Halo 4 Improv

Savior adjusts himself on the ridge. He has been scanning the valley bare, no HUD or scope. His eyes of mercury trail along the bottom of the ravine, focusing on scorch marks and twisted metal. He 'tisks' when he finds the distress beacon blinking through a shattered hull. He stands, then flips his visor back down. The wind here is grainy and warm, his helmet and armor already lined with scratches from the sand. Before he walks off, he waves his SRS99 in an arch to test the minute circle of a reticle; it appears on his HUD, perfectly in-sync with the barrel of the rifle.

Badger Team awaits their rifleman. The captain is off smoking with Foghorn, while Loather cleans his BR85 and Fritz talks about the artificial sun. It is their eighth deployment to the shield-world Requiem, and their first to 813-A. Their LZ has long since been erased by the shifting breeze, sand covering up footprints and everything. The heat is bearable, but not the constant chatter of the desert against their uniforms. Captain Roadie does not try to lift spirits. The men a fully capable of that themselves, or would be if they knew how.

Second lieutenant Loather, who once passed the ODST training course, notices something along a ridge with a black tree at the top. They are surrounded by ridges, but this is the only one with a tree. It is black and gnarled, with pus-hued fruit crowning the branches. Loather grimaces when he looks at it, and frowns at the swaying figure beside it. Without a word to Fritz, the second-in-command grabs his service rifle and levels its scope towards the ridge's peak. Through the sight, the world is slightly more yellow. The tree is now clearly visible, its fleshy bark reflecting the midday sun. The figure is gone.

Lance corporal Foghorn watches his commanding officer smoke, who only does it when there is nothing else to do. Foghorn shifts his weight, a specialized harness with trans-light communication tech strapped to its back, his back, makes him the slowest runner of Badger Team. He is the only squadie with access to the localized GPS, via a glowering datapad on his wrist. He looks like a walking terminal, armed with an MA5. He doesn't want to talk to Roadie. He doesn't want to talk to Roadie because Roadie always makes jokes he doesn't understand. So he settles for watching the steely blue tendrils rise off the end of his cigarette.

First sergeant Fritz once visited Mars. Requiem reminds of the Red Planet. Not because of the ranges, or the mountains, or even the wind. This places reminds him of Mars because of the red. The blaring hellfire that sinks into the retinas and doesn't leave until nightfall. He once sewed his five chevrons onto his sleeve, before Roadie told him the Covenant target rank. He is the only member of Badger with a tear in his armor.

Roadie douses his smoke on a shoulder plate. He stuffs the butt into an empty pouch. No evidence. He walks back to his men with Foghorn in tow. His M395 is reassuring in his hands. A combat knifed laced to one thigh juts out proudly from his figure. There is a drawl in his step, a kind of slug that persists with his every breath, every gesture, every jerk of the trigger finger. He walks like a zombie. He is not the oldest of Badger team, but he is the most weary. Before him, Fritz and Loather rise.

"Nothing yet, Roadie." Loather points to the black tree. "But I saw something up on that incline."

"You did?" Roadie and Fritz ask in unison. The lieutenant nods.

"Mhm. Something tall."

Roadie raises his weapon, one eye closing while the other centers in on the DMR's scope. "How long ago?" He does not stop scanning the peak.

"'Bout four minutes." Loather takes a jab to the shoulder. Fritz rubs his knuckles.

"Next time tell me you ass." The sergeant rumbles. Loather just smiles.

Roadie finds nothing. He looks to Loather with concern, and gives him a believing look. "Foghorn..." His voice croaks. "Find out where Savior is. Get him back here."

The corporal flicks down a mouthpiece from the side of his helmet. He tunes in to the proper frequency with his datapad, presses the transmission, and walks away from the group.

Private First Class Savior had been an excellent marine. If he had been an officer he would have been a Spartan. When he arrived at the 11th Reconnaissance he quickly realized that recon was different from grunt work. He had learned quickly, but Roadie and Loather still top him in almost everything. He is hot. Sweating from the isolation from people and water. Foghorn still has his canteen. One foot after the other slams into the gritty ground, he blinks away the angry solar rays. The sound of his helmet's coms popping to life jerks him to the floor. He lands on his stomach, his rifle already stable on the ground.

There is a pause. The world stands still. Savior had tried the name "Messiah", but Fritz made him change it because it was three syllables, one too many. He ponders the fact that they are inside a machine. He remembers how the beaches on Earth taste. He wishes his name is 'Messiah'.

