User:RelentlessRecusant/Halo Wars/Archive 1

(Everyone post your introductions here; characters, backgrounds, settings, and other important information.)

Death... That was a heavy cloud looming over the crew of The Hesperus. The Hesperus, less than a month before, had been owned by the I.S.S., Interstellar System Shipping company, but had recently been comandeered by the UNSC for their impeccable record in their shipments. For the past two years, over thirty shipments, they had never failed on an assignment. And they still were able to maintain this record, even though their last assignment had been quite different.

"All hands prepare to brace for entry into normal space. All hands prepare for exit of slipspace in T-minus 20 seconds," the familiar voice of a young man sounded over the loudspeakers of the ship's monstrous cargo section. The voice belonged to the leader of the tattered crew, Adam Graves, a twenty seven year old graduate of the OCS lunar base academy. The moment he had graduated, he had been scooped up by the I.S.S. to be the new captain of the Hesperus replacing their last Captain in March of 2551. He completely re-engerized the crew, envigorating them and making them the best they could be; like that of a military leader. And that is exactly what he had become, a leader of a fighting outfit. And one hell of an outfit it had turned out to be, defying rediculous odds.

A man clad in reflective green armor gripped his hand around the handle of an augmented BR-55-A battle rifle. This rifle was the man's personal weapon, having been upgraded all over his travels by Black Market merchants to eek out the very best of the rifles capabilities. It still was like the standard issue battle rifle on the outisde, but the enemies of this warrior knew all too well, now, that it was anything but normal. He stood in the midst of the ensuing chaos of the room, as marines and crew alike, all scrambled to brace for the small lurch into normal space. All along the borders of the cargo room were hoisted red seats with braces and straps to keep a person from being tossed during a non-buffered slipspace exit. And due to the condition of The Hesperus after their last assignment, the ship had no way of diverting the power necessary to buffer such a jump. But it was no problem, the structural integrity of the ship hadn't been necessarily compromised, the only major damage was a half meter deep slash marring the right side of the hind section of the ship, sustained during the battle they were now steadfastly moving away from.

Who was this man, who stood nearly seven feet tall, wearing armor that seemed to project grace, power and majestic godlike-ness. The man who behind the reflective golden visor was poised and strong, unwavering even against seemingly impossible odds. Whose Mark-VI Mjolnir armor had slash marks and bullet dents that echoed the battle that had recently been fought against the Covenant, and their newly acquired enemy, the 'Flood'. A man, who held within his posession, the one weapon that could turn the tide of the entire Human-Covenant war. A man who had led a crew of nearly fifty untrained men, along with four platoons of Marines, against wave after wave of Covenant warriors. This man, this figure of perseverance and skill, was Adrian-014.

"Re-entry into normal space in T-minus ten seconds. All hands to brace for non-buffered slipspace exit," Graves' voice sounded over the speaker system once more as nearly all the personell on the floor had already made their way to their seats. The damaged ship seemed to creek and moan every few seconds as it began the process of tearing back into normal space to complete the last of three jumps that The Hesperus was making in accordance to the Cole Protocol. Better safe, than sorry.

A voice sounded next to Adrian, that of another young man, Warren Leats. He smiled up at Adrian, the man who had saved him from the 'flood', the Covenant, from death countless times. The young black man had strapped himself into the harness, and was now motioning to Adrian to do the same. Adrian had no need, his armor would compensate for the small lurch back into normal space. But, there was no need not to be polite to his friend. So, as the slightly damaged ship hacked its way through the stream of slipspace they were floating through, Adrian sat down next to his friend. He strapped himself in, one buckle at a time, and behind his visor gave Warren a smile. Though he couldn't see it, Warren knew that his friend was happy. Why wouldn't they be, they escaped death. What else could someone hope for? User:CaptainAdamGraves

Sangheili Fleet Master Queta 'Polsimee winced, a slight contracting of his skeletal facial muscles, as the Covenant battlegroup emerged from Slipspace with the ease of an eel sinuously winding through water, yet, with the stealth of a Jiralhanae with a Brute Shot. In other words, the subatomic radiation cascades rippling from Battlegroup Divine Wrath were of such propensity that an enemy starship could've detected them from the far side of the Holy Ring.

The Covenant starships were renowned for their advanced Slipspace quantum thread manipulation technologies, far superior to the antidiluvian brute-force mini-black hole generators within the Slipspace drives of the Ape starships. Their covertness in reversion also bested that of UNSC warships. Their lack of such tactness immediately made Queta whirl to the Navigations Officer of the flagship, a crimson-armored Sangheili Major Domo.

The officer immediately inclined his head in respect, as if pondering a philisophical riddle. "Fleet Master."

Queta was beyond formalities. He whispered, voice with the temperature of interstellar space and with the edge of a razor's blade, "Perhaps you could explain the conspiciousness of our jump."

