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The Mother of all Battles: Prologe.
Posted By: Andres<andres_vera2000@yahoo.com>
Date: 15 April 2005, 5:42 AM

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Somewhere in the Covenant controlled Space
High Charity
Ninth age of Reclamation

The Prophet hovered speedily over the purple floor, yellow beams of hot led randomly passed around him, the attackers were relentless on their task, the murder of him and the Destruction of the Covenant. "Go holiness we will hold them here!" screamed Nayase, his personal Sangheili guard Master. He pressed the lever on his console forward and accelerated away from his escorts and most importantly from the unseen pursuers.
       "Away sire, away!" the little Grunt passed him by growling in anger. He made a right turn by the painting of the former Prophet Joy.

       Something was not right.

       The corridor led to the hangar, and then yet there was a brick wall there. All the battle sounds had disappeared in the blink of an eye, He traversed right on his perfectly balanced vehicle, only footsteps creeping to his position echoed by the corner of the blocked corridor.

       "By the fair of the Brute!"
       The attacker was then revealed, it was a inferior being. A human. The eyes of the Creature flamed as it approached him, every step sounding rarely hard.
       "You mind this puke?" said the Human; he raised in his right hand the head of the purple Elite. "Argh!" it screamed as he attacked him.

"By the Forerunner!" the sweat had soaked his sleeping dress; he raised his fragile neck looking for his attacker. There was nothing to see on the dark room. Light flooded the room as Nayase entered room holding his Energy sword on his right arm.
       He was followed by two Grunts who entered the room with uncharacteristic coolness. "Is there something troubling you, great Holiness," said the Elite in his battle stance.
       "Oh no my dear protector, just a dark dream."
       The Elite took a long look at his Master, he bowed, "yes, oh lord."

The chattering of the aristocrats filled the Chamber before the Council was adjourned. The Prophet Blossom hovered in his chair over the sacred floor of the high ranking Prophets thinking of the dream of the previous night. He was a religious being, and for what he knew this was an omen, an epiphany on times to come.
       The room silenced as the announcer walked into the Chamber. "His greatness, Master of Covenant's Army, Ornus' Kapaffi."
       The Golden Elite gained entree into the Council's Chamber, the Sangheili and Prophets on the stands on his flank burst into cheers. The Veteran warrior was not flattered or moved by the celebration of him, he climbed the stairs into the podium; just by the way he walked it was clear. He was a born warrior.
       Blossom raised his hand and the room silenced immediately.
       "Your great Covenants, I here bring my unworthy presence into your holy room worthy of believe," he knelt and bowed.
       "What brings you here," began Blossom with his old and tired voice. "Our great warrior."
       "The Forerunners again had showed their guidance in this Holy crusade to eradicate the Human infection." He raised his head proudly, "we have found an infested planetary System."
       The Elites and Prophets in the room silently chattered, approval was the tone in the room.
       "I'm here to plea our case, an attack to clean the System."
       "Aye, let's clean it!" screamed a random Prophet; the room erupted in cheers of approval and happiness.
       "Order," said Blossom, the room immediately settled.
       "The council will on a closed extraordinary discussion decide the most prudent course of action."

The decision was unanimous, or at least in theory. "Oh Yasame, I'm worried."
       The Elite snapped into alert, "is there a threat against you, holy one?"
       "No," he looked at the Elite, "but I think the next move of our Covenant, will be."

Change of Command.

1946h, January 16, 2563 (UNSC Military Calendar)
Lira Omega System, UNSC Inner Colony Control Space
Planet Omega. Joint Forces Command Center.
Big Horn Continent.

