Smooth grey walls as frictionless as the vacuum, indented markings and glyphs similar to the ones Zharn had tattooed upon his body. "We've been finding several of these in infrastructures on multiple planets," the Spartan informed Zharn in a gruff voice, walking towards one, completely confident in his ability to subdue Zharn should the need to arise. "A few months ago the UNSC [i]Spirit of Fire[/i] reported finding a place with architecture like this on Harvest. Last known records place them at Arcadia as you laid siege to it, and then they disappeared. What did they find?" "I am no philologist, demon," Zharn finally interrupted. "Just kill me and be done with it." "Section 0 have linked the... beings who built all of this to your kind," he spoke, almost to himself. Zharn didn't know what 'section zero' was but it didn't sound good. "Even now I can see on your shoulder glyphs similar to those on the walls. You call them 'the Forerunners', correct? The ones who built this cave?" [i]He obviously knows already,[/i] Zharn realised, and knew that talking could keep him alive, even if only for a little while. "Yes," he answered. "And you worship the Forerunners?" the demon asked intently, seemingly genuinely interested by this on a theological level. Zharn was surprised, he had thought the demons to be machinations designed purely for war. "We do," he admitted. "But why?" the Spartan wondered. "What is the greater purpose of your religion? How does it tie in to you wanting to wipe huma-- [i]us[/i] out?" "It does not," Zharn growled angrily, noting at the same time how the Spartan had almost spoken as if he were not human. "You are nothing in the eyes of the Forerunners; an eyesore to be eradicated so that the path to the journey can be seen with clairvoyance. When we ascend, you will be left behind--" "I've heard enough religious ramblings from your kind to last me until judgment day," the demon cut him off wearily. There was a pause for a few moments, and Zharn wondered if this was the time for his death, when finally a command cut through the silence. "Touch the wall." "What?" Zharn demanded slowly, confused by the request. The demon drew out his assault rifle, motioning with it first at Zharn and then the Forerunners architecture surrounded by stone that had formed over the tens of thousands of years around it. "Do it." Wondering if there was some trap in place, Zharn tentatively stretched a hand up to meet the Forerunner architecture as ordered and placed his hand on its surface. Nothing happened, of course. He kept his hand there for a few seconds, before looking back with a puzzled look at the demon, who was staring at the wall intently. "As I thought," he finally spoke, before grabbing Zharn by the back of his neck and pulling him away from the wall roughly, almost sending him careening back into the ground. Zharn watched the demon as he then approached the wall with an almost reverential air about him, slowly taking his gauntlet off and revealing a scarred hand with the texture of leather. "If we are nothing in the eyes of the Forerunners as you say," the Spartan began to say to Zharn with an inquisitive tone lacing his deep voice. "Then explain this." With that, the Spartan's naked hand touched the Forerunner wall in the exact same place Zharn had moments before. Except this time, something happened. Zharn felt his hearts pulsate wildly as blue lights surged out from the wall, their point of origin the place the Spartan's hands had touched. Like waxing vines, the lights wove their way across the cavern, brushing beneath Zharn's feet as they criss-crossed their way across the floor, walls and ceiling. "There's your clairvoyance," the Spartan had to speak up over the euphoric humming of the cave. Zharn only stared in awe at what was happening around him; in all the thousands of years of Covenant exploring Forerunner installations, nothing like this had ever happened. At the most they'd been able to draw out a faint flicker of life, with the assistance of Huragok. "I don't understand," Zharn uttered, fear for his life forgotten amidst the wonder of it all. "Neither do I," the Spartan confessed, before removing his hand. As quickly as they had arrived, the blue lights retreated back into their mysterious source, leaving the cave dark once more save for the faint red glow of the human flare. "But you've helped confirm a suspicion of Ackerson; that we can interact with this... Forerunner technology, and you cannot. Who'd have thought the man would be right for once?" "This was a trick!" Zharn protested, pressing his hand against the wall in an attempt to emulate the demon's evoking of his lords' marvels. Again, nothing happened. "Believe