The officer stumbled for a moment, and then his years of naval service came back and his voice found words again. "Master, the type-three actuators within the..."

A blade of superheated plasma exploded through his head. His deflector shields sparked for a moment, leaving him awash in a wreath of radiation sparks as they failed, and then he fell, exenterated through his cranium and now-shattered helmet.

With a cliche movement pertaining to all arrogant, unkind Fleet Masters, Queta turned and declared in a resonant voice to carry across the bridge, across the holographic consoles and crew pits, "The Great Journey is one to be treaded upon with care. No more blundering mistakes shall be made. Minor Domo 'Ashantee?"

A young navigations officer stood, clad in the cyan armor that indicated a rookie, his triventricled heart silently trembling as a leviathan of fear stood within him, making his movements inarticulate and voice with a definate edge of defenselessness. Yet, protocol demanded that he stand. "Fleet Master".

Queta waved at the bloodied grav-chair that the former Navigations Office had occupied. With a deadened, lifeless voice he declared, "Congratulations, warrior of the Prophets. You've been promoted to rank of Major Domo. Take your seat at the Navigational Command Console and plot a parabolic course to the Holy Ring."

As the Minor Domo treaded his way, uncertain and doubts sapping his strength and will to serve, the Fleet Master's eyes took an uncharacteristically hard edge as he turned to his own command seat, pacing like a jeering Jackal around a jailed prisoner. "Hail, escorts."

Ship Master Ceto 'Rosymee, a confident, aggressive commander, Queta's favorite amongst the frigate masters, affirmed, "Responding to hail, Fleet Master."

The elegant, arcing cyan wireframes of the four one-kilometer escort frigates burned in diamond attack formation around the Divine Wrath. Queta pondered what could be done with those assets, and was calculating force strengths and trajectories as the flagship swayed in a gentle arc as it transversed 'Ashantee's navigational solution.

He snarled, "All frigates, move to QUICKFIRE attack formation. Prepare for possible hostile resistance from any wards of the Holy Ring."

An officer quietly muttered, "But aren't our forefathers the ones that would defend the..."

'Polsimee shook his head, a fearsome warrior with his ornately-glyphed war helmet. "No. It does not matter their identity. All that assail us shall die. Move to-"

The Sensors Officer boldly punctuated his rebuke. "Fleet Master, we have an energy spike from the planet." A pause. "A handshake protocol on the Prophet's frequency."

The rest of the bridge crew paused their activities, wondrous at ones initiating communications for the com channel specifically reserved for the Prophets, those on high, the triumvirate of the Covenant, the binding element between the genetically disparate subraces.

THe Major Domo stood, making the entrance of the Forerunners far more dramatic, his teeth bared.

"There is one named 49 Proximal Tangent, Fleet Master. He wishes to speak."

 -49 Proximal Secant  21:54, 14 December 2006 (UTC)

Captain Jenson gripped a railing on the bridge of his destroyer Anasazi. Following the Battle of Sigma Octanus IV, the UNSC had decided to leave behind a small task force, comprised of the Anasazi and two Frigates, the Tigris and the Jonesborough. They were about to accelerate on a course towards the outer reaches of the system, and patrol the outlying colonies of the system, when his comm officer spoke up. "Sir, incoming transmission from the Archimedes" the young man, Lt. Williams said. "Put it up." The transmission splashed across his datascreen.

Priority transmission Encryption Code: GAMMA Public Key: N/A From: UNSC Prescience To: Remote Sensing Station Archimedes
 * Forwarded To: UNSC Anasazi, UNSC Fleetcom-REACH

Subject: Anomalous Structure Detected Classification: RESTRICTED (BGX Directive)

We emerged from Slipspace near an anomalous structure, clearly shaped as a ring. Presence of a small Covenant fleet has been detected; One Covenant ship of unknown classification, possibly a flag ship, and 5 frigates. We'll do one survey run over the structure and then bug out. Forward to any nearby forces and FleetCom. Astro-navigation coordinates enclosed.


 * Archimedes - recommended that all available ships rendezvous in Sigma Octanus system for the jump

Jenson copied the transmission and sent it to the Tigris and the Jonesborough. "Lt. Todd, bring us into orbit around Four. We'll wait here for word from FleetCom.

1733 Hours (Ship’s Time), April 26, 2552 (Military Calendar)/ UNSC Destroyer Erwin Rommel, location unknown

Time. It was something he didn’t have. The battle group had only just dropped out of the eleven dimensions of slipspace and was currently speeding insystem. There was no way the Covenant could have missed their entry from slipspace. The hole torn in space by the Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine that the UNSC destroyer had used to enter and then exit slipspace was hard to miss. They had rallied at Checkpoint Uniform, found little trace of the Prescience, the prowler that had transmitted the location of the Covenant ships in the area, and had decided to coordinate an attack. If the Prescience had been detected by any of the four frigates or the flagship, it would have been burned without a doubt. He hoped they had gone down fighting, but prowlers weren’t armed for combat, they were armed for espionage.

