Of Guns and Gore

Heavy is the head who wears the crown

(Well this whole Coronavirus thing is kinda fucking crazy huh. I hope all of you are alright, and if you aren't, I hope you get better. This chapter is an absolute clusterfuck of perspectives and exposition, so I apologize if things get confusing. I couldn't figure out a way to improve the flow, so I just bit the bullet and posted it.

Thank you for the influx of readers and votes by the way, I appreciate them and I'm glad we're almost to 10K reads. I promise you that with all this free time now, I will have a chapter or two out before school comes back into effect. (if it does at all.) Feel free to scold me for anything I got wrong or explained poorly in this chapter, and that's all I got.)

But Shipmaster, there are still men aboard." A rather vocal General looked with a dumbfounded expression, not seeming to understand what Sisze was trying to accomplish.

"I fully understand that, it is you who doesn't understand what's to be gained by this." Sisze rose from his seat, standing to the absolute peak of his intimidating height, his golden armor adding to his frame. " Do you think the Prophets sent this entire fleet after a lone Spartan because they intended to take it lightly!?" The Shipmaster approached the General, looking him in the eyes. "I have experienced this threat first hand, and I will tell you now that hesitance will cost the lives of far more than those on that ship. Unless you want to take my position and lead your troops into a bloody demise yourself, I suggest you allow me to carry out my mission."

Any shuffling had now ceased, leaving complete quiet in the bridge. The General lowered his eyes, averting Sisze's gaze, clearly just as shocked as everyone else that the passive Shipmaster had finally seemed to have snapped. "Yes Shipmaster."

Sisze snorted and turned his back to his crowd of followers. Contact with the "Truth and Reconciliation" had ceased, leaving Sisze with the conclusion that his words were not heeded and the worst had come to pass.

"Prepare the beam. Target the energy signature and have our bombers move to destroy the stabilizers afterwards" A small pit of hesitation sat in the Sangheili's chest as he stared out of the viewport, staring at the cruiser in question. "We'll reduce them to cinders."

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"Large energy signature building quickly!" D.O.T. interrupted the speechless return to the Prowler, causing a few marines to jolt at her words. "It appears the Shipmaster wasn't kidding, he intends to glass the ship with us aboard. You boys might wanna pick up the pace."

An assortment of sarcastic responses rose from the marines, none reaching the Slayer at his place as the head of the group. He merely increased his speed to a faster and more natural run, setting the pace for those behind him.

To say it was appalling to him that this particular Covenant leader would kill his own men to kill them would be false. Such underhanded tactics seemed appropriate for someone who had failed so hard. The fact that the Shipmaster had contacted them just proved that he'd learned little from their last encounter, more concerned with appearances than results. It was sad really, to think that such incompetence passed as acceptable in the Covenant navy.

It wasnt surprising however, as the Covenant seemed bright enough to approach a dangerous enemy with caution, the alien coalition just no longer saw humanity as a true threat. Superior weaponry and numbers made them sure of victory, disregarding their enemy as a threat at all. In fact, the only thing the Covenant seemed to focus on were the Spartans, who were the easiest symbol to place upon the humans as a whole. Faster, stronger, and championed as unkillable warriors by those behind them, the super soldiers were romanticized by both sides of the war.