[i]I hope I can find a ride, or its going to be a long walk,[/i] he thought glumly. The Janjur Qom district was dozens of leagues away; even for a fit Sangheili at speed, that would take hours. In this mob, longer. Time he couldn't afford, not while Savara was in Pel's clutches. "Stop pushing!" an official bellowed from up high, perched upon the edge of a phantom. If it were Ahkrin in his place, he'd find a jump pack, leap up there and hi-jack the ship before anyone realised what was happening. All Sorran could do was stare forlornly at it. "Continue [i]slowly[/i] and follow this phantom!" The crowd didn't even know where they were being led, and still they followed like sheep after a shepherd. True then, that a mob has the collective mentality of a small child. A raised voice from above is all that's needed to manipulate it into submission. And indeed, Sorran felt like he were in a flock; boxed in by members of the constabulary - their faceless wall barricaded in the people, and he saw energy batons hanging from their sides as well as dormant shield barriers. They were ready for a riot. "... served for five years, including instances of crowd control," he picked out the voice from the crowd, and looked over to it. A Sangheili of strong posture was conversing with one of the constabulary, and he wasn't being shoved away and growled at. Sorran picked through the dense wall of people to hear better. "You sure you want to sign up for this?" one of the constabulary asked in disbelief. "It's chaos here." "I have a duty to the Covenant," the Sangheili replied proudly. "In times of crisis, we must all do our part." "Alright," the constable caved finally, turning to someone behind him. "Jaqu'ee, sort this man out with riot gear and brief him on the situation. He'll be helping us out." "A civilian?" Sorran heard a voice come back skeptically, and saw the constable towards the front shake his head. "A warrior on relief, so you show some respect. He has a ton more field experience than you, and actually knows how to hold a weapon. Now snap to it! We need every man we can get." The soldier was ushered into the pack of Sangheili constables, and soon disappeared into their midst. Sorran took a look back at the crowd he was trapped in. [i]Looks like I've found a way out.[/i] He marched towards the constable who had just interned the soldier, and drew himself up to full height. The constable eyed him up and down, a brow raised behind his helm. "Back in line, sir. Any questions you have will be answered once we reach the destination." Sorran feigned offense, and looked about him with an air of arrogance he'd so often seen Hem wear; the casual cockiness of a man who knows he's better than others. "Some gratitude you stationers have," he scowled. "Is that how you treat all warriors of the Covenant?" The constable straightened immediately, and seemed to see Sorran for the first time. He felt appraising eyes roam up and down his body. "Another?" he asked, as if he scarcely believed chosen warriors would lower themselves to offering help to the constabulary. "What's your class?" [i]Minor,[/i] Sorran almost said, but that life was dead and buried long ago. He was more than that, even after all that had happened in the last few days. "Honour Guard," he uttered smugly, and smirked when he felt a dozen or so eyes suddenly fixate upon him. A chain of whispers swept amongst the nearby people, and he saw the constable's eyes widen. "An... an honour guard?" he spluttered, as if he could scarcely believe it. And then, shrewdly: "Why aren't you protecting your master? I'm sure they could use you right now." "My reasons are my own," Sorran impressed, throwing some grit into his voice. He saw a flash of fear across the constable's face, fear reflecting in the man's body language as his hands squirmed. "It has little bearing on the now. I am here, I am able, and I am willing. If you will have me." "Of course, sir," the constable stammered out. The man had to be older than Sorran, but his address was that of a child to an elder. "Gladly, sir. I'll take you to my commanding officer right away, he'll want to see you." [i]I almost forgot how honour guards are viewed by the general populace,[/i] Sorran mused as he was escorted through a barrage of constables, leaving the sheep and its shepherd far behind. [i]I doubt an honour guard has ever so much as spat in this man's direction, much less talk to him.