Ask to Join HALO: CRUCIBLE

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CHAPTER ONE​

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0900 Hours, May 13, 2552 [ Military Calendar ] / Slipspace, post Fumirole, Volanus System, Artemis-class battlecruiser Night of Roses
0600 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
Log: Admiral Mikayl Varadkar​

It was the initial grogginess that he hated so much. Not the biting cold of waking up in a literal freezer, nor the hunger pangs that rumbled his stomach. It was always the grogginess. Being unable to be fully aware of his senses and surroundings. He felt foolish and blade like this, when he'd rather be alert and prepared. It was simply how the war had changed him over the years, though that didn't go without saying he wasn't always a bit of a stiff.

Peeling his eyelids apart from one another, Mikayl reached up with a hand, groping about in the cryopod for a moment, before his hands clumsily found the release hatch. He grasped the cylindrical handle, twisting the mechanism counter-clockwise, deactivating the pod's latch with a loud 'thunk', before he pushed the handle forward like one would a button. With this action, the pod let out a hiss as it pressurized with the ship outside of it. A moment later, it opened, sliding forward a few inches, before sliding upward with a mechanical whir.

It wasn't much warmer outside of the pod, many quality of life systems having been put on standby for the crew's stasis flight, as per protocol. Heating, oxygen to some areas of the ship, plumbing, electricity, all or most of it disabled until he himself would reactivate them, alongside his technicians and bridge crew. Again, as per protocol. As Mikayl emerged from his cryopod, blinking wearily in the dim overhead lights, he could see the blurry shapes of other individuals moving about, or also emerging from their own pods. It had been 3 weeks, almost exactly, since they'd entered these pods. It was all a blur at the moment, just like his vision, but what he could immediately recall was seeing the planet Fumirole up in flames, its surface tarnished into molten glass by the Covenant vessels that began to dot its skies. The Night of Roses had just barely made it out of there, having suffered minimal damage despite being in thick of naval warfare.

They'd jumped into slipspace following the one-sided battle, reports of Spartan casualties having signified the hopelessness of the battle. Slipstream space was the term referred to faster than light travel, a wormhole quite literally being torn into the fabric of reality, forced to stay open until the ship controlling such a hole could pass through. Slipspace itself was something of an unexplored enigma in-of itself, a "higher dimensional plane", some might call it. It even had some temporal side effects that had led many modern scientists to theorize that, with enough study, time travel could be discovered through the abilities of slipspace. Mikayl thought that was a load of bull. The Covenant couldn't time travel, and they were millennia more advanced than humanity were. Covenant slipspace was a lot more surgical than the UNSC Shaw-Fujikawa slipspace drive. While human technology ripped open a hole in space, Covenant slipspace drives surgically made an incision in space. It was this fact that allowed the Covenant to traverse slipspace much faster than the UNSC could. Mikayl fully expected the Covenant to be waiting for them, having no doubt followed the same path through slipstream space as the Rose had.

These lengthy times made it necessary to reduce the crew to that of a skeleton. Just a dozen or so active members to make sure the ship remained stable and operational until it came time to wake the crew, which was a necessary 0600 hours before exiting slipspace. It would allow physical and mental recovery before returning to normal space while also giving time to readjust to the conscious world, get a bite to eat, and return the ship to operational status.

Mikayl rubbed sorely at his left arm, just to the left of his bicep, feeling a gauze pad underneath his palm, and a burning sensation erupting from the contact. With a sharp hiss of pain, the admiral pulled his hand back. He'd completely forgotten to remove the gauze before entering cryo, which wasn't the best of things to do. It's the reason why you needed to be naked to enter cryosleep. Having anything cover your skin would create serious rashes, or "freezer burns" wherever your skin was covered. Rarely were there events in which somebody would not get freezer burn while in cryo. The longer you slept, the more likely you were to get burned.

Climbing out of the pod, Mikayl's bare feet stepped onto the bitter metal plating beneath him, his eyes blinking the last bits of dreariness away. He began to move, headed his way for the locker room nearby to retrieve his belongings and get dressed.​

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0400 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"​

The bridge of the Night of Roses felt strangely more open than usual. The lights, flashes, and pulses of slipstream space echoed and bounced about outside of the reinforced observation panels, though Mikayl preferred to just call them "windows" like a sane person. His bridge crew had gotten to work, re-initiating more and more of the battlecruiser's systems. A comfortable temperature was already settling throughout the ship as it became active. First to wake was the captain of the vessel, along with their bridge crew, and any necessary technicians 0600 hours before exiting slipstream space. Next to follow were any other officers on board 0400 hours before exiting slipspace. Finally, combat personnel and any civilians ob board at 0300 hours before exiting slipspace.