Commander B. Rebuga looked out the view port of his ship. His ship, the Erwin Rommel, wasn’t the biggest in the fleet. Not by a mile, or more correctly, just over half a kilometer. Destroyers weren’t meant to be big, that’s what cruisers were for. No, destroyers were meant to kill, and efficiently. His ship was armed with two MAC guns, thirty Archer missile pods, and three Shiva nuclear-tipped missiles. It also had a contingency of one hundred Marines and thirty-five ODST for ground assault, and a small squadron of six D77-TC Pelican dropships. Their battle group was comprised of twenty frigates, nine other destroyers, two carriers, and one cruiser.

Commander Rebuga looked over at Lieutenant Hänkel at the weapons station. Hänkel was a good weapons officer. He was probably one of the more devoted of the bridge crew. From what he knew of him, Hänkel had been a Corporal in the Marine Corps, but had requested honorable discharge in 2530 after receiving the Silver Cluster and had then joined the Luna OCS Academy. He succeeded in making Ensign, and had been assigned to Commander Rebuga’s ship. Through his dedication to his post, no matter what it was, Hänkel had risen to Lieutenant, only one step down from Commander Rebuga. Only he and Lieutenant Vrana, the first officer had command over Hänkel. In the event that both the Commander and First Officer were to be killed or too injured to perform their duties, Hänkel would be in command. This worried Rebuga slightly, as Hänkel, though dedicated, was rather rash, and seemed to have some personal bitter hatred for the Covenant that impeded him from thinking rationally. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Hänkel, what charge does the MAC capacitor have?” inquired the commander.

“Sir, it is reading 78%,” replied Hänkel. Rebuga then looked over at Lieutenant Junior Grade Shotton. Chad was a bit rough around the edges, but he made a decent navigations…

“Sir, we’re reading an energy spike at heading five zero six by eight two three. It appears to be a slipspace exit vector,” reported Ensign Stevens. Her display winked and changed, and she added, “Sir, its one of ours, a…freighter?”

Rult Vroengard, Petty Warrant Officer and pilot of the D77-D7 Pelican-Class Dropship, Bravo-617. That was the last thing he had on his mind as he sat in the pilots seat of his Pelican, awaiting their departure from Slipspace. Though most had gone to wait in those uncomfitable seats that lined the walls of the cargo room, Rult had gone straight to his Pelican and strapped himself in. Tight. If the exit wasn't buffered then he wanted to be strapped in and ready for a bumpy ride. Or atleast, as bumpy as a ride could get in the middle of space. Now, at the ten second mark, he sat in his chair and stared out of the cockpit, thinking. Thinking over the things the entire crew had gone through over the past couple of days. He had come along thinking it would be a routine escort mission. Even when he saw the MAC gun strapped onto the Freighter, he didn't think that they would be in any trouble on the voyage. But he had been proven wrong, and there was trouble. In fact, it seemed like the whole voyage had been one big mess. He had seen Marines fighting below him as his co-pilot fired off barrage after barrage of the 70mm chain gun that hung from the "chin" of their dropship, while he constantly moved to avoid fire from the enemys that were below him and the Banshees that tried to come in from above or behind him. But that was over, and the only signs that one could find that the crew had been in battle were the missing ammunition and the "scar" on the ship that had been obtained during the space battle. Most tried to veer away from the subject if asked anyway, so he doubted anyone would learn of their exploits until their captain, Adam Graves, gave his report to I.S.S., ONI, UNSC or whoever he was working for now. He didn't bother to keep up with those things, given he was simply helping to escort them. Then the ship started to rumble somewhat, a sure sign that they were about to come out of Slipspace and re-enter normal space.

User:Lekrel

1712 Hours (Ship’s Time), April 26, 2552 (Military Calendar)/ UNSC Marathon-class Carrier-Cruiser Winston Churchill, location unknown

Cory Johnson was very excited, but then, he was rather easily excited. He had recently been promoted to Vice Admiral, a rank that he had never dreamed of ascending to when he had enlisted into the Navy at an early age. Johnson had come from a poor family, and couldn’t afford to go to an OSC academy like the one on Luna. He had gone up the ranks the old fashioned way. In 2528 he had enlisted and managed his way through boot to the rank of Crewman. In 2530, he was aboard one of the ships at Eridanus II, and personally rescued Captain David Eisenbeis and his bridge crew, and received the Bronze Star and a promotion to Petty Officer First Class. Eisenbeis kept a watchful eye over Johnson, and soon he recommended him for officer training. Johnson graduated officer training at the top of his class, and was a Lieutenant Junior Grade in no time. He had been promoted to Captain when he charged and destroyed a Covenant frigate in order to dissipate a plasma torpedo aimed at an Admiral’s ship. Now he was a Vice Admiral!