what you want," the demon replied indifferently, before drawing his rifle out. Suddenly the crushing reality of the situation Zharn was in returned, and the corpses of the Sangheili already dead returned to his vision. "Either way, I think you know now that your Covenant has not been entirely truthful with you. Interesting." "Let me walk, demon, and my fleet will not be forced to rain down fire upon this cavern," Zharn beseeched the demon desperately. The Spartan laughed. "ONI tested a SMAC round on a cavern such as this," he informed Zharn. "Some of the finer details such as glass and electronics were damaged, by the actual structure itself remained intact. I doubt even a glassing would destroy this place." Facing death, Zharn had only one option left. He charged the Spartan with a roar, his only weapon surprise. The demon had not expected his quarry to make one last bid for life, and managed to only fire a few rounds of his assault rifle before Zharn lunged for it. A bullet struck him in the shoulder and thigh, but he continued regardless, fuelled by a feral will to live. The assault rifle was sent flying through the air, towards the mouth of the cave. Both Zharn and the demon looked at each other, before each of them ran for the rifle. Zharn had always been considered fast amongst his people, but even he could not hope to match the demon, whose speeds nearly matched those of a Warthog. At the mouth of the cave, a blistering snow behind highlighting the sharp, dark curves of his specialised armour, the demon scooped up the rifle and in the same fluid movement levied it at Zharn, stopping him in his tracks. "Not bad," the demon praised, a little out of breath from the sudden exertion. "But you're no Spartan, split-jaw. Do you know why we're called that, Elite?" "No," Zharn retorted sharply, not really caring at this point. His last desperate grasp for life had been torn away, and now he was at the end. "We're called Spartans because like those at Thermoplya over three thousand years ago, we're all that stands between the innumerable hoards and our defeat. And although every Spartan in that ancient battle may have given their lives to hold off those hordes, as I suspect we too will eventually, they bought enough time for victory to be snatched back from the jaws of defeat. As will we." "You love the sound of your voice, do you not? I care not for it myself," Zharn taunted defiantly, standing tall in the face of the great beyond. The Spartan laughed sharply. "Whether you like it or not, it's the last thing you'll ever hear. I swore I'd kill you after you threw me from those cliffs on Eridanus II. And when intelligence uploaded images of the Covenant fleet's leader, I knew it was you straight away. I lured you out here to your death, Elite. But before you die, tell me one thing." "Yes?" "What is your name?" "Thierr'ee. Zharn Thierr'ee," the defeated fleetmaster spoke proudly, seeing the sun set in the distance and paint the horizon with blood. "Die well, Zharn Thierr'ee," the Spartan spoke almost respectfully, before squeezing the trigger of the assault rifle. The rounds smashed into Zharn's chest, each one tearing a little of the life from him and casting it aside. He felt none of it. All he saw was blood spilling out from him like an ocean, gently carrying him to new shores. "To the Great Journey," he murmured out with the last of his strength, gazing up at the demon. A golden visor stared down at him like the fiery blazes of hell itself. With deliberation, the Spartan shouldered his rifle with purple hands and let his guard down. A mistake, as it turned out. Just as Zharn's eyes were about to close for the last time, something made them snap right back open. The gravity hammer's blade swung into the unsuspecting demon's helmet, nearly cleaving it clean in two. Like an inactive robot which has just been switched on, the Spartan leapt to life and ripped the caved-in helmet off being hitting the floor and rolling away several metres. Steely grey eyes burnt into the Jiralhanae who had just arrived, holding the heft of the hammer in his two hands as he faced the demon resolutely. "Orpheus," Zharn managed to croak out amidst the warm blood gargling in his throat. The Jiralhanae glanced down at him for a split-second with darting, bloodshot eyes, before returning to meet the Spartan's. "Leave now with your life," Orpheus told the demon menacingly. "Before you have not even that." "It speaks," the Spartan mocked with false-surprise. "You must have trained your pet well, Elite... no answer? Well, to be fair you are a little pre-occupied with dying--" "I heard demons were stoic killers," Orpheus interrupted. "I suppose you're the exception."