Mikayl had just given the order to begin waking the officers aboard the Rose, and in an hour, he'd give the order to wake all who remained. A cup of coffee was gripped in his left hand as he stood at the center of the bridge, the captain's chair behind him while he observed the tactic table, or "TacTable". Most UNSC warships had a horizontal table that could project images to manipulate and assess a situation. The Rose once had one, but Mikayl had always preferred the older, more outdated vertical glass panel. While it wasn't as three-dimensional as the new tech, this one enabled him to quickly and easily locate whatever information he needed without having to walk to the other side of the table. The readings his TacTable delivered were rough, mostly incoherent gathers based on outdated signal pulses and historic gatherings. His map was trying to compile what it could on their destination, where they'd end up just on the other end of this slipspace tunnel they traversed.

When escaping Fumirole, Mikayl had acted upon the Cole Protocol, inputting random coordinates for a slipspace trajectory. This was done to ensure the Covenant couldn't follow any ships back to any human worlds, especially not back to Earth. Cole Protocol also dictated that, if a ship were to be in any danger of being boarded, that all of its databases should be purged of knowledge, preventing the Covenant from obtaining any intel. Additionally, any shipboard AI were to be purged and their components destroyed if they were at risk of capture, though Night of Roses didn't have that issue, as the starship was without any Artificial Intelligence. While this would have been normal on most UNSC ships, Night of Roses was an Artemis-class battlecruiser, one that would benefit from an AI, but Mikayl was somewhat prejudiced against them. He wasn't comfortable with anything he couldn't shoot in the face. While this had been a source of contention with his higher-ups, his wish had been granted, and the original AI station aboard the Rose had been transferred when Mikayl had taken over.

The map was unclear. They were headed beyond human-explored space, in a system probably not yet documented, unless they arrived in open space without a system in sight. If the Covenant weren't waiting to ambush them there, then the Rose could perform a few more jumps to random locations, shake off any potential Covenant scouts, then return to a UNSC world that remained in human control. He could only hope it would be that simple.

Mikayl had stood there for so long, staring at the screen and getting lost in his thoughts, that he hadn't noticed his coffee had gone cold. It wasn't until one of hid bridge crew called out his name that he pulled himself out of his thoughts. His eyes immediately flicked to the military calendar on his TacTable, which read 1200 hours, and counting. "Wake the crew," he ordered immediately, not really needing to hear what it was his crew had been asking. They set to work, activating the Tier 3 cryobay to wake the remaining crew in preparation for an exit of slipspace.
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0300 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
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Halo: Crucible Discussion Thread

 

[Void_Nugget]

1200 Hours, May 13, 2552 [ Military Calendar ] / Slipspace, post Fumirole, Volanus System, Artemis-class battlecruiser Night of Roses
0300 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
Log: Corporal Emily Rinherst​

Waking slowly from cryo Emily immediately set about releasing herself from the pod and upon exiting the pod she noticed the sharp pain of a freezer burn where bandages had been left around a wound in her side she had sustained before they retreated. She made her way swiftly to her locker and changed into the under layer she wore beneath her Spartan armour. Upon checking the current time she deduced that things must be going OK for now as the wake up schedule hadn't been rushed. She donned her armour and glanced around her noticing a severe lack in Spartans remembering that heavy losses had occurred she bowed her head silently for a moment then marched herself to the bridge to see where she was could make herself useful.

She entered the bridge and stood out of the way of the crew but ready to react to any order on a moments notice. She glanced over to the Admiral and opted to remain quiet for now hoping her mere presence would betray her request for orders while she let the Admiral focus.
@comic

 

[EnviousWorm]

Approx. 0900 Hours, May 13, 2552 [ Human Military Calendar ] / Slipspace, CAS Divine Declaration
0600 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
Akaz 'Trevamee
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Yet another glorious success, the dance of a planet turned to glass by the might of the Covenant. Shipmaster Akaz 'Trevamee felt as though he could grab the entire human resistance between his mandibles and crush them into nothing all on his own. From the bridge of the beautiful Divine Declaration, Akaz led his newly-formed Minor Fleet of Grand Convergence on what little of the puny human race that had meekly fled their fate. First, it was six ships; soon, it'd be sixty, then six-hundred — the divine fate of the shipmaster, Akaz felt it every time he closed his hands around open air, like his destiny awaited him to take control. And here he was.