Johnson just wished there was time to celebrate. Upon receiving his promotion, he was assigned a battle group and a flagship, and promptly received an message from one of the ships in his group, the UNSC Anasazi, had received a message forwarded from the Archimedes scanning outpost near Reach. Apparently, a prowler had trailed a Covenant ship formation and discovered some sort of Covenant ring. As a Vice Admiral, he knew that waiting for orders was pointless; he was the one giving them now. He had ordered all of his ships to rally at Checkpoint Tango, near Beta Gabriel, and had then jumped to the location of the final transmission from the prowler, the UNSC Prescience.

The battle group had been slightly scattered, and a few thousand meters out of system, so he rallied at a new location he called Checkpoint Uniform, and then ordered all ships to Checkpoint Victor, which was near the heart of this unidentified ring. It was odd, the ring. The prowler had called it a Covenant world, but scanning showed it was not made of any known Covenant material. Juliet, the ship’s AI, said the ring was ten thousand kilometers in diameter. That was damned big! Bigger than anything the Covenant had ever accomplished. The biggest Covenant ship Vice Admiral Johnson had heard of was about five kilometers long, which was still quite a feat compared to the human ships. His ship was somewhere around a kilometer long, and it was one of the biggest ships in the fleet!

Johnson tried to focus on the task at hand. There appeared to be five Covenant ships around this ring, but when it rained, it poured. He figured there would be more inbound, that this was just the scouting party. His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a transmission.

“This is the UNSC Erwin Rommel''. We just detected a ship exiting slipspace at heading six three zero by five two zero. It’s one of ours…''” There was an audible pause. “But it’s a freighter, Parabola''-class. We’re hailing it now, sir.''”

“Entering normal space in 3… 2… 1…” Graves’ voice sounded over the speaker system of the ship, reverberating with deep clarity. The ship let out a final moan that seemed to echo through its hull, as if it was trying to say: “How much do you actually expect of me capable of taking?” The freighter, almost reluctantly, began its rather drawn out exit from slipspace.

Adrian sat strapped into his suspended seat, and as the ship began to make its exit from slipspace he tightened the grip on that handle of his weapon. The BR-55 had become not only his primary weapon of choice, but an extension of his body. Like that of a blade, he would use the gun to cut down his enemies with deadly swiftness. The bullets he fired from this rifle were not only to silence his foes, but were the physical embodiment of the fury and power that raged on inside of him, which propelled him into combat with fearlessness and vigor.

The cargo containers within the room had been strapped down tight with several cords per container. The crew didn’t want to chance one of the rather large, extremely heavy boxes rolling freely as the ship jostled around during these jumps. Turbulence was one thing; turbulence mixed with deadly objects was another. The thought of one of those nearly five foot metal boxes crushing one of the helplessly tied down crew members was enough to have the straps holding them in place checked several times over to make sure they were secures. Yet still, smaller materials such as stray guns and ammunitions that had been strewn about when the cargo boxes had been broken open still were thrown as the freighter lurched forward. Pangs from bullets and guns hitting the metal floor and walls with considerable force echoed throughout the cargo bay.

The bright luminescent lights that filled the cargo bay with white shining light tapered on and off for a few brief seconds. The lunge forward had sent the limbs from the men and women strapped into the seats to spastically smash into the unlucky crewmate next to them. This automatically caused a series of quarrels and moans amongst the crew. Adrian quickly and efficiently unbuckled the harness which he had strapped himself into. For the most part, everyone seemed fine as he looked around; standing ready a few steps in front of the seat he had been in. He looked around at the faces of the men and women who had endured so much. All of them were so much stronger now, though he could not see them all, he knew not a single one was worried. Worry was something for the weak. They were not weak.

Warren managed to unbuckle himself as well, and walked up aside Adrian. “Next stop, Earth,” Warren said with a grin. This was the final jump they needed to enact before making the direct jump to the Sol System. It was the last jump the ship needed to make before they could finally tell their story. Above them, on the top of the large cargo doors out of the windows, stars could be seen. They were no longer in slipspace, which made Adrian a little eased. He hated slipspace even more than he hated space; the nothingness of the dimension gave him a feeling of it being unnatural, like some sort of gross distortion.