The voices echoed in the hall as the crowd vacated the conference room. The beautiful Miss Margaret Gallagher leaned against the wall of the white corridor as the unpleased crowd walked past her discussing the unsuccessful briefing by the new theatre Commander. She paid no attention to the rambling and complains of the high and middle ranking military and politicians for she knew the men, privately.
       A young officer walked by the wide doors of the room, he noticed the woman gracefully leaning by the wall. He smiled.
       "Now that went nice," said the young men sarcastically.
       "So I've heard," she said sarcastically, or better said, with no feeling at the young Navy Lieutenant.
       "He asked for you miss," he smiled, "He is really mad. Will you please follow me to his office?"
       She winked at him, and followed him down the long, white corridor.

The two Spec. Ops. escorts snapped into attention as the Lieutenant walked out of the elevator . He pay no attention at the gesture, the new Navy did not salute while on natural gravity.
       "He is waiting for you ma'am," said the soldier, the only thing moving in his rigid body were his lips. He turned around and placed his thumb on the scanner on the doorknob, the door partially opened with a loud clack. She smiled at the soldier as she entered the white room; Margaret detected a faint smile on the soldiers face as she gracefully walked past the man.
       She entered the flashy room with the same grace as always and there in the luxurious office she found the men of the hour. The old Marine, now a Marshal and Politician, shoved paperwork, the thing he hated most about his new job. The man was only forty three, yet he looked older, his standard military haircut was of shiny silver, one gray hair after every Covenant he had killed, or so he said. Yet the most flashing feature was the large scar that decorated his right cheek, the story of the origin of the mark was a mystery, and so the man as a whole was.
       "Good office," Margaret said as she sat on the comfortable leather chair, gently crossing her legs. The office was indeed good, ornamented with oak walls and roof it looked like a president's like a King's office, not a bare Marshal's. The flashiest of it all was the desk, a custom made marvel made of the finest wood ever discovered by humanity, over it hundreds of work orders, OPORDs and authorizations for different Operation Plans to be signed. The planet of witch the shiny wood came had already been turned to glass by the Covenant, another remembrance of the hatred inside him.
       "Sure," said the old men as he carefully read a contact report by one of his ships. "God I'm deep on it," he threw the paper into the desk and sighed, "I'm awfully pissed." "Lamp of," his green reading lamp died.
       "Don't like the privileges?" asked Margaret as she leaned closer to the table.
       "You know me better than that, I love all the fancy crap. I hate the shitheads in high places."
       "Yes, I do know you better than that."
       She was clear in something, in peacetime the seasoned man would have never reached his current position. He had a characteristic that the aristocracy did not like; he was completely blunt, rude and poorly educated, and more importantly there was no room for bureaucratic bullshit in his mind, but there was a reason they chosen him to defend this particular system, the most comercially important in the UNSC. He was a born killer, a fine soldier and warrior who would do anything to achieve his goal. He knew only one thing, victory. Yet the only thing he had met in thirty years was bitter defeat, at strategic levels at least.
       He turned his comfortable chair to face the view. The city dusk was the only thing he enjoyed in the day. His first day as Commander was disastrous. In the transfer of command ceremony he had screamed "incompetent" to the Sailor who dropped his saber. Later in the press conference he lost his temperament on a journalist who asked the wrong questions at the right time. The low point of the day came at the briefing with his staff; he was passively criticized by not revealing his main plan, his real plan, to defend the System. Yet it did not bothered him, if the Chain of Command chose him for this job, especially at this point of the war, they had confidence in him. An in politics for the Administration to trust someone was a weird fact.
       He turned his chair to face the beautiful young woman, he contemplated her short brown hair, dazzling blue eyes and tempting figure. "You are beautiful."
       "I know," she said with a smile, "what happened at the briefing?"
       "I didn't tell them my plan."
       "Why?" she said, interested in what the misterious men had to say.
       He made a forced smile, "if they knew my plan, they'd can me."
       "Oh yes," she said joke fully, "the mysterious Marshal Andryid Domanenko and his secrets again."
       He looked with the look of a killer at the woman. Every man who met him was at some extent scared at the sight of his piercing eyes, "this time. I mean it. It's time for someone who had the balls to do the right, better, the wrong thing."