"Human slipspace trajectory is mapped, shipmaster," a Sangheili working on Akaz's bridge noted, speaking from directly in front of the shipmaster. "Do we proceed with supersession?"

Superior in every way, as long as the Covenant could track the humans entering slipspace (they could), they had the ability to "supersede", or "overtake" human ships in slipspace simply because their drives could get them where they needed to go faster than a human could even dream of. Akaz knew this — but he knew the humans knew this. Though a blip in the lifespan of the Covenant, this war had born an entire generation of the weaker race who knew nothing but their homelands turning to glass before their very eyes.

"The Divine Declaration will move ahead with supersession, cut off the weaklings on their path," he said, leaning forward a bit to look at his own tactical readouts and other projections. "The rest of the fleet will split in two and move along either side of the humans. We'll crush them. Glory to the Covenant, glory to the Prophets."

As his bridge repeated his short prayer, Akaz 'Trevamee bowed his head. Finally, the shipmaster opened up his comms.

"Chieftain Trition, to the bridge," Akaz said, trying to speak with a righteously calm cadence that might not disturb the easily disturbed Jiralhanae. Just as he'd ordered his fleet to follow the humans into slipspace, he'd ordered the Brute off the bridge to prepare the troops. Now that he could assume they were well-prepared, it was time to recall the commander to a good portion of his soldiers. Without mentioning so, he moved from addressing an individual, to his entire ship (which would then be relayed to every other ship in the fleet as well.) "I want all plasma cannons and strikecraft online and operational in two units. I don't prepare to leave enough of the humans to board, but you'll be ready if we must. Glory or our might. Glory to the Prophets. Glory to the Covenant."

Akaz bowed his head a second time, as the bridge crew repeated his small prayer once again.

1200 Hours, May 13, 2552 [ Military Calendar ] / Slipspace, post Fumirole, Volanus System, Artemis-class battlecruiser Night of Roses
0300 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
Corporal Giacomo "Jackie Griz" Grizziolo
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Already out of the tin cans for a couple hours, Jackie had spent his waking moments slipping and sliding around a mostly-empty cryo-bay, cursing the day his kind ever invented space travel and the need to freeze themselves. After that, though, he had a shot of rye and a cigarette and went about his general duties: filling gas canisters and fueling up Warthogs in need of refueling; cleaning out some heavily-used weapons from Fumirole; inventorying ammunition and reloading mags with the right bullets; hell, he even got started on a report for Fireteam Plumber — offering his view of his squad's involvement in yet-another human military defeat, and yet-another lost planet, and yet-another KIA squad member. At least it hadn't been all of them.

Jackie sighed. He couldn't believe what three hours of quiet time could do for a man. What he'd gotten done alone in three, might have taken six if the rest of the squad had been around, bullshitting and laughing, trying to feel normal in the heat of an almost-lost war. Of course, if he'd put his foot down like a Corporal should, it could be done in an hour. That seemed to be his problem, though.

Finally, at 1200, it seemed Admiral Varadkar had given the command. Even from a different area of the ship, Jackie could hear the vicious hiss of hundreds (or thousands?) of cryo-pods shifting open at once. He liked not having to be around a few dozen strangers all waking up, buck-naked and confused as hell from untold hours of cryogenic freezing. The Corporal gave it another ten minutes for people to gather themselves, get dressed and get to work before he set out to find the rest of Fireteam Plumber, now down to just him and two others: PFC Jonah "Coma" Wessesseson (named so for his ability to space out at odd times, and his inability to wake up on time,) and PFC Petrus "Shiner" Penkovich (a mocking nickname given because Petrus tried to spread a rumor that he gave a Spartan-II a black-eye in a boxing match for credit when he first joined the Marines.)

As much as he'd gotten done alone, there was plenty more the three of them had to do to get Plumber, and the rest of the Night of Roses, ready for another potential showdown with the Covenant.

 

[Psymallard]

1200 Hours, May 13, 2552 [ Military Calendar ] / Slipspace, post Fumirole, Volanus System, Artemis-class battlecruiser Night of Roses
0300 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
Log: Private First Class Caleb Miller​

Caleb was taken from his unconscious state with a hiss, as his cryo pod opened to not his home, but the cold interior of a military space cruiser. That's when the events of Fumirole came flooding back, and dread gripped him just as tightly as before the Night of Roses had entered Slipspace. He stepped out of the pod among many others, all naked, none smiling. Caleb took a moment to remember his responsibilities, and went to attend to them with haste. While dressing himself, he thought back to what Fumirole was like.
It was his first big battle, most fieldwork he had up until that point was supporting Spartans to clean out small platoons of Covenant soldiers. But Fumirole was a real battle, where he saw comrades' heads get blown off three feet away from him, instilling both long-lasting fear and the guilt that Caleb thanked God that it wasn't him. He continued with his routine, and then went and blended in with the rest of the soldiers in his rank, although the group was smaller and less impressive than freshly supplied platoons he'd been assigned to in the past.