“Agh,” Graves muttered as he was flung forward, hitting the left side of his body into the panel in front of him, and slumping down onto the ground, as he grasped his left shoulder. He had been so absorbed in making sure that everyone of his crew made it to their designated stations, he hadn’t braced for the jump himself. That was one of the qualities that made him such a great leader; a sense of respect and caring for his crew. With a grimace and a groan he stumbled to his feet, his grip still upon his left shoulder. In front of them was space, the stars. They had made it, as he had hoped. “Peterson, Status Report,” Graves said with a grimace, looking over at the Ensign who stared back at him blankly.

Maximus (Max) Peterson, a recent academy graduate with his hair neatly shaven, stared at the Captain and sighed, turning to the monitors in front of him on his paneling. He had seen the Captain outsmart the Covenant, lead them fearlessly into battle and stay firm in his course despite the odds against him. To see his leader so unprepared amused him a little, but also reinforced the fact that Graves was only human. “Sir, the ship is fine, or at least as fine as it could be. Structural integrity is still maintained at 87%,” Peterson said briskly.

Graves turned to look out the window in front of them. There was nothing, but at least he could see the stars in front of them. That was nice for a change. “O’Shay how’s the engine status?” Graves asked, looking to his left at his second in command, a red headed young man, Second Lieutenant James O’Shay.

O’Shay stared straight down at his panel as if he was studying it very closely. “Sir, the engines are at 32% and climbing at four percent every ten seconds. We should be able to attempt another jump in a couple of minutes, after we let the cores cool down,” the rather high pitched voice of the Lieutenant Junior Grade sounded as he looked over at the Captain, who maintained his stare into the depths of space. A feeling of uneasiness was wafting around him, and it made him worry.

“Divert twenty-five percent of the ships power to the engines; we need to get back into slipspace. Peterson, get our weapons systems online, as well.” Graves said, as both men began carrying out their Captain’s orders. On the holotank next to Graves a sound of a crackle and a pop rang out. Moments later the image of a young girl, resembling that of a teenager around the age of 17, holographically projected itself. She had long brown hair and was dressed like a civilian. Her arms were crossed, and on her face there was a look of eagerness and amusement. She had something to say, and it was important. Her name was MIL-AI 012480, Helen.

Graves looked over at the holographic figure nearly five inches tall on the pedestal next to him. He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “What is it Helen?” He asked confused by her sudden appearance.

“I have some bad news,” She muttered, turning away from him to look towards the view. Those words seem to hang in the air as she said them. She sighed, and then turned back to him. “I think we may have just entered combat again.” Those words seem to hand ominously over the room, as a hail from another ship, the UNSC Erwin Rommel, flashed across his holo-screen. Graves shut his eyes for a moment, taking a deep sigh, before establishing a comm. channel with the Destroyer.

User:CaptainAdamGraves

An oasis of silence, an omnious foreshadowing of what was to much, loomed over the bridge of the Winston Churchill, a marauding, unseen beast.

The first of the rather tumultous shouts came from Lieutenant Xiang, of SENSOROPS. "Sir. Contacts!"

The executive officer, Captain Richards, immediately cried with vigor like some holodrama's protagonist, barked, voice hoarse from commanding the delicate Slipspace transition and the dressing-down of a dozen Engineering and Navigations officers, "Alert Five! Squadrons Red, Blue, and Gold, to combat readiness on Deck One! I want an Alpha Strike scrambled from Deck Two."

Voices from anonymous officers affirmed the Alert Five status.

The Vice Admiral, immaculately arranged hair shining silver in the deliberately dimmed bridge lights, turned with utmost precision to the flurry of activity behind him, almost contemptously, as a master to underlings. With the time-honored words of naval commanders addressing officers, last words before they devulged in combat, he spoke with uncharacteristic softness, "All hands to battle stations."

A pause.

"SENSOROPS, get those ship shilouettes on-screen. Are they Covenant?"

The officer confirmed, "Sir. Five enemy warships: one flagship and four escort frigates, in formation delta-forward-three. They've spotted us and are manuevering...negative that. Two enemy frigates are heading for the phenomena, and the rest are coming. Beta radiation accumulating across lateral lines..." His fingers danced across a keyboard. "They're charging for a plasma torpedo barrage."

On the holographic projector at the fore of the bridge, crimson wireframes winked on the far side of the TAC matrix, hundreds of perfect cubes that represented space around the supermassive ring.

Arrays of alphanumeric characters, minute in font size, winked to life beneath Covenant warships and weapons blisters were outlined in soft orange, their softness sharply juxtaposing with the threat potential numbers with their morphing digits beside each of the three approaching Covenant warships.

Yet, the Admiral had a distinct impression that THREATTAC was incorrect about its tactical assessments. It was a spectre of a thought...confirmed by the fact that the Covenant warships had charged plasma torpedo lines before they entered extreme firing range for a plasma-charged crack at the UNSC fleet.

A sixth sense, the finely-honed one that the admiral had sharpened with the keen blade of combat experience. He murmured, "All elements, move to attack formation and charge MAC capicitators for medium-range assault."

