HALO: Evocatus

Chapter 8

CW: Gore, graphic violence, general grossness.

Kusan was in freefall, but not for long. He hit a steep incline that knocked the wind out of him, and realized he was sliding down backwards. He spun so his feet were facing down and tried to dig in his heels, but the smooth surface wouldn't give. All he could do was flail. The chute changed its incline and Kusan was thrown into the other side. It was dark and confusing and he covered his head and prayed he would encounter solid ground and not the void of space–his wish was granted and he found himself falling from the chute into yet another chamber, and crashed hard on the metal floor below.

"Ow," whimpered Kusan. "Oh gods, ow."

How many times had he fallen flat on his face now? He should be used to it.

The Elite pushed himself off the ground. It was dark here, far darker than the part of the facility he just fell from, with the only light coming from eerie Forerunner lamps inset in the walls.

And it smelled terrible.

Kusan almost retched. He could hardly describe it. Like the sickly saccharide scent of death and rot, compounded with bodily waste and stomach acid, and the faintest hint of...was that mushroom?

Breathing the odor even felt vile, like Kusan's body was rejecting it, and he had to force gulps of air into his protesting lungs. His throat felt violated, like it was squirming with worms working their way down.

It occurred to him that it might be some Human bioweapon, or worse, some ancient Forerunner deterrent system. But he had nothing to wrap around his face and block it, and his armor had no built-in filtration system, so what could he do?

A hall extended in front of him for a few dozen meters before making an abrupt turn, full of even stranger geometry than the space he just came from: there were diagonal metal bars crossing the hall, obstructions rising from the floor, and struts placed seemingly at random dotted the ceiling and hung down like stalactites. It was like this whole thing hadn't been built with lifeforms in mind.

Then again, considering the Sentinels, that was probably an accurate assessment.

Kusan scooped up his plasma pistol, covered his face with his hand, and pressed deeper into the complex. He stayed close to the walls, cautiously edging over and under obstructions, traversing the winding halls. The smell only got worse. He really hoped the squads were close so he could get out of this cosmic sewage plant.

When Kusan saw a shadowy shape before him move, he nearly leapt out of his skin. He crouched to the ground and watched the figure move around pillars. Its smooth red armor caught the limited light and glinted faintly.

Kusan breathed a sigh of relief. Finally another Sangheili!

"Hey!" he said. The other Elite froze. "Fellow Major!" he called out. "I'm here to make contact with your squad! Where's everyone else?"

The Elite turned and stepped into the light.

Kusan's scream caught in his throat.

This thing was not an Elite. It had the legs of one, but everything above its torso was twisted into a mess of tan, sickly flesh. Its head, the Sangheili's head, was tilted back at an impossible angle, mandibles hanging open, eyes looking around and focusing on nothing. Its left arm looked like it had been exploded then welded back together with extra bits of flesh tacked on, including two huge meaty tentacles where middle fingers would be. The entire body was covered in pulsing tumors and dripped some foul-smelling greenish bile–the origin of the scent.

Where the Sangheili's left heart would be, emerged a pulsating cyst with three red-tipped tendrils in the middle, waving around in the air, like they were smelling something. They were smelling something. They were smelling Kusan.