I know I am late to the party, but what do we think? Will the Halo Remake revive the franchise or will it bury it even deeper?
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The Day Before the Glassing of Circinius IV
(3rd Pov)
"Ship Master! We have successfully retrieved the holy artifacts. They sit aboard the Silent Edict," A Sangheili bowed with one arm across his chest in a salute.
In front of him in a hover chair resembling the Arbiter's sat Ship Master 'Talanree, the instrument chosen for this assignment. "Excellent," he said in a voice that was anything but.
His chair turned in place, pivoting in the direction of a Unngoy, who held the position of something that amounts to a secretary or assistant, "Inform the Silent Edict to immediately depart for High Charity. Have our Minister sent aboard to consecrate them during their travel," the Unngoy rushed out of the bridge to do as he was told.
His seat pivoted back to the previous Elite, still holding the position of a salute, having not been dismissed, "And what of the humans," he asked his mandibles, seeming to recoil from even uttering the species' name.
"We have divided them among every land mass, and only one seems to have interstellar capabilities," he said with respect, pausing before continuing, "...and yet they still resist. I must admit, Ship Master, I did not foresee such defiance from these lessers."
His words seemed to underscore the desperation of humanity on the ground, but as he spoke again with reluctance, there seemed to be more than desperation to humanity. Something the Ship Master somewhat understood.
The Elite raised a hand to the side of his head as he thought, "They are more tenacious than the Unggoy. I must give them that." With his other hand, he wrapped his fingers in a steady rhythm, "Very well, let us see if that tenacity can hold up," he spoke cryptically.
Standing up and stepping onto a hovering step, he reached and placed an ornate hilt of an energy sword onto the magnetic locks of his Ultra-class combat Harness, "Prepare a Phantom and bring the Bloodstars. I shall personally crush these humans' last hope of escape from holy fire."
"Bloodstars? My lord, are you sure you would like to engage the enemy with those… savages?" the Elite asked with concern.
"Savages they may be, but they managed to earn the approval of the Arbiter, the will of the Gods made manifest. Thus, I shall extend to them trust that matches the faith I have in our Fleet Master," he said, leaving no room for argument.
Slowly, he strode forward to the front viewport of the bridge of the Covenant corvette. His eyes were not exactly filled with malice as he glanced down at the planet's surface. No, the creatures known as humans had been condemned by the most holy prophets, the mouthpieces of the Gods themselves.
Their mere existence is an anathema to the created order and, more importantly, the Great Journey. That alone was unforgivable. Their defiance of the High Prophet's decree was merely more evidence of their unholy nature.
In the ship master's eyes, all that he saw were vermin and pests. The same way a human would view a mosquito. A race and species that needed to be eliminated as it is invasive. Thus he shall, he shall fulfill the Arbiter's orders, upholding honor and duty as is the way of the Sangheili.
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Three Phantoms flew in a pack with an escort of Seraphs, Space Banshees, and other aerospace complements. They moved as a pack in tight formation, the humans no longer had any orbital defenses, and even their air power was closing in on depletion, despite this the Covenant's rigid combat doctrine must be adhered to.
Inside the lead Phantom, the Ship Master snorted in disgust as the stench of the beasts around him filled his nostrils. The Bloodstars were a special operations group of Brutes, and they had just finished eating.
Blood was dried and caked against their already unclean fur and hair. The Elite leader was no stranger to the stench of death and decay; he had been on many battlefields after all, but the Brute's smell was a special kind of plague. But he was a Sangheili; endurance was a core tenet of one's honor, and as such, he would hold his tongue.
"Ship Master, we approach our objective. Prepare yourself for landfall," the voice of a Sangheili pilot spoke into his comms device.
He shifted slightly, glancing down at his plasma rifle and energy sword. They were weapons befitting of a warrior: elegant, reliable, and deadly. His eyes wandered to the Brutes, where the only thing their weapons shared was the final part; they were deadly.
They came equipped with Maulers and Spikers, some even carrying the car door-sized Brute Shots. Each of their weapons came with some type of blade attached, as the beasts could not be bothered to carry a dedicated blade. Though with their strength, he neglected to see how necessary those blades were.
Finally, the Phantom lurched to a stop, the central circle lit up, and the grav lift activated. It was time.
"Warriors of our Covenant, take heed and let us defeat our foe, so that we may earn our position with the divine," The ship master said, a small blurb to inspire the ones around him.
But unlike the Sangeheili, the Brutes only grunted and snorted before hopping down the grav lift in couples at a time. Once they had all funneled out of the opening at last, the ship master descended, in one hand he held an ignited energy sword and in the other his plasma rifle.
The Brutes he had with him rushed forward as if they were bulls in a pasture filled with cows. Despite the fact that they were special forces and a cut above most of their species, they were still Jiralhanae, a reason why they were considered the sharpest blunt instrument of the Covenant.
The Elite watched on with a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes and moved forward. He did not run into the carnage as his escort did, but instead took calm, measured steps. He was the leader; he had already given the order not to execute the command staff, and for the simple-minded Brutes, such a command was easy to understand.
As he moved forward through the primitive spaceport (by Covenant standards), he found many scenes of humans defeated. Some had been ripped apart, having had limbs pulled off, and in some cases been beaten with them. Others were missing chunks, having had them blown off by the grenades of the Brute shot or by the Mauler's explosive shot. Some had simply been pummeled to death, having had their bones shattered by a Jiralhanae's blow.