Uncertainty peaked across the bridge, and the tension was nearly visible in the air. An officer had the boldheartedness to offer, "Sir. We are at the apex of the battlegroup. The plasma torpedoes will first impact..."

He trailed off his voice, but the underlying stress was there, supported by the bridge crew.

The admiral firmly shook his head, stamping on the dissent. "No. The blue bastards are bluffing, charging for a salvo before we even entered their killzone. And, I'm revising the perimeters for the MAC salvo. No range restriction. Charge and fire at will."

Now, that attracted the attention of Juliet, the AI assigned to the enigmatic behemoth in the lower decks, SPARTAN-091, that had diverted fifty percent of her runtime coordinating the command ship's activities.

"Sir. Recommended firing orders have minimal chance of maximizing damage to enemy ships. Revise reversion to Firing Command Charlie."

The vice admiral pursed his lips, a reining in of anger at an AI that had never felt the burden of the lives of men upon her, a construct of binary code that would never experience emotion.

 -49 Proximal Secant  16:22, 15 December 2006 (UTC)

1725 Hours (Ship’s Time), April 26, 2552 (Military Calendar)/ UNSC Destroyer Anasazi, location unknown

The general order had come across, charge MAC capacitors and move into attack formation. "Zuke? What's the status of our MAC capacitors?" The holotank beside Jenson lit up, and a man dressed in an old officer's uniform stood. "Da, captain. MAC capacitors are at 80% and climbing at .45% a second." "Divert enough power to the engines to get us into formation, and get me a firing solution for the starboard cannon, and only the starboard. I want to keep a surprise handy for our friends. And just to be safe, get everyone to their positions, I want our Marines ready to hit the ground if it becomes necessary." "Da." The AI crisply turned and blinked into nothingness. The Anasazi lurched forward and moved to join the rest of the battlegroup. Jenson wasn't exactly sure if the battle would end up here or not.

Belowdecks, in Cryobay 3, Sgt. Kyle Parker was pulled out of cryosleep. He, along with the rest of his squad dragged themselves into the showers, and silently pulled on their armor, eagerly awaiting contact with the enemy again.

"This is Captain Adam Graves of the UNSC Parabola-Class Freighter The Hesperus. UNSC Destroyer Anasazi what is the current situation?" Graves asked over the communication's link, waiting impatiently, not seeing the eyes of Second Lieutenant O'Shay light up wide.

"Sir, we have non-UNSC classification contacts on an inbound vector to the fleet in-system!" The red-headed Lieutenant Junior Grade shouted out, O’Shay’s facing lighting up with gross outward expressions of surprise muffled with anger. The crew of The Hesperus still had a burning passion within them from the battle they had just waged against the covenant light-cruiser, one which fueled this now upcoming engagement with vigor and fury. Each of the men and women on board had this trait now, it made the strong, and it made them dependable.

“How many contacts?” Graves asked, baring his teeth, running his right hand through his greasy shortly trimmed regulation length black hair. He placed his left hand on the control panel he had slammed into during the jump to hold his balance, as he shook his head.

“One Covenant flagship and four frigates, all with warmed plasma turrets ready to fire on our battle group,” Helen thoughtfully chimed in, beating O’Shay to the punch-line, a slight smirk creeping across her ‘lips’. Her arms were still crossed, her body at a slight angle turning towards the windows at the front of the room. “We should take defensive measures, giving our MAC-Cannon an efficient angle to fire upon the covenant, giving some form of support to our battle group,” She added, that grin growing slowly with every word. “I’m analyzing the Covenant battle formation now…” She said, seeming to trail off into her thought.

Graves’ grip on the railing of the control panel grew tighter, as the look of anger on his face tightened as well. “Peterson, bring us around, place us at the rear of the battle formation. We’ll use the outboard MAC-gun as a sniper, giving cover for the rest of the ships… Since we can fire quicker than they can…” He said, standing up straight now, waiting for a response from the Anasazi. Precious seconds began to tick by as the ship’s turbines began to spin, and the thrusters engaged as the sluggish rectangle of a ship began to move through space.

“Sir… I think you should take a look at this…” Peterson began to mutter, his face having shifted from that of anger and deliberation in their upcoming engagement, to that of confusion and surprise. Graves’ slowly began to walk towards the Ensign, when Peterson turned his head, his large black pupils seeming to stare straight through the Captain. “Just look out the main window…” he said, turning his head as well, a seeming loss of words. As the image came into view, Graves also stared straight ahead, along with O’Shay. The sight was one that froze the crew for a few brief, yet precious, moments. Awe-inspiring.