"Hey, buddy? What's going on Safe? Things'r getting spooky over here."

The sniper snaps a finger to his helm's com interface. "Jesus fuck Foghorn! You trying to pop my heart?!" There is a chuckle on the opposite side of the line.

"Nah, Roadie might be, though. Anyway, ETA?"

"Um..." Savior blinks and recalls his footsteps. "Two minutes. Why spooky?"

"The King and Queen are restless, something on a hill."

That bothers Savior. Roadie and Loather don't spook easily. He gets off the ground and dusts himself off. "Okay. Tell 'em I'll be there in sixty."

"Caaaan do."

The coms go dark. Savior turns his march into a run.

Roadie gets the news from Foghorn. He can feel the worry on Loather. He steps away from his men, turning to avoid eye-contact with the tree. His hands shake. He wants another cigarette.

They all remember they are inside a machine.

There was a sudden and loud pop as Spartan Tasha appeared tossed out from a teloport, she rolled as she bounced down a sandy slope coming to a halt with a sickening crunch against a large rock. Her shields flared on impact but slowly recharged, she blinked to try and clear her blue eyes.
Groaning she got to her feet, her first objective to try and find her shotgun. Scanning she spotted the weapon lying half buried in the sand, she walked over to it and removed it from the sandy prison. Shaking it twice she shook some of the dust and sand off, knowing that until she had time to clean it fully, there would be a good chance it might jam on her. Good thing she had plenty of knives then. Some Spartans only carried one, Tasha never left for a fight with out at least four knives, of varying sizes and shapes.

Tasha was not surprised that she had been relocated suddenly, Elites lacked honour, they where nothing more than sick animals to be butchered, slaughtered in the thousands. The Elite would get what was coming to him, he had merely bought himself some extra time... All the while his death would slink closer to him. "This is Spartan Tasha does anyone read?" Tasha called out over the radio as she began to move, her eyes scanning the ridges. This place was perfect for an ambush, something she did not wish to be caught in any time soon. In the distance she spotted a tree on a hill and decided that was where she was heading as it seemed to be the only landmark here. She waited for a response before calling again over the radio. "This is Spartan Tasha I say again does anyone read?"

Tasha hated being in the open like this, she preferred jungles and forests to the desert. The open expanse left little cover, few ways to hide and the ever present danger that the enemy was lying in ambush somewhere. There had to be someone else, hopefully friendly here, though if it was just Covenant Tasha was not going to surrender to them, yield or bow. She would kill them all or die in the attempt to kill every last one of those filthy aliens. The Covenant where the enemy, there was no distinction for her, if they fought she would kill them, if they surrendered she would kill them and if they where injured she would give them peace... By killing them. She had not always been this way, so bloody and cold. Yet being captured by Covenant Terrorists does things to those unlucky enough to be, even to a Spartan.
She moved in silence, her eyes darting around, trying to detect even a flicker of movement that might give away an ambush position or a Jackal Sniper. The wait, the long wait... The silence before the storm of battle and the brief peace that it afforded her by dispensing justice upon those who had tortured her for many months.

Fritz is the first to see Savior emerge from the desert. Ever since being been shot on Installation 00, his second sight makes him invaluable to Badger Team. He is always the first to see, spot, sense, and smell. When he points to Savior, his silhouette a companion to the demontree, there is pride along his mouth.

Foghorn's coms begin to blink. His visor makes him squint as an auxiliary channel begins to wave with incomprehensible chatter. He mutes it.

Roadie is the first to greet Savior. "Whatcha got?"

"Okay, so I found the bird," The rifleman makes a show with his hands. "But it's in a ravine. Completely totaled, too. Doubt anyone's still alive." The men of Badger do not react. "I found a landslide about two miles west of the crash site. It looked pretty thorough, and may lead straight to the ravine floor."

"So we have an access point?" Loather chimes in.

"I wouldn't call it that." Savior admits. "I only saw it through the scope, so..."

"It's better than nothing." Foghorn flicks the iron sights of his assault rifle up.

"I agree. We'll check it out and if we can't use it then we'll just climb." Roadie's words offer no argument. "Let's get moving Badger."

"Oh, sir?" Foghorn unmutes the noisy channel. "I've got something."  Roadie looks about his squad.

Fritz rubs the back of his neck. "Local?" The corporal nods.

"Which channel?" Savior removes his helmet and rubs off his forehead. "'Cause I was a ghost out there."