 

[comic]

1200 Hours, May 13, 2552 [ Military Calendar ] / Slipspace, post Fumirole, Volanus System, Artemis-class battlecruiser Night of Roses
0300 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
Log: Admiral Mikayl Varadkar​

Once again, time began to tick by, a feeling of unease strengthening among most of those on the bridge, so strong you could feel the nerves wracking off each individual---each, save for the Spartan standing off to the side, her legs slightly parted as her hands rested behind her back, just against the bottom of her spine. Her Air Assault MJOLNIR Mk.V was an imposing sight, even for a commanding officer and ally like Mikayl. It was painted a dark green, and the Admiral could almost imagine the Spartan slinking into a forest so quickly, so silently, so skillfully, that he'd have never even noticed her move in the first place. It would be like she'd just... disappeared. That's what he'd heard about Spartans. While Emily-B028 had been aboard this ship longer than he had, and operated directly under his command, he'd never personally seen her in combat. In fact, he was intimidated by her. Any sane individual would be. There was a reason why the Covenant called the Spartans "Demons".

She was awaiting orders, and though Mikayl knew that, he had no orders yet to give. Not for a few more hours at least. He'd known Emily-B028 to stand in that spot for hours before. She was like a machine. He wasn't even sure if any of the Spartans were even remotely human.

An hour passed. 0200 hours before exiting slipspace. Needless to say, the thickness of anxiety in the air was almost overwhelming, though the Admiral kept himself level. If they lost the psychological battle, then they'd have no chance before the real fighting could begin.

Another hour passed.

Mikayl elected that now was the best time. Give an hour to prep, rebuild confidence, encourage psychological victory. Everyone needed to be battle-ready stat.

On the console before him, the Admiral reached forward and tapped a small, silver button. Ship-wide comms, used for announcements to all crew members. That single tap activated the speakers throughout the Rose, calling attention to the crew with a short chime-like beep.

"Night of Roses, we've had a hard blow," he began, his eyes gazing blankly through the glass screen of his TacTable. "A long voyage," he added. "...We've got a broken ship and half a crew remaining."

It wasn't the most hopeful start to any speech. In fact, it was quite the opposite, though the Admiral was never known to sugar coat anything. He was truthful as they came, even if the truth wasn't necessary.

"When we drop out of slipspace, the Covies are gonna be waiting for us on the other side. They're gonna think we're slim pickings. Easy prey. A routine mission..." Mikayl scoffed out loud at this. "We might have a broken ship. We might have half a crew. But we have something they don't- courage. Grit. Something worth fighting for. We're not gonna roll over for these squid-head bastards. We are NOT easy prey. We are NOT slim pickings. When we show up, we're gonna send each and every Covie ship dumb enough to even say hello right back to the holes they crawled out of, and then we'll blast 'em all to hell. Then? We'll go home. All of us. Get ready for combat, Night of Roses. We've got a helluva fight ahead of us. Battle stations!"

He raised his finger from the comm button, sliding his hands back behind him into parade rest, squinting forward as the bridge crew clapped, a few calling out "hooyah", a Navy battle cry. In fact, if Mikayl didn't know any better, he could swear he heard a chorus of various military cries elsewhere, followed by clapping and cheering from others.

It wasn't the greatest of speeches, but that's not what he was known for. All he had to do was give them hope. Mikayl knew that most people wouldn't believe his words. They were at a severe disadvantage, but it was the motivation his words could give. That motivation could be used to thin whatever Covenant numbers they could. And if they somehow won? Then the Admiral's words wouldn't seem quite as hollow anymore.

At least it had lifted the veil of anxiety on the bridge.

Turning to Spartan Emily, Mikayl stowed his intimidation of her. "Spartan," he spoke, and she stood a little straighter, something he didn't think possible with his straight she'd been standing in the first place. "Head to the hangar, get yourself a Longsword---make that a stealth one. You're my trump card here. Any ships try to come close, your job is to kill their engines, and let us handle the rest."

