Chapter Text
The Shadow of Intent had always meant something. The assault carrier had been young when the Covenant first found Balaho and assimilated the methane-breathing Unggoy, and that had been centuries ago. Like all grand ships she was rich with symbol and memory, her hull was scarred with her many long years of service alongside the fresh wounds of the conflict over Earth, and taking her had been more than just a tactical victory for the newborn Fleet of Retribution. Shadow of Intent was their flagship, the bloody banner around which the separatist shipmasters rallied. If any of them survived this, Shadow of Intent would be sung in memory long after all of its crew were gone.
When the Arbiter walked these decks and thought about what they meant, what he had done and what he still had yet to do, something wound tight between his paired hearts. Explosive potential wrapped and bound, stored kinetic energy, a weapon awaiting fire.
Awaiting.
Three weeks’ voyage through slipspace was very little time to prepare for the end of all things, and three weeks’ voyage through slipspace was also an eternity. It was enough to make him almost understand why the humans froze themselves for long journeys. Almost. It remained an unthinkably alien practice to him. The Covenant had killed many humans that way, the ships taken before the fighters could even be given a chance to wake. A Sangheili warrior could scarcely imagine a more ignoble way to die.
Notably, none of the humans had frozen themselves for the voyage to the Ark. There was too much to be done, establishing the first allied fighting force between humans and Sangheili. Thel also doubted any of them would have been able to rest easy in the belly of a Sangheili assault carrier. Had their positions been reversed, he would not.
The hangar of the Shadow of Intent, where the Arbiter now arrived, was massive. Even so, the human frigate Foward Unto Dawn would ordinarily have jockeyed for space with hundreds of small craft. A carrier this size was supposed to bear dozens of Seraph fighters and Phantom dropships, hundreds of Banshees and Ghosts, and even three Scarab platforms. Their numbers, however, were greatly reduced. The human ship fit more than comfortably, and the extra space would have been impossible to disguise. It stood as testament to what the Great Schism had already cost the Sangheili.
Thel’s commanders were putting it to use coordinating with human leaders (confusing and unintuitive though their rank structure may be) to learn to fight beside one another. They had created a small battlefield and ran mixed teams of Sangheili and humans against one another in skirmishes over a pair of flags. One such battle was ending as the Arbiter approached. Paint-spattered Elites and humans trickled to the sidelines, the “casualties” settling into loose huddles. Unsurprisingly, there were very few of these that mixed species.
“These human methods are too soft, and these training weapons are ridiculous. You burden my men unfairly in this way.”
Thel could not miss the voice of Yaras ‘Porun, or the golden sheen of his armor. He towered over the human opposite him. Though Thel did still struggle to tell some humans from one another, Sergeant Major Avery Johnson was unmistakable. There were very few who would stand so calmly under the scowl of a Sangheili fieldmaster, especially one who was in rare form these days. It was hard to take the knowledge of the Prophets’ betrayal. It was even harder for one as devout as Yaras had been. That he had mastered himself enough to interact on civil terms with the humans at all spoke well of his force of will.
“Begging your pardon, fieldmaster, but I didn’t think the Sangheili would need anybody to teach them how to shoot. The point of what we’re doing here is joint tactics.”
Yaras flexed his mandibles and made a frustrated noise in his throat, but then his eyes landed on Thel.
“The Arbiter approaches,” he said.
“I do.” Thel eyed the fieldmaster and the sergeant major. “Is there trouble?”
Yaras glanced at Johnson, then flicked his mandibles in a negative gesture. “No, Arbiter. We were discussing outcomes.”
“Just comparing notes on training,” Johnson confirmed coolly. A buzzer sounded and the both of them turned toward the maze of barriers, shields, and scrap behind them. Standing on a round plinth at the far end was a single figure bearing a red flag.
The Master Chief planted the flag pole. His mirrored visor turned toward Johnson, Yaras, and Thel. He was impossible to read behind it, but Thel almost imagined he could feel the Spartan’s eyes focusing on him, specifically.
The moment ended.
The Master Chief hopped lightly down, and headed off the other side of the simulated battlefield. While the “wounded” along the sides were engaged in the grumbling soreness of people much-exerted, the Spartan moved with an effortless grace. There hadn’t been a single fleck of colored paint on the dull green armor.
“I was not aware the Spartan was participating,” said Thel.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Johnson. “We put everyone against him. Thought it might be a good test of cooperation.”
“I see we still have work to do.”
There was no need to say more. Neither the fieldmaster nor the sergeant major disagreed.
“Unless my Arbiter requires me, I will retrieve the recording of this skirmish for review,” said Yaras. The fieldmaster was making a tactical retreat, and Thel thought it prudent to let him keep his dignity in that. Let Yaras get away for a little to calm himself, and all would benefit with him.
“I ask nothing, fieldmaster. Retrieve the recording. I’d like to see it later.”
The fieldmaster dipped his head in acknowledgment, awkwardly including Johnson in the motion, and departed.
“They are improving,” said Johnson. He gestured for the Arbiter to walk with him, and Thel complied. It was slow going, matching his stride to the much shorter legs of the human. “They managed to hold the Chief off a little longer today.”
“Does he always disappear when he realizes I’m around?” asked Thel.