"Well that's the thing." Foghorn huffs, now examining the anatomy of the specter signal with his datapad. "It's a dedicated transmission, priority-two. Kinda like a leech, just latching on to whatever friendly channels there are, open or closed." He rolls his wrist while explaining.

"Loather," Roadie hasn't stopped looking at the tree since Foghorn began talking. "ODSTs don't have priority two?" The lieutenant shakes his head, confident Roadie will understand without him saying a word. "Yeah." Roadie agrees, finally looking away from the tree. "Okay, so it looks like a distress signal?"

"Not as strong as ours..." Foghorn shrugs. "But it is sure as hell looking like that, yeah."

"This place is dark, guys." Savior groans. "It's a glitch."

"Spartans don't get glitches." Fritz eyes the sniper. "We do, but not them."

"A Spartan?" Savior chuckles. "Who? Damon?" Beyond the conversation, Foghorn shakes his head. Savior looks to the tech-expert with some exasperation. "Not Damon?"

"Nah, the Backlash would've told us if it was him." Foghorn nearly mutters. He looks to Roadie, and soon they all do.

The captain just looks at his rifle. "It's a Spartan." He breathes. Of course he knew. And if he knew, Badger Team knew it as well. "But ah, I guess it's a little lost, s'all." He looks to Foghorn, then to Fritz. "Sergeant, you and radiohead here locate that signal, we'll check out that landslide." He adjusts himself and walks closer to Fritz, leaning in a bit. "And keep me posted, understand?"

"Yessir." Fritz offers a reassuring shrug. "No sweat. Foghorn, what exactly is the transmission saying?"

"No idea. Complete nonsense."

"Can he even track it, boss?" Savior directs towards Roadie. "I mean, if there is a traceable signal, its going to bring down the Covies." The sniper keeps his eyes on the CO. Badger Team is silent, all faces looking to Roadie to patch every leak, sew every tear. Loather steps forward.

"And the crashed Pelican with doomsday weapons won't?"

Savior blinks. Roadie cracks a smile and laughs.

"Move out, Badger."

Tasha moved as quickly as she dared through the sand, it was difficult going. Her armoured boots sinking into the soft sand.
She stopped transmitting since she was getting no response. No point in bringing the entire horde of filthy aliens down here for her to kill alone.
She continued to struggle through the sand, each step she took Tasha seemed to slide back two. The Spartan was in a rather bad portion of terrain. Her movement was now slowed dramatically she was vulnerable to enemy threats from the air.
Tasha paused in her struggle, in case it was similar to the mud and tar pits sometimes found in jungles. The sand continued to move without her encouragement. She tried to move but suddenly the ground slipped out from under her and she fell with a cry into darkness, leaving a Spartan shaped hole in ceiling. She did not fall that far but hit the ground hard. Her shield depleted on impact and her shotgun skidded into the darkness. Groaning and shaking her head, Tasha activated her light.
The cave was not a natural formation but rather sand had grown round a buried structure. She glanced back up and realised that it was not possible for her to climb out on her own... If a rope was lowered she could climb up that but... She was trapped here till someone arrived. She prayed it was the UNSC and not some savage alien slime.

Spartan Damon Herald had been over Specialist Borzilov's shoulder when the geographical scans had come in. The holotable had displayed a glitchy desert. The ice blue hologram molding and disappearing according to all the little digits and zeros in the data. The end result had been a chaordic mesh of impossible geometry and a certain, unmistakable fuzz. The scans had been jammed.

He stomps down the corridors of the Backlash, passing hubs of activity and sailor talk. He enters an elevator and rolls his neck as the falling sensation pushes through his Commando-grade armor. When the doors open he continues his blur down the metal insides of his ship. Turning corners and squeezing between marines, he enters the ship's observation deck. Shaped like an upside down trapezoid, the all-glass room boasts a perfect view of Requiem's inner surface.

Spartan Damon is without his helmet. He clears his throat, and Rear Admiral Abejide Idowu turns to face him. They salute, and Damon unfurls his hand to reveal a data chit.

"Evening, sir. Specialist Borzilov pulled this from the ship's surveys."

"Important?" The admiral's Nigerian accent always makes him sound important to his comrades. At his core, however, Abejide is just as scared and tired as the rest.

"We think so, sir. May I?"

The Admiral gives a low nod, and the Spartan returns to the entrance. Damon plugs the chit into a port embedded in the door frame. The room comes to life with a thinly green glow.

