the impact echoing in the hangar like a gunshot. The Elite crumpled, its shields flaring and fizzling out.
Another Elite swung its energy sword in a deadly arc, aiming to decapitate the Spartan. John ducked low, the heat of the plasma blade grazing the air just above him. Using his low position, he swept the Elite's legs with a precision kick, toppling it over with a thud that resonated across the metal floor. Quick as lightning, John was on his feet, spinning to face another attacker.
This Elite was quicker, its movements sharpened by battle-honed instincts. It thrust forward with its sword, but John parried with his forearm—armored and shielded against the plasma’s kiss. He grabbed the Elite's arm, twisted it back, and with a swift step forward, he used his shoulder to deliver a dislocating blow to the Elite's elbow. A sharp crack filled the air, followed by the thud of the dropped sword.
John didn’t pause, his body already moving to the rhythm of battle. He launched himself at the next Elite, his fist cocked back. The punch he delivered was like a hammer blow, crashing into the Elite's shield and shattering it upon impact. As the shield disintegrated, John followed through with a knee strike to the abdomen, folding the Elite in half, breathless and defeated.
He turned just in time to catch the rush of the last Elite, its sword raised high. John stepped inside its reach, his hands shooting up in a double palm strike to the alien’s chest and chin, disrupting its attack and staggering it backward. With no time to waste, he delivered a final, spinning kick to the side of its head, sending it crashing into a stack of supply crates with a conclusive crash.
Breathing steadily, John scanned the now-quiet hangar. Around him, the fallen Elites lay in disarray, testament to the Spartan's lethal proficiency. With a grunt, he hoisted the bomb onto his shoulder, its weight a solid, unwelcome presence against his MIRAGE armor. Every step towards the docking bay was calculated under the burden, his muscles tensing with the effort, the servos in his suit whining slightly under the strain.
Reaching the massive pressure-sealed door of the hangar’s docking bay, John set the bomb down momentarily to access the control panel. With a few swift taps, the door began to open, revealing the endless expanse of space beyond. It was a silent, star-filled void, indifferent to the chaos unfolding within and around the Spirit of Fire.
As the door fully retracted, the vacuum of space greedily pulled at everything within reach. The bomb, its mass now a liability, began to slide toward the open bay. John didn’t hesitate. With a powerful kick, he sent the bomb tumbling into the void, then launched himself after it, his body slicing through the lack of atmosphere.
Outside the ship, John maneuvered onto the bomb, positioning himself atop it like a surfer catching a wave. The bomb and Spartan together hurtled through space, a bizarre tableau against the backdrop of a cosmic battlefield. Around them, the remnants of a recent dogfight floated by—twisted metal and debris that told of fierce combat.
Ahead, a Covenant battlecruiser loomed, its size monstrous. A gaping hole in its side—torn open by the dogfight—served as an unintended invitation. John steered the bomb towards this breach, using his body’s momentum and small movements to guide their path. The cold of space bit at him, but his suit’s systems compensated, keeping him alive in the deadly environment.
As they neared the opening, John spotted the battlecruiser’s reactor core, exposed and vulnerable. With precision born of countless battles, he aligned the bomb with the core. Then, with a firm push, he sent the bomb spinning towards its target. The device spiraled away from him, its trajectory perfect as it disappeared into the dark maw of the cruiser.
The moment the bomb was released, John kicked against a piece of debris, propelling himself back towards the ringworld. The cruiser, a silent behemoth against the stars, was unaware of the fatal gift now ticking within its bowels.
Behind him, the battlecruiser erupted in a brilliant explosion, a fireball consuming it from within as the reactor met the bomb. The shockwave rushed past John, a roaring tide of energy that sped his descent towards the ringworld. Below, the massive structure awaited, its secrets hidden beneath its surface, a silent witness to the destruction above.
Freefalling through space, John watched as the remnants of the Covenant ship scattered into the void, a satisfactory conclusion to his daring plan as he descends to the ringworld below him...