* * * "Minister? What's wrong?" Convalescence turned to Savara, worry etched into his face like a rough carving into stone. Even in the dim light of the hostel room's lounge, Savara could see crystalline stains around his eyes. He'd been crying. "I--" Convalescence began shakily, almost as if he had to struggle to find his voice. A cloud seemed to pass over him, and the frailness was gone, hidden behind that strong veil Savara knew so well. "Nothing, my dear. I've just had some bad news today." "Is this something to do with your visit to high councillor Restraint?" Savara questioned perceptively, sitting next to the elderly minister with concern. His pupils dilated with surprise, and he sucked in his lower lip, thinking. Finally, he nodded slightly. "He-- he told me..." Convalescence croaked out, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. Finally, a great sense of control seemed to take him over, and his eyes opened. "He has cancer. It's a terminal disease that can't be cured at this stage." "Oh," Savara realised, her hearts sinking. She didn't know Restraint, but knew that he was close friends with the minister, and knew what Convalescence was thinking about now. "Minister, it isn't your fault. You haven't been his physician for over a decade; you couldn't possibly--" "What?" the minister asked, looking at her but not seeming to see her, instead staring at the wall. He blinked a few times, and then shook his head. "No, no of course not." [i]He doesn't seem too guilty,[/i] Savara thought, remembering how distraught Convalescence had been when both former-hierarchs Obligation and Tolerance had passed away. She thought is suspicious. "Minister," she began in a soft voice. "What's the real reason for--" Whatever words she would have spoken were suddenly drowned out by the sound of gunfire coming from outside the window, short bursts accompanied by an orchestra of yells and gurgling cries of death. Her hearts quickened, and she looked at the minister. He'd turned as white as a sheet, but didn't seem surprised. Bidden by some stupid, suicidal curiosity, she rushed to the window. Laying in the street outside were about five honour guards, all of them dead or dying. Even by a cursory glance, she could tell they were beyond saving. One of them locked eyes with Savara, mouth widening as if trying to issue a warning. His hand stretched up, and just as quickly fell limp, collapsing onto the ice-cold road in a puddle of his blood, jet-black in the dark. After a few seconds, she realised she'd seen that honour guard before. He was the one who had rescued her from the bounty hunters the other day. [i]What is this?[/i] "We've got to go," Convalescence suddenly spoke from behind her, force and determination in his voice. Savara turned, not expecting such talk from the elderly Sangheili. Her shock was intensified as she saw the minister bring out from a fold in his robes a plasma pistol; safety deactivated. "W-what's going on?" Savara asked, more scared by the impossible sight of Convalescence, always the healer, the pacifist, the calm, bearing arms than she had been by the sight of the dead honour guards outside. "Who killed those men?" "There's no time," the minister barked at her sharply, in an authoritative tone she'd only ever heard before when in surgery with him. "We've got to get out of this building, into public. They won't do anything there..." "I don't understand," Savara protested even as Convalescence hobbled to the door. "Who won't do anything? Who killed those honour guards? Why were honour guards here?" Convalescence half-turned to her as his hand pressed against the door handle. It flashed as it recognised his signature, and began to swing open. "Restraint told me something when I went to see him," he began to explain. "Something terrible. The great journey is--" If conspiratorial words were about to come tumbling out of his mouth, they'd never get the chance. Whatever dangerous knowledge Convalescence had died along with his brain, as he fell back to the ground with a crystalline needle embedded in his forehead, splitting his skull and bringing forth a torrent of blood. A Sangheili stepped over him, garbed in armour of the blackest midnight. He held a needler pistol in his hand, missing a spine on its back. The Sangheili's eyes seemed to glaze over the corpse of Convalescence, and settled on Savara, who was pressed against the wall with fear. In the hallway outside she could see seven others, all armed and dressed in menacing armour. She could also see another body; that of the lodging's manager, a rose thorn protuding from her head too. "Well, Lady Grymar'ii," the Sangheili at the front spoke, moving towards her. He wasn't very large by Sangheili standards, but still encompassed her form considerably. "We came here to take you into protective custody and to insure an asset would perform his job properly... imagine our surprise when we found five of High Councillor Restraint's guard outside, seemingly guarding you. Can you tell me why that is, my dear?" "I don't--" Savara quivered out, still staring through tears at the lifeless body of Convalescence. He was dead. Gone. "I don't even know Restraint." "Of course," the Sangheili in midnight agreed sarcastically, stretching out a hand and running it down her side. She cringed at his touch, fighting an urge to lash out. "Such a pretty thing... it's a shame that we'll have to ruin that beauty, really. But, if you won't tell us the truth..." "There's no truth to tell!" she screamed at him, the shock Convalescence's death had brought giving away to panic. "Who are you?" From his person, the Sangheili brought out a small syringe, and tapped it to rid of air bubbles. Savara saw the liquid inside and knew what it was; she'd used the chemical enough times herself. An anaesthesia. "My name is Pel," the Sangheili informed her gravely, grabbing her arm tightly and ripping off her sleeve, exposing the bare skin. The tip of the needle grazed against it painfully. "But by tomorrow morning, I think you won't be terming me with any name quite so civilised." The famed primal instinct of the Sangheili engaged then, and, bearing claws, she struck Pel across the face, ripping off a considerable portion of the skin on his jaw off. He swore violently, spitting blood, but did not let go. Bringing up the back of his hand, he struck her back many times harder, and she saw stars. Through concussion, she saw the needle of the syringe bury itself in her vein. Saw the liquid pushed out of the container, into her bloodstream. [i]No![/i] was her last conscious thought, before the anaesthesia kicked in and send her crashing down to her knees. She smiled with deliria, chuckling her way into darkness.