After regrouping, the small team moved cautiously through the dark, rocky terrain. The air felt heavy with the scent of burned metal and charred earth, remnants of past battles on Reach. Sierra led the way, her eyes scanning every ridge, every shadow. Johnson followed closely behind, still puffing on the cigar he'd grabbed in the pod.
The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. As they walked, the temperature dropped, and Johnson could feel the chill creeping through his armor.
"Alright, alright, hear me out," Johnson said after a while, breaking the silence. "It's getting dark, and we've been marching for hours. I'm thinkin' it's about time we set up camp for the night. No point in runnin' headfirst into an ambush if we can help it."
Sierra stopped, turning slightly to look at him. "We're close to the distress signal, Johnson. We can't afford to waste time."
"Sure, but you and I both know these Covenant creeps can see better in the dark. If we keep pushin' on, we're sittin' ducks out here," Johnson replied, gesturing to the darkening sky.
The third marine, Private Jansen, nodded in agreement, clearly exhausted from the long trek. "He's right, ma'am. A couple hours' rest could keep us sharp."
Sierra considered it for a moment before giving a brief nod. "Fine. We camp here. Two-hour watch shifts. We move at first light."
They set up a small, quiet camp behind a cluster of large boulders. Johnson stretched out with a sigh of relief, pulling his helmet off and leaning back against a rock. Jansen did the same, lying down on the cold ground, using his pack as a pillow.
Sierra, on the other hand, remained standing, her back to the others, keeping watch. Her eyes swept across the night, sharp and alert. She didn't need rest—not like the others. A Spartan's endurance was different. She could go days without sleep if needed.
The night dragged on. Johnson tossed and turned in his sleep, murmuring under his breath. His face scrunched up as though caught in a nightmare, hands twitching now and then. Jansen, on the other hand, was out cold, snoring softly.
Suddenly, Sierra's visor picked up a faint movement in the distance. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the shadows. An Elite—a tall, imposing figure—was crouched in the dark, watching them from afar. Its bright armor reflected the dim moonlight. It had been spying on them for some time, observing silently.
Sierra's hand instinctively moved to her weapon, but she stopped. The Elite didn't make a move, didn't seem to be preparing an attack. It was just... watching.
She kept her eyes on it, muscles tense, ready to act if necessary. But the Elite remained still, and after a moment, it slipped back into the shadows and disappeared. Sierra didn't alert the others. If it wasn't going to make a move, she wouldn't either. Not yet.
Morning came with the first rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon. Johnson stirred, blinking groggily as he pulled himself up from his restless sleep. "Man, I need a real bed," he muttered, stretching his sore muscles.
Sierra was already on her feet, fully alert. "Pack up. We're moving."
They gathered their gear and set off again, continuing toward the source of the distress signal. The terrain grew rougher as they moved, with jagged cliffs and uneven ground. The signal grew stronger on their scanners, leading them to a narrow cave opening hidden beneath a rocky overhang.
"Looks like this is it," Johnson said, eyeing the cave warily. "Whatever's in there, it's what brought us here."
A strange, metallic clanging echoed from inside the cave. It was rhythmic, almost like something was being repaired or constructed. "Sounds like... machinery," Jansen muttered.
"Could be a trap," Sierra warned, stepping forward and raising her rifle. "Stay sharp."
They moved into the cave, weapons at the ready. The air grew damp and musty the deeper they went, and the sound of machinery grew louder. Covenant forces were waiting for them in the shadows, and a firefight broke out almost immediately. Plasma shots lit up the dark tunnel as the team fought their way through, cutting down Grunts and Elites in their path.
After what felt like hours of intense combat, they finally reached the end of the tunnel. The walls opened up into a large chamber, dimly lit by flickering lights. At the center of the room was a small pod—old, rusted, and clearly damaged from the passage of time. Johnson approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he noticed a set of dog tags hanging from the side.
"Wait a second..." Johnson reached out, wiping away the dust from the pod. The numbers on the dog tags gleamed faintly in the dim light.
"Sierra... these tags... they match the distress signal's code," he said, his voice low.
Sierra stepped forward, her heart pounding as she saw the number. It was unmistakable.
They had found it.