A prototype, the Backlash's observation deck was an interactive holodeck. Projectors in the ceiling, and a massive processor somewhere in the ship's core, allowed the captain and his data analysts to literally walk among the holograms and projections usually reserved for the bridge's datatable.

Both men blink as the roof begins to hum. The hologram begins above their heads, constructing itself downward until the whole room is enveloped in the survey's results.

Admiral Idowu raises both arms. The room blinks once, twice, and two circles materialize around his fingers. He draws his hands together, and the hologram shrinks to a comprehensible size. "What is it?" He asks, unflinching. "A new species?"

Spartan Herald doesn't laugh. "No, sir. We believe the scans were being jammed, or at least being jumbled." He points with a titanium finger. "See how the edges are all spaced out and blurry? We've come to recognize that as a trademark of Covenant distorters."

Blinking, the admiral looks across the crumpled map to the Spartan. "And why is this so important?"

"Because, sir," Damon sticks out a palm. The room takes a moment to recognize his figure through his armor, but eventually a circle blinks in around his palm too. He raises his hand, and the hologram lifts up. Below the jagged desert, is a faint, softly green series of lines, splayed out like roots. "we think it revealed something."

"And what is that?"

"You see this extension?" He motions to the roots. "Borzilov thinks it could be something underground."

Idowu approaches the hologram, squinting as it glows closer. "Tunnels?"

"If it weren't for the distortion I would say so, sir. But Borzilov and I both think its more of a structure." Damon is not looking at the display, but instead eyes the admiral and his thoughts.

"Can you organize this data? Get me a proper map?" Idowu waves over his head. The projectors blink in response and the hologram flickers away. Both have seen enough.

"We can try, sir, but it may take some time."

"Then get to it, Spartan."

After a quick salute, Damon turns and plucks the data chit out of the port. He leaves the admiral on the deck, who is wondering if he has forgotten something.
______________________________

U'Daru Itoen hears a smack that jars him from his sleep. Through the sleek metal of the Forerunner complex, through tons of sand and earth, through his own battle harness, he hears a smack. Then he hears sand pouring. Then a shout. Then another smack. Then he stands. He steps out from the wall he had slumped against to the center of a the monolithic hallway. The walls are lined with bands of hardlight data being filtered through the structure. The floor reflects dully the perfectly-white lighting. His maroon armor is a blight on the Forerunner's glory.

He raises his carbine and stomps once. About him, the lesser ranks of the Unggoy and Kig-Yar jolt awake. The lance's warrior, a stout Sangheili bearing a concussion rifle, approaches him.

"What do you hear, Honored Guide?"

Itoen points over the other elite's shoulder, who turns to follow his narrow finger. "Investigate." His zealot voice is like a razor.

In that instant, the lance mobilizes. The warrior takes the lead and the jackals fall in line shortly after. The grunts plot along, careful to avoid U'Daru and his blade's kiss.

The Zealot, alone, rotates and proceeds deeper into the complex, where the rest of the battle-group slumbers.
______________________________

Savior, who has never been one to hold a grudge, approaches Roadie and apologizes. They talk while Loather sings to himself and thinks about steak.

About six miles away, Foghorn stops dead in his tracks. "Hey Fritz!" He shouts while tapping away furiously at his datapad.

"What? What is it?"

"The god damn signals gone!"

"Huh?"

"The fuh, the, um..."

Fritz tilts his head at the corporal. "Spit it out, boy!"

"The signal just vanished." Foghorn spits out. "Like, poof." He snaps his fingers.

"It's gone?" Fritz scratches his brow.

"Mhm."

"Well..." He pads away and looks at where they were headed. The desert his flatter before him, the sand dunes giving way to a rippling ocean. "Shit. Can you get the last know coordinates?"

"Hold on." Foghorn fiddles with his pad. "Got 'em."

"Then lead the way. Snipers must think I'm too ugly anyway."

Tasha stayed near the light of the hole in the roof, but moved so that she blended into the shadows. With a soft snick, she switched off her torch light and let her eyes adjust to the darkness, caves where the same everywhere...
The darkness was an ally, light was the enemy as the foe could see it to.
It would not matter how many enemies where down here, the out come for her was inevitable. She would face them and kill as many as possible, if not all of them.
For Tasha, having once been captured by the Covenant was terrible, she was never going to let such a thing happen to her again. Not now, not ever. This was something she had promised herself upon being free, to never surrender. Death was preferable to being tortured for weeks on end.
She swallowed her throat dry, she hated the wait, soon either there would be allies, fellow UNSC to help her out of this hole or... Aliens for her to kill.
And kill them she would, every single one of them, the injured, those who fled or surrendered. Tasha expected no mercy and offered none as if to try and ensure her own death, rather than her being captured.

