Connor, unbelievably, woke up. He had no idea where he was or what was happening. All he knew was covenant were outside the door. The pneumatics hissed as the door opened. Elites hunched over him, grinning at the find. One barked an order to a subordinate. The cyan coloured elite came forward with tools, getting to work on Connor's wounds. What was happening? Surely he must be dead, or dreaming? What was the covenant planning?
Hours passed as they diligently dealt with this crippled man who, by all rights, should be dead. They brought him back under the folds of unconsciousness with a pungent anaesthetic. The elites worked on him while the phantom landed. "Is this necessary?" one asked.
"Of course! The prophets will it, thus it will be done," the taller of the two replied.
"Cannot one of our own complete the task? Surely the Forerunners would allow the worthy to ascend the path alone. Without using filthy tools like these heretics?" The shorter proclaimed.
"We cannot begin to understand the motives of the Gods or their conduits. We are simply their instrument. What we find could send the Great Journey into its first true steps. Mercy is a gift, after all. And Gods must be generous with their gifts." With a look down at Connor, it added, "Even for vermin."
The phantom landed in a cavernous valley, thousands of feet deep. The doors opened to inky blackness, enveloping anything outside the cargo hold. The taller elite disembarked, snarling at the gluey grey mud that clung to its hooves. "Fetch the prisoner," it spat, walking forwards. They tossed Connor from the phantom into the filth. He stared into the abyss, relishing the fresh feeling of air on his fevered skin. Before he could arrange himself better, two more elites grasped his arms, dragging him towards...something. A great grey tower. Bronze accents and glowing lights penetrated the night. As he approached, vibrant blue inserts of glowing light pierced the oily darkness.
Silvery white, angular structures dominated the sky in front of him. Thousands of covenant churned the dirt, marching past the tower. Its triangular style and colour were unlike anything the covenant created. Of course, it certainly wasn't human architecture. And yet, it was strangely familiar to him. Almost like Deja Vu.
Whatever it was, he knew it was why he was alive. The elite who lead them here knelt as they arrived before a new alien. The hovering, humming chair of a prophet. It spoke softly, sounding like a hymn. Waving them aside, the elites continued their march into the open doors of the building. They had, upon Connor's approach, slid open noiselessly. He had no idea what they needed him for, but it would be unpleasant. He wished he had died.