[/i] A considerable advantage, in this case. The constable babbled on to him about the current state of affairs; the station was a mess - minors were in positions of command, the aristocracy had gone to ground and most of the constabulary had been still in the academy not too long ago. "It'll be good to have a man who knows what he's actually doing in charge," the constable yammered on. Sorran nodded curtly as he followed the man through hastily assembled barricades and outposts that had been erected around High Charity to deal with the crisis. "Your commanding officer," Sorran began to ask. "Does he have access to any requisitions?" "Yes sir," the constable reported. "We've got weapons aplenty; lethal and non-lethal, light ground vehicles and even a few aircraft. We haven't strictly been given clearance to use it all, but at a time like this you've got to do away with the red tape, right?" "The councillor I serve would say otherwise," Sorran chastised, earning a bit of pleasure from how the constable suddenly went bright red. "But on this occasion you have my agreement. I'll puzzle out how best to distribute our resources with your commanding officer." "Yes sir. Glad to hear it, sir; I didn't know what to do if the humans started attacking the city." [i]... You'll be fighting them off with one less banshee, when I'm gone. Sorry about that, constable, but needs must.[/i] * It was not the first time Pel had been subjected to an unshielded void rupture; the familiar queasiness had struck him, and he'd thrown himself on his hands and knees to vomit, steeling himself and straining to remain conscious. After a few moments, the sensation had passed and he'd found himself the last man standing amongst a clutter of inert fools; even the great Imperial Admiral Grymar'ee had proved too weak to handle the naked jump, tongue hanging from his mouth like some slack-jawed fool as he lay atop the Jiralhanae he'd been struggling with. [i]Descol'ee,[/i] Pel decided, a gut instinct telling him it was the only answer; this was too well-timed to be an error of the staff, and if there had been an impulse jump planned he'd have known about it, as Knife of the hierarchs. [i]Former[/i] Knife, rather. He looked over at the motionless Jiralhanae who'd been sent to kill him - Tartarus' ilk, that much was clear. His pack distinguished themselves through their disgusting, unkempt hair and took pride in the fact that they didn't clothe themselves in power armour. A pity for him; it might have provided some shielding against the void radiation. And then there was Orpheus. He looked vaguely familiar, but Pel couldn't quite place it. Whoever the man was, he'd saved their lives. [i]Time to get to work.[/i] Pel reached into a fold in his armour, and produced a hilt of smoothest steel. He touched a glyph and its tip quickly morphed into a keen and tapered end, sharp as any dagger forged by the finest of blacksmiths would be. He proceeded to dance between the Jiralhanae with a practiced efficiency, sinking the blade into the jugular of each Jiralhanae; a soft gurgle escaped from each of their sleeping throats as they died. He stopped just short when the vermilion-stained blade reached Orpheus' neck, and decided against it. Not out of any compassion or gratitude, but curiosity. This most strange Jiralhanae had fought his own kind for them, a rare thing. No, Orpheus would live for now. But Grymar'ee. Pel smiled slyly as he bounced over to the aged Sangheili, and in his unconscious state the man looked every one of his years: his lips curled back to reveal yellowed teeth, relaxed muscle sagged and his eyes seemed to sink into dull pits. He laughed as he kicked Grymar'ee in his side. This would be a death he would not hesitate over. Pel positioned his blade above the man's eye, and prepared to drive it in as he would a chisel. Suddenly, he saw Grymar'ee face contort and a spluttering came from his mouth; the man began to shift underneath Pel's weight, and he felt his phantom toes itch with fear. Pel quickly sprang to his feet and agonised for a few moments. Ultimately, he decided to risk was too great; if his shielding was still active and his blade was knocked aside, it might snap Grymar'ee alert and then it would all be over. Instead, he holstered the weapon and backed away slowly. Pel's stumble soon turned into a sprint away from the Janjur Qom district, and he wondered what his next move would be. His life as Truth's personal grim reaper was over, that much was clear. A petty part of him longed to take revenge upon the man who had ruined his life, but he knew that would be suicide - the sanctum was too heavily fortified. His best move now was to leave this station, before the humans attacked. [i]... the humans.[/i] Pel knew what to do, then. Find a ship, and leave this station. Head towards Harvest. He didn't need a knife to take his revenge on the hierarchs - all he needed were the secrets that the prophets would have him killed over. [i]I imagine the humans would pay handsomely for such information. It might change the war's tide, after all.[/i] *