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Eighth Cycle, 249 Units, 53rd Revolution of the 9th Age of Reclamation ( Covenant Battle Calendar ) / Aboard Assault Carrier, Divine Declaration
6 Units before the discovery of the Holy Relic; "Crucible"
Trition​

The length of the ornate weapon was snug in his grip, thick fingers sliding across the old metal, feeling the intricate and ornate designs carved over its surface. While any ignorant member of the Covenant could call such a weapon a "gravity hammer" in the most simplistic sense, this weapon was far more than that. It was the Breaker of Mold, a weapon that his grandfather had crafted out of the finest steels back on the home planet of Doisac. Breaker of Mold's carvings were to do with the amount of kills made with the weapon. To the untrained eye, it would be impossible to tell that the tally marks weren't all by the same person. Simple scratches into the metal is what signified a kill, but an angry red carving was made if ever there was an important kill. Breaker of Mold bore over a hundred scratches, but only two of those were red. The first was Trition's grandfather, when his son had slain him. The second was his father, when Trition had slain him. Upon doing so, Trition had returned to Doisac, located the War Forge where Breaker of Mold had been created two generations ago, and burned the second red mark into the metal.

Breaker of Mold was his sign of authority. Of power. Of respect. He was the leader of his own pack, and he was an old one at that. Years ago, he'd dreamed of his own son following in familial footsteps. He'd hoped his son would murder him and continue the legacy---but it was not so. His son had been weak. Their battle had left the younger Jiralhanae dead, murdered by his own father. Now, Trition had plenty of other children, he was not at risk of running out any time soon, but this had been his favorite son. So with his victory, Trition mourned, and continued to lead his pack, hopeful that one day, a better Jiralhanae may take his place.

That day had yet to come.

The sleek metal of the metallic floor beneath him boomed with each heavy footstep Trition took, his full battle armor fastened over his body, his grip lovingly tight upon Breaker of Mold. The shipmaster had ordered him earlier to prep their troops. Trition had followed orders, of course, though not out of any respect for his Sangheili superior. He did it to show off his pack. He had been working them hard to show off how disciplined and brutal they had become, though this show was not for the shipmaster. It was instead for a minor Prophet once they returned to Covenant space, and the hopes that his pack would get a promotion off of this ship, and be given their own vessel. He was getting old, after all, and when he died he wanted to leave his pack with something special. He figured a Covenant warship was the best gift the dead could give.

Of course, none of the Sangheili soldiers listened to Trition. Self-righteous fools stuck their mandibles up at him as he walked by, barking his orders. They ignored him. The Kig-Yar and Unggoy weren't much better. While the Unggoy could be scared into obedience, their inherent quarrel with the Kig-Yar made things extremely difficult in close-quarters.

A smooth hum sounded, followed by a light click, and the door to the bridge slid open, parting either way with a blink of pink lights. If the shipmaster hadn't heard him coming before, the sound of booming footsteps was unmistakable now. Trition stomped his way to the shipmaster, being as subtly distracting as possible for the sole intention of pissing off the Sangheili crew, before he came to a stop only a couple meters from the shipmaster. With the crinkle of his nose, a blatant sign of disgust, Trition dropped calmly onto a knee, a sign of respect for a decorated superior, even if he hated doing so for such a vile, putrid creature.

"I have done as you've requested, your excellency," Trition seethed out the last word as though it were a slur he was spitting out, though his composure showed no signs of hostility. It was not uncommon for Sangheili and Jiralhanae to openly dislike one another, after all.​

 

[=Nightshade=]

1200 Hours, May 13, 2552 [ Military Calendar ] / Slipspace, post Fumirole, Volanus System, Artemis-class battlecruiser Night of Roses
0300 Hours before the "Crucible Incident"
Log: Lance Corporal Alistair Blake​

Alistair swung her legs up and out of her cryo pod, wanting to spit on the ground, but mouth too dry to muster the spare saliva. She blinked furiously, annoyed at the fuzziness in her vision that kept her from focusing. For a sniper, blindness was death… as she witnessed firsthand, one of her team members blown to bits at her side, too distracted to notice the shell heading towards them. She shivered, telling herself it was just the cold metal floor under her bare feet as she moved unsteadily to retrieve her uniform.

Alistair was just securing her jacket around her waist and reaching for her rifle when the Admiral’s voice crackled to life over the intercom. She sat a little straighter at his first words, as if to honor the fallen, then when the message was finished, she fell back into a slouch with a harsh, raw laugh. “Yeah,” she muttered dryly to herself, hiking her rifle up onto her shoulder and standing. “Blast ‘em to hell. That’s something I can do, at least.” She shook her head as she left the lockers, heading to her battle station. Her grim smile turned feral as she clipped on the last of her earrings. “Hooyah, bitches.”