The leadership of Badger Team finds the canyon, and Savior points them to the beacon. The pelican itself is in half. Its wings are hundreds of meters downwind, embedded in the stone is a burning warthog, and if they stare long enough they can make out a charred pilot's helmet. Roadie is the first to back away from the sight. He asks if they can see the landslide, and Savior begins taking them North.

They tread along the lip of the ravine. Loather, who is afraid of heights, looks down constantly. Roadie just looks at the sand, and Savior just looks ahead. There is no talk, nothing of gossip or commune. They are in a place none of them know. A place where angry creatures with angry weapons most surely slumber, awaiting to hear their footsteps.

Across the canyon, a glimmering figure follows them.
______________________________

"Well, it certainly looks that way." Damon shrugs. "But, why bury it?"

Specialist Borzilov, a rather quiet man, had always enjoyed they whir of the terminal. Damon had offered him the chit, along with Idowu's order, and within an hour he had come back with an isolated map of the subterranean fortress. A goldmine.

Damon eyes the refined map. The roots now a surprisingly narrow spire. Only... it isn't a spire. Not really. In fact it's more of a line. A nail. Damon thinks that is the perfect word. A little circle at the top, probably a barracks or a lobby or whatever the Forerunners used, that gives way to a lengthy tail of building. Given their distance from Requiem's core, Damon figures it a maintenance shaft, but then, you don't bury those without cause.

No matter how many times he rotates the hologram, zooms in or out, the nail remains the same. Perfectly cylindrical, and hollow, if he believes the data. He, and Borzilov, do not. Forerunner constructions are never this misleading. If they built a nail into their Shield World, it has something important inside. Something important enough to be put to the grave.

"Do we even know how old Requiem is?" Damon says mostly to himself. "There's got to be..." He continues turning the map. There is nothing new.
______________________________

Zealot Itoen is among his brothers, who think he smells like the Unggoy. Their judgmental stares cut through him. It is nothing new.

"And if the lance finds nothing?" A brother asks.

"Then I will go myself." Itoen breathes. "There was a noise."

"You were asleep." Caws another.

"There was a noise." He does not move, and neither do his peers.

"Then find its source." Utters O'lan Chanee, leader of the expedition. A massive, crimson plated Sangheili, preferring two swords over any rifle.

U'Daru Itoen brings a fist to his breast. He bows tersely, and strides off.

At the opposite end of the complex, the zealot's auxiliary lance reaches the source of the noise. Upon a minute step, is a sealed door leading into an undoubtedly sacred room. The Major curls his fist and draws his plasma dagger. He saws between the doors, the Forerunner metal giving way like human flesh, all the while praying for forgiveness. The grunts and jackals watch, some mutter among themselves, others shake. The door finally gives, and when it opens the Major growls at the hole in the ceiling. The Honored Guide had most certainly been correct, as sand was still spilling through the opening.

The lances enters the tiny room where Spartan Tasha lurks. The Major chatters out a command for the lesser creatures to fan out while he stand in the ray of light coming from Requiem's sun. The elite squints at the hole, it is massive, perhaps five meters wide. And... perfect. A perfect circle. Sand pelts his helmet. This doesn't seem right to him.
______________________________

Up ahead, Foghorn and Fritz spot a dot on the horizon.

Tasha gripped her shotgun tighter as the aliens came closer. In her mind, she was back in hell, trapped in agony and smelling the sharp tang of her own blood. With a cry she leapt out of cover shotgun firing. A Jackal flew backwards, she turned and brought the butt of her shotgun down smashing in a Grunt's face, swiftly a gleaming dagger was thrown and it embedded itself in another Grunt's head, her shotgun discharged again, bringing down another Jackal.
It was then, that she chose to target the Elite. Sprinting forward Tasha fired at any aliens that got in her way, the shotgun clicked empty and she used it to swat aside a Jackal who dared to get in her way. Dropping the blood and gore covered shotgun, Tasha draw two of her knives as she leapt aiming to kill the Elite in close combat.
She was out numbered, out gunned and hopelessly trapped. There was only one choice, fight to the death. Tasha was not concerned for her survival in this fight, so only that another alien fell, so only that their blood was spilled and not another human's. For this Elite... Tasha decided that it was time that he joined the rest of his kind in death.