“Who, your fieldmaster?”
“No, the Spartan.”
It had only just occurred to him, and he had immediately discovered that something about it bothered him.
Johnson shrugged, a motion the Arbiter was growing to recognize. “Why, you want him for something?”
Thel had come to like this about Johnson. He was personable, it helped lessen the insanity of how they were on speaking terms at all. It also meant Thel let himself be a little bit honest.
“I am beginning to wonder if I’ve caused him some personal offense.”
Johnson snorted. “Do you see him talking to any of the rest of us?” He didn’t give Thel space to answer, shaking his head. “No, Arbiter. That man’s going through some things. I’d put down good credits that you are the least of ‘em.”
Thel remembered the way the Spartan had reacted to the message from the construct he’d left behind on High Charity. The sergeant major continued, dipping his fingers into a pocket and withdrawing one of the rolled gatherings of dried herbs Thel now understood some humans liked to smoke. “Besides, he just embarrassed the hell out of a couple squads’ worth of people. Better not to hang around when all the chips on shoulders are for you.”
“Chips on shoulders?” The Arbiter had been focused on the Forward Unto Dawn, but now he inclined his head toward Johnson with the question. “I have the words, but no translation.”
“Means somebody’s looking for a fight to prove something. I’d be surprised if your people don’t have some old turn of phrase that means the same thing, I think we got it in common.” Johnson’s fire-starting device clicked softly as he lit the cigar.
“There is much we share,” Thel acknowledged. It made all of this easier in some ways, but it also stung a little more. “Keep clear of Yaras ‘Porun for a time.”
Johnson blew out a thread of smoke. “You don’t gotta tell me twice.”
“He was a warrior of great honor under the Prophets, and recent events have been hard for him. Many of my men are the same.”
It went without saying that Thel was one of them. Johnson was graceful enough not to call it out.
“You don’t gotta apologize to me for ‘em. But I appreciate the level head, Arbiter, I really do.”
“How fare the humans, sergeant major?” This was what passed for polite conversation, now.
“About how you’d expect,” said Johnson. “We’re holed up in a Covenant ship with a bunch of ex-Covenant Elites flying to the end of the universe to fight monsters for the fate of everything. At least back home it was with good Earth dirt under our boots. There’s psychological value in that. You?” He pointed the burning end of the cigar toward Thel.
“My people held glorious and holy purpose for thousands of years. Now, our only mandate is survival. It is…” Thel carefully considered some words for a moment, “…an adjustment.”
“You should go into politics when this is over,” said Johnson, shaking his head. “Because that is one hell of an understatement.”
There was space to make a joke here, to keep letting this strange cameraderie ride, but Thel had a real question now: “Is that not usual for human warriors?”
Johnson’s brows rose. “Is it usual for Sangheili ones?”
“Yes.”
Johnson went quiet, breathing more smoke. He stopped to watch two human soldiers struggle at pushing a flipped Ghost upright, until a Sangheili minor came over to add his own shoulder. For a moment, the three stood together and looked at the righted vehicle.
“If I just asked you something about your people, you’d be able to tell me, huh?” said Johnson finally.
“I might, if I did not think it dangerous,” Thel replied. Then, he ventured just a little further. “And if I asked you about humans?”
The minor took a step away from the human soldiers. One said something to him, though they were not near enough for Thel to hear. The Elite paused, clapped his mandibles awkwardly, and replied as he left. Thank you. You’re welcome.
“Listen,” said Johnson. He spoke a little more slowly. This wasn’t just banter anymore. “I don’t know what passes for dangerous when you’re as big as you, but I got a lot of secrets that it is my duty to the good folks of the UNSC Marine Corps that I keep. It has also served us real well as a species these last couple decades not to say a damn thing to any alien, no matter how nice he asks.” Here, he paused to put out the cigar against the edge of a metal sheet that acted as a barrier to the practice field. “But the way I see it is: if guys like you and guys like me are gonna get along, we’re gonna need to understand one another on the basics. So." He waved the cigar to cool it and stowed it back in its pocket as he finished: “If you want to talk to me sometimes and ask about stuff any flap-jawed rookie with more rounds in his magazine than brains in his head would know, I don’t see a reason not to tell you.”
The Arbiter tipped his head to eye Johnson speculatively. This was... trust? And Johnson meant it, looking him right back in the eyes in the way that humans did when they wanted to be understood. Thel took a moment to just feel the weight of that. Of the few humans he'd begun to know, he respected the sergeant major particularly highly. This was important, even if Thel didn't know exactly how.
But he wanted to.
“I feel that anything similar would not be a threat to Sanghelios, sergeant major," he said.
“Good." Johnson's smile was not large, but Thel hoped he knew enough of the man to be right about its sincerity. "Then we have ourselves a deal. First thing to know about humanity is when you make one of those, you shake on it.”
Johnson held out one hand.
“I have seen this ritual,” said the Arbiter. He gripped the extended hand in his own, careful. It was an awkward arrangement, given the differences in the numbers and shapes of their fingers. “It is done this way?”
“Yeah, but firm up a bit. Don’t break my hand, mind, I need it, but you gotta show somebody you mean it.”
The Arbiter did, and they shook.