In front of their ship, in front of the ensuing battle, there was an enormous ring-world like nothing the crew had seen before. It was something that could have been expected to be seen in the ravings within a proposal paper in a scientific journal, something so gargantuan and overwhelming it defied basic logic. Just suspended in space, the ten thousand kilometer artificially constructed super structure Ringworld lay in their path like an ominous Halo over their battle. It was like something ripped straight from the heavens and placed within their midst.

A small whisper broke the silence within the room, as Helen had also joined in the staring, awe struck yes, but seemingly calm as if she had some knowledge that allowed her to expect something like this. “So this is what he meant…” She muttered, staring blankly as the ship rumbled to stop, and began to raise its angle, pointing away from the ring and at a vertical list. The bottom of the ship was visible now, and the shotgun like weapon was slowly aiming in the general direction of incoming Covenant assault. They were ready, surprisingly enough; they had taken battle measures as if it was second nature to them. And it was…

User:CaptainAdamGraves

Jared-091 sat in the onboard barracks of the UNSC Churchill, awaiting action. He got bored in these long periods of inactivity, always needing to be doing something. Right now, he was cleaning his Mark-VI MJOLLNIR armor, polishing its battle-scarred exterior, tweaking its optics to perfection. Jared was a sniper, one of the best in the UNSC. He was taciturn, battle-scarred, and rugged; his only friends the members of Gray Team and his AI. The ship lurched as the engines powered up, jerking the SPARTAN's attention away from his armor. "All hands to battle stations! Covenant fleet inbound on this location! All hands to battle stations!" the intercom blared. Quickly donning his armor, 091 stood to his feet and strode calmly to the door. His helmet's comm channel opened and a female voice spoke. "Jared, this is Juliet. The Captain wishes you to report to him for orders. Pick me up while you're at the bridge." Jared flashed his acknowledgement over the channel. Juliet sighed. "Can't you at least say 'Okay'? You were given vocal cords, so USE them sometime!" He quickened his pace, walking to the lifts. The deck rocked as an incoming plasma torpedo struck the Churchill. Entering the elevator, he opened a channel to his fellow Gray Team companion, Adrian-104. "Everything okay, Adrian?" He stepped onto the bridge level, stopping at the holo-projection column to pick up Juliet, his AI partner, before proceeding to Captain Cory Johnson. "Sir!" he spoke crisply, "reporting as ordered!" Saluting smartly, he stood at attention, awaiting the captain's attention.

(Correct me if I'm wrong, but when Halsey referenced the 'Gray Team' she never actually said that they were all on the same mission. Adrian is on a completely unrelated mission to that of Jared-091. He wouldn't know why the Spartan was referring to him so colloquially, yet would know the correspondent signature as a Spartan. But, because Adrian was the first Spartan assigned to Gray Team in 2534 he was given no knowledge of the other Gray Team Spartans.)

As the Hesperus began to list, the artificial gravity in the cargo room compensated, seemingly keeping the feelings of position in space the same with the crew. Their bodies never felt the difference in the great angles with which the ship changed position. Adrian, though, felt the change as if the ground beneath him was literally shifting. His heightened senses could tell things like that, changes in the situation he was in.

He gritted his teeth, feeling as if something was wrong, and something definitely was. Why would the ship list and thrust to move to a new point if there was nothing wrong? He didn't open a comm. channel with the Pilots though, feeling that if he did he would jam up any conversations they were trying to maintain between ship. As the feeling changed, so did his attitude. "Warren... Grab your machine guns... I have a feeling you're going to need them very soon..." He muttered, holding the battle rifle across his chest at a ready position, with both arms, after placing the grenade in its designated pouch. Just then, an encrypted comm. channel opened on his HUD, with a green acknowledgement light along with the coding tag SII[Jared-091]. His eyes flashed open with this sight, and maintained the closed channel, and neglected to verify the source properly. Seeing that another Spartan was alive, possibly having survived the battle of Reach they had just witnessed like Angel-054 who was recooperating onboard, was a glimmer of hope in Adrian's mind. This was confusing, since the dates on his Heads-Up-Display didn’t match what they should have been. This was possibly an error with his new Mark VI armor, since it was only the prototype model, even though it was nearly complete.

"This is Spartan-014, Adrian. Jared, I was wondering the same exact thing... What is happening?" He asked, through the comm. link, before he was cut off by another channel opened up between him and the Captain. "Sir!" He said, seemingly at attention over the open channel, to which Jared could no longer hear.

"Adrian, I need you to get the crew in order, get them to Stage-Five battle conditions. We're back in battle, my friend, and we're going to need all available pilots to ready the craft, since we may need to take this battle to the surface..." Graves’s deep voice sounded over the comm. link. Adrian raised an eyebrow behind the visor, walking towards one of the ground level windows of the Cargo Bay.

