[i]The sound of gunfire and shrieking Hive is deafening. He doesn’t lose focus, and guns down Acolyte after Thrall with his slug rifle. Dust and bones build up in front of him and at his feet. Then the sky burns green. At the back of the line of Hive stands a colossal Hive Knight. He looks like he’s just bones and green fire. In its clawed hand is a cleaver as long as a Cabal is tall. Its edge is pitted and scarred, but the sickening emerald glow it gives dashes any hopes that it is ineffective. Around him, allies scream one word: Crota. A thousand smaller Knights charge from beside Crota’s ankles, wielding smaller blades. They cut into the imperial forces like a thrusting dagger, slaying humans, Eliksni, and Cabal by the dozens. Wherever they meet stiff resistance, Crota steps in and fells whole teams with a few strokes. Unfortunately, his group does well against the onslaught. Crota’s eyes find him, and stab into his soul. For a moment, he considers giving up and dying, then and there. Then he remembers his duty. If he dies, they will have to kill him. It feels like seconds later Crota has him by the throat, disarmed and several feet off the ground. The lunar dust is covered with his fallen comrades. His universal translator crackles as Crota speaks. “What a…paltry display.” His voice is like metal on a grindstone. “You have no Light to feed on. Where are your delicious children of your Traveler? I know they are scattered through your mortal armies.” He doesn’t answer, only struggles in the Hive god’s grip. Crota’s burning face sneers as his grip tightens. “Why do you resist? You lost this battle and will lose this miserable rock. You fight a power greater than you could ever understand with toys. Why don’t you—” His translator fades for a second, but Crota still speaks. He is confused for a second, then remembers something the humans told him that his device couldn’t translate into his native Cabal. “We…have no word…for retreat,” he whispers defiantly as much to Crota as to himself. Crota snarls, and plunges his blade through his body.[/i] He gasped for air. He was under attack! A weapon. Where’s a weapon?! He grabbed something long and thin and swung it around him, using its momentum to help him stand and face the attacker. His tool struck a Psion in the face and sent it reeling to the ground. Several other beings beside it stepped back, clearly not expecting his attack. He spun around and found he was completely surrounded. The creatures varied from each other greatly, from some that were tall and wide to others that were short and thin. Some looked like they had four eyes and arms. He adjusted his footing and stepped in something squishier than expected. He looked down and saw the ground was covered in dismembered bodies that came from the species that encircled him. His improvised weapon turned out to be a severed leg. He dropped it in horror. “Easy there, big guy,” a voice chirped beside him. He turned to see a gray, star-shaped drone with a single eye hovering in field of vision. “Where am I?” The question almost came out of his mouth without him realizing it. When he grasped its meaning, he came to an even more disturbing realization. “[i]Who[/i] am I?” “This is the moon,” the little drone answered. “Specifically, this is a battlefield. You died on it.” He felt a strange sensation in his stomach, like a phantom blade goring him. “How is that possible? I stand here, breathing!” “I brought you back to life,” the device explained. “I’m a Ghost. I find deceased that are gifted with the Traveler’s Light and resurrect them. Well, [i]one[/i] in particular, which happens to be you.” He glanced at the throng around him. “Who are all of you?” “We are your fellow soldiers,” a short creature in an armored space suit answered, stepping forward. Something about its demeanor and speech made him think it was female. He couldn’t see her face well under the helmet, but her voice was strong with authority. “These are the combined forces of the humans of Earth, the Eliksni, and the Cabal,” she continued. “Don’t worry. We won’t hurt you.” Her words suddenly gave him a sense of familiarity. “Cabal…I am Cabal…” “Indeed you are,” one of his kind confirmed. He was much taller than the rest and his armor was adorned with various ornaments. Something told him that this being was the leader of the group. “What is your name, Legionnaire?” the being asked him. “I…don’t understand,” he confessed. “What did you call me?” The leader’s composure faltered slightly. “You’re…you’re an Imperial Legionnaire of the Cabal Empire.” “He doesn’t remember his rank!” the small woman chided her superior. “He won’t remember anything…except maybe his name.” She turned back to him. “Do you know who you are?” He blinked. What was his name? His brow furrowed under a helmet as he tried to remember… [i]Cerragus…[/i] Was that it? It felt familiar. It would have to do for now. “My name is Cerragus,” he answered. The woman nodded. “Welcome, Cerragus. My name is Ikora Rey. Our commanding officer is Val Aru’un.” “Oh…do I need two names?” Cerragus asked dejectedly. “No, Val is just his rank,” the small drone replied. “I have one name. I’m Slate.” Nobody around him had taken their eyes off Cerragus for a second. “Why are you all staring at me? Is it because I was dead?” “That may be a small part of it,” Ikora answered. “But more specifically, it’s because you, a [i]Cabal,[/i] were resurrected. To date, only humans – my kind – were reborn by Ghosts. I am one of them. We are called Risen.” “Am I Risen too?” Cerragus asked. Before Ikora could answer, Aru’un interjected. “That is a matter for High Command to decide. We must bring Cerragus to them to know how to proceed. Gather the shells. Everyone prepare to leave [i]immediately[/i].” The crowd broke from their trance and rushed back to several ships stationed outside the battlefield. Even then the people couldn’t help but glance back at Cerragus one last time. “Rey,” Aru’un addressed the woman, “Remain with…Cerragus…for the time being. Evaluate how much he recalls, and if there is necessary information he lacks brief him accordingly.” Ikora saluted. “Yes, sir.” As the commander walked away, Cerragus asked, “Where are we going?” “Back to home base to deliver a report,” she responded. “My homeworld, Earth.” “What is it like? Is it far?” Ikora pointed over Cerragus’ shoulder. He turned to see a blue-green sphere rising over the moon’s gray mountains. White clouds spattered and swirled over the surface, and if he watched one long enough it shifted over the landmasses below. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured. “I certainly think so,” Ikora agreed. “I admit I am surprised. I have not heard your kind show any reverence for beauty.” He looked back down at the woman. “Why not?” “We’re at war, and your people are the commanders,” Ikora replied. “Discipline must be maintained so the legions keep focus. Especially now. Morale has become unnaturally and critically low.” Cerragus looked at the bodies littering the ground. “What happened here?” Ikora sighed. “His name is Crota. He leads a race called the Hive. They’ve invaded our moon and are trying to get to Earth. To get to the Traveler.” “What’s the Traveler?” Ikora smiled under her helmet and gestured for Cerragus to follow her. “You’ll see.”