Whatever the cause of the gruesome deaths, the ship master remained with a passive look, 'Let them look on at their comrade's fate. Such is the consequence for heresy and blasphemy against the divine,' without another thought, he continued until he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
A human wounded seemed to be attempting to crawl away. By the way his legs seemed to be limp, it appeared they had been shattered. Blood soaked the human's combat uniform, turning its green hues into a muddy brown.
"The Brutes allowed one to survive," the ship master remarked as he changed course and headed toward the survivor. He approached with purpose, his posture marking his determination.
The marine, as the Elite would come to know them, heard the loud sound of footsteps and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing the massive alien, his eyes widened in fear, but before he could attempt to find a weapon, the Elite was upon him.
With one swift thrust, the energy sword, like an executioner's blade, impaled the marine through the chest, killing him instantly. As the plasma blade was withdrawn, the two scorched identical holes seemed to practically glow like activated charcoal.
The ship master, seeing that the job was done, returned to his almost leisurely stroll. Looking ahead, he saw a metal door ripped off its hinges and tossed aside. That seemed to be the path to take.
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BANG-BANG-BANG
The sound of DMR fire and assault rifle bursts filled the halls leading to the makeshift command center. The Colonel and his guard were holding the line, though it seemed that with each passing moment, that line got closer and closer to the final chamber.
POP-POP-POP
The Colonel reloaded the magazine of his DMR beside the doorway inside the command center, "Damn, where are those Spartans when you need them?" he said with his typical gristled voice, which he maintained. Yet there was an edge of fear in his eyes.
He'd always taken the safe jobs throughout his career. He never took risks, though risks were able to get some promoted in a short period of time; he was in no rush. The Colonel had it planned out since day one to take the path of least resistance, and this is where it led him. A cushy job on an outer colony military planet, one far from the threat of the insurrection, and one with just enough civility and order to be called home.
"I AM OUT OF AMMO," one of his marines called out as another tossed him the black case of a magazine.
"Last one!" another said, reloading his SMG.
'Is this it?' The reality finally dawned on him, and he could not help but feel a growing sense of unease and discomfort. It was the same feeling an Elk had when caught in the jaws of a Crocodile. The sense that he was in an inescapable trap, and only death was the outcome ahead.
"WATCH OUT!" A marine shouted as a spike grenade was tossed from down the hall.
Before any of the marines could scatter, the grenade exploded, shrapnel the length of bear claws being sent at high velocities in every which way. Some immediately struck vitals, killing the marines instantaneously, while others hit arteries and organs leaving those unfortunate soldiers to bleed out slowly. The Colonel, however, while still hit, having been impaled through his arm to the central table in the command center, still managed to avoid a fatal blow.
"BLAUGH," he screamed in pain as the force pinned him against the floor and table. Groaning he looked over to see his bicep and tricep intersected by a glowing piece of metal that had embedded itself into the metal side of the table.
He reached over, trying to pull himself free from the table, only to cry out once more, feeling the skin on his hand being peeled away by the heat of the spike. He swallowed hard and tried not to notice the smell of his burning flesh right beside him.
The aged man took a few deep breaths before he heard the stomping of large feet from down the hall that slowly began to near the doorway. Frantically, the Colonel looked around for the DMR he had dropped, only noticing it in the center of the doorway.
He stretched out his legs, knowing that his arm would not be long enough to get the weapon, but to no avail. By now, the stomps must have been only a few doors down. The Colonel grit his teeth and stretched as far as he could, his arm's flesh now being torn and ripped by the spike, which had cooled and hardened into gray tungsten.
But unfortunately, he was already too late.
A pair of Brutes appeared in the doorway and almost instantly noticed the Colonel. Their eyes traced and found what he had been reaching for.
The two let out what sounded like a laugh, but was hard for the Colonel to make out based on the gruff and base of their voices. His mind raced with any and all ideas that could get him out of this situation, but came up with nothing.
And only moments later, the Ship master made his way through the doorway. His plasma rifle and energy sword now attached tightly to the magnetic locks on his leg armor. His eyes passed over the Colonel, almost disregarding him entirely. Instead, they focused on the command table and the various documents and data pads strewn on top of it.
The Colonel breathed a sigh of relief internally. Maybe they would consider him a prey that was no longer worth it, or maybe they had some honor code that would not allow them to finish off a captive or someone unarmed. The man closed his eyes, trying his best to appear weak, and silently hoped and prayed they would leave him.
If he could just survive this, he would leave and run as far away as he possibly could.
*Snort*
He heard the snort of the Elite as it turned, having finished its analysis. The ship master pointed a finger and uttered something in an unknown language; the Brutes nodded before departing through the doorway. The Elite also began to make his way to the doorway, presumably to depart as well.
For a moment, the Colonel saw the glimmer of safety and survival.
…
..
.
But unfortunately, that glimmer was merely the light of the ship master's blue energy sword as it ignited and slashed. In one fluid motion, the Colonel's head left his shoulders before it rolled to a stop somewhere else in the room. Giving one final grunt, the Elite departed, already calling for a Phantom extraction.
The Space Port had fallen.