There is a lag in the synapses of Roadie's mind as the gunshot rings past him and his men. He, Loather, and Savior pause as the sound bounces around the narrow ravine just inches away. He looks to him men, one eye ridge arched, and then another comes. They start at it. Another. They run after it.

"Badger-Three this is Badger-One, over! Do you have contact?"

Six and a half miles away, Fritz picks up Roadie's call while he and Foghorn hurry across the sea of grain and heat to the hole in the ground. "Badger-One, we have possible engagements around the ghost signal, over! Me and Six are inbound, how copy?"

"Rodger that Fritz, we are en-route!"

Fritz keeps up the pace, Foghorn lags behind with is equipment.

"Foghorn once this is clear you get on line with the Backlash; find out why the fuck a Spartan's down here!" Fritz doesn't slow once as he talks, and his voice comes out jagged and strained. Foghorn doesn't reply, doesn't need to. Fritz rarely gave orders, but when he did they held a certain... gravity.

They draw closer to the hole. Foghorn ponders its perfect symmetry, while Fritz cocks his shotgun.
______________________________

Admiral Idowu examines the completed map. Spartan Damon was right, it looked like a nail. "Can we get a realtime map of this structure?"

"Negative, sir." Damon answers. "Not with the distorter still in place."

"Can you give me an estimate as to where it might me?"

"Judging by the area of interference" Specialist Borzilov chimes in. "I'd say on the southeast end of the structure's upper-most level."

"Then that's what we need to find. I want to get Badger team on the line now, tell them we have first-priority contact with unknown Forerunner complex, possible Covenant occupation. I want them and Kestrel-733 re-routed to the jammer's most likely location." Idowu cannot stop staring the structure. How deep it buries into the innards of the world. How well hidden it is.

"Sir..."

"Yes, Warrant Officer?"

"What about Havoc's?" Spartan Damon offers slowly.

"I'm assigning you as the primary mission asset for the warhead recovery, Damon. Roadie and his men have just been elevated to priority 1. In the meantime you will find the downed bird and get those missiles off the ground. Clear?"

Damon snaps to a salute. "Sir!"

"Then suit up." As Damon hurries out the bridge, the admiral clicks on the ship's intercom. "All hands, this is your captain speaking. We have just uncovered an anomalous Forerunner construct in our theater. I want ground teams on standby and auxiliary VTOLs ready for dust off within the hour. Geographic and communication posts are to be on-duty at all times. Out." He finishes with a quick huff of air. It makes the Backlash breathe. He returns to looking at the map as the ship springs into action around him. His hand is shaking.
______________________________

The elite major, who had been no pushover, was frozen as his squad was obliterated by the demon. His concussion rifle hits the ground through his loose fingers. There is a second when he can think. He raises an arm to draw his plasma dagger, and then a knife cuts through his elbow and nearly severs his forearm. He roars at the sudden welling of his blood, and then a second blade buries itself into his throat. He gurgles once, his healthy arm twitching, before everything goes dark and cold.
______________________________

U'Daru Itoen again hears a noise. He hears a scream. A shot. A slice. A death. He isn't sure if the others have heard but, and he doesn't care. He rushes down the metal hall where he had once slept, drawing his carbine close. Then he stops as a shield of hardlight blocks his path. A whole barrier that completely seals off the rest of the hall glimmers proudly. He drives a fist into the surface. It doesn't even ripple.

Behind him, the rest of the zealots and about forty others gather. He notices that the nodes and data-chains along the walls are no longer a fiery orange, but instead a blazing blue. There is a knot in his abdomen. Somewhere over him, on the surface, two humans reach a hole on Requiem.

Tasha stabbed the Elite twice more before backing away from the body, her grey armour, splattered with gore and blood. The first thing she did was recover her knives, wiping them clean on a nearby Grunt before, drawing her magnum.
Her heart still raced and she made her way back to the hole in the ceiling. If there where covvies down here and she had killed a squad there was bound to be more, a lot more.
She was still unable to escape the room via that way, but the light fell onto the Spartan giving her an almost fallen angel appearance.
"Hey" She said through her mike softly, praying that there where UNSC soldiers up there and not more aliens. However if the Covenant where up there too, as well as down here they would not find her unwilling to fight or willing to lay down her arms and surrender.