"Sir, what grou..." He began to say, before witnessing for himself what the Captain had said. The ship had obviously rotated its angle to a near 90 degrees, and was ready to fire the MAC-Cannon salvos. The cannon was rather different than other MAC-Cannons onboard the ships. Not only was it one of the only out-boardly based MAC-Guns in existence, it was able to fire its 100 ton Ferrous- Tungsten MAC-rounds in near succession. Because the gun was outfitted with obviously smaller rounds, and took considerably less energy to fire as long as the ship was stationary, it could be fired at a continuous rate of 1 shot:22 Seconds, depending on an optimal charge from the fusion reactors, diverting 77% power to the combat systems of the ship. It was quite the armament for support in battle, capable of depleting shields of Covenant starships, as well as punch considerable holes through unshielded foe.

"Sir, understood." Adrian said over the comm. link, turning and walking away from the view of the gargantuan Ring world that they now were preparing to fight ominously beside. He looked around at the crew, who obviously knew that something was wrong, and stared at him for leadership. He stared back for a brief second, worried for a moment about what he was about to ask of his fellow crew-members. He then opened his mouth and cleared his throat. "Gear up, get into the squadrons you were assigned during the previous engagement. We're being called into action in battle once again." He said with authority, as the marines and crew alike in all ranks, no matter if they outclassed the Spartan's Petty Officer Second Class rank, understood he was their best chance for survival. They began a similar scramble to what was happening before, the pilots and Marines shuffling away from the Cargo room with weapons in hands towards the docking bays for the star craft. They were back in battle. User:CaptainAdamGraves

The nature of Homo sapiens is as such: the bodies of men may break, but the spirit endures, with a flame, a perseverence that never faulters even in face of the greatest shadows. The mortal may fall, yet, victory comes within death, more than a morbid glory, but more the recognization of the fearless of men for the fall to Hades. It is inevitable...yet this spectre of doubt does not cow the endurance of the human race. Such is the courage with which Battle Group Winston Churchill opposed the Covenant fleet gathering on the far banks of the TAC matrix.

Vice Admiral Cory Johnson was the epitome of the human spirit, the rallier that brought together the hearts of his crewmen, more than a figurehead, but a beacon to the souls that languished in trepidation of the Enemy. His complexion was chiseled, his face angular and cheekbones prominent and cheeks depressed.

The frayed UNSC line surged forward like unreined horses. As if shaken in their cause, the looming behemoth of the Covenant flagship and its two relatively diminuitive escorts, a third of their command ship's size each, broke formation, external lateral plasma lines fading of charge. The rapid dissipation of the torpedoes led to an afterwake of glorious radiation, momentarily astray, and then recaptured by the resonating magnetic fields projected by the alien warships as they broke their triangular formation and fled.

The reasoning was obvious in hindsight. Since they were beyond maximum range of the MAC guns of the UNSC fleet, the bastards knew that the projectiles would not hit their targets, themselves, and would instead fly beyond, inertia undampened in the vacuum of interstellar space according to Newton's Laws of Motion...and behind the Covenant group was the Sacred Ring. The Fleet Master, Cory's counterpart, would not chance 8000-ton depleted uranium projectiles impacted the holiest object of the Covenant religion.

The Vice Admiral, his three stars tarnished by years of usage and with streaks of unpleasant murky bronze gleaming upon his breast, as if a foreshadowing of the fall of the UNSC fleet, commanded tautly, "Keep MAC guns charged so those bastards keep on runnin'. Hell yeah, blue boys. That's the way to go."

Afterwards followed a string of profanity unsuited for a man of his age, yet in-fitting with one of the Navy.

The UNSC fleet leapt forward in pursuit.

 -49 Proximal Secant  03:03, 16 December 2006 (UTC)

Rult had just un buckled and stood up to leave when the large ring-like structure floated into the bay rooms window. Rult's mouth opened slightly as he gazed onward. He had never expected something like this,. But he hadn't expected anything that had happend so far, so why should this be any different? His hands fumbled to find the doors handle to leave as he continued to watch the structure. As soon as the door was open he exited it and headed for the cargo room, unsure if anyone else had seen the structure that continued to hang in space. He headed straight for the cargo room, where he knew that most of the people probably were. Most didn't wander too far in the beggining, glad to have Human contact after the long stay in cryo sleep. Mostly just random talk.

Lekrel 04:43, 16 December 2006 (UTC)

Ship master Deumus Ran Veiun paced the bridge of the frigate watching the display showing the sacred artifact. As beutiful as the sacred ring was to him Veiun could not let the splendor of the artifact overcome his senses. Veiun turned to the weapons consol and barked orders at the smallish elite sitting at the controls.

"What are the status of the human vessels?"

"They have formed an attack pattern common to the apes."

Veiun let a small growl escape his hinged jaws as he watched the other covenant ships mill about on an ajacent view screen.