What is left of my sanity is going. I don't know if the infection I carried in human form still resides, but I have not talked to anyone in years. Maybe the decision of conversion was a terrible mistake. But someone has to know. Take the last of my memories, Reclaimer, and be warned: It is coming. It will devour. It spares none. Warn the Forerunners. They must know. They have not heard me. It is too late for me. You must tell them. They are the only ones who can stop it.

High orbit, Urdan, Forerunner Colony world

The screech of alarms continues as the ship shudders to a halt, its engines disabled by suppressors. We have prepared, but even we cannot stop the advances of the Warrior-Servants. Now that they've disabled our engines, we are in serious trouble. Their boarding parties have docked, and the computer's ancilla keeps reminding me that there are multiple hull breaches. We came here to find a suitable place to settle, but they must have anticipated our move, because they were waiting for us when we dropped out of Slipspace with a small battle group in tow. The instant we rematerialized, they hit us with a particle beam, disabling our ship's defenses. Then they activated their suppressors, leaving us helpless, drifting.

Now, the high-pitched shriek of lightrifle bolts echoes down the hall as the Prometheans in full battle armor advance. I line up my sights, pull the trigger repeatedly until one falls. I do not stop to watch. My sights are already on another, and that one too, is falling. But they are too numerous. Where one topples, there are two more to take its place. We are being overrun. This reminds me…I shake the memory. It is horrifying, and I don't want to relive it, especially now, when the memory could kill me.

Holding this part of the ship is useless.

"Fall back!" I shout. "Fall back!"

My soldiers, loyal troops, obey, making for the hatchway, exposing themselves in the hopes of escape. A few fall under the Forerunners' combined fire with pained cries, but we must leave them. We do not have time to go back for the fallen. My heart breaks for them. To survive all this way, only to be put down at the hands of our old allies? It doesn't seem fair.

"Seal the door!" I shout at the man nearest the controls. He mashes his hand against the contact until the door closes with a solid boom.

"What now, sir? We're spent. We can't continue to fight."

A hissing noise distracts me. They are cutting their way through. I do a quick head count. Five men, no more. My stomach seems to shrink to the size of a raisin. We are doomed. They will kill us. There is no surrender to them, merciless bastards that they are.

"Final stand. We're going down, but not without a fight. We're going to kill as many of them as we can. Leave no one alive!"

There is a chorus of "Ayes" from my men.

"Take up defensive positions."

The men scatter, erecting hasty barricades out of anything they can get their hands on. The result is a circular ragtag of battle debris in the middle of the command center, behind which we hide, hunkering down, preparing for the worst. The men feed their weapons the last of the ammo, their faces grim. They know what will happen next. They have heard the last distress messages from other ships caught by Forerunner patrols, but no live stories, and for good reason.

The door we are focused on glows orange, then disintegrates in a flash of blinding light. The Prometheans pour though the new gap, and we rain death upon them. Some fall, but they will not be stopped. Like a juggernaut, they roll forward, spreading out. The stench of blood, both ours and Forerunners, overwhelms the filters in my helmet. I give an agonized cry as a lightrifle bolt pierces my armor, boring a shallow groove in my side and exposing bone. Several of the Warrior-Servants are using scatter-shots, and the energy projectiles whistle around us. I duck below the barrier and only then realize that the man beside me is dead, sprawled on his back, blood leaking from multiple punctures in his chest. A red haze of fury seems to drop over my eyes as a burning anger for the dead man consumes me. I straighten, firing my weapon into the pressing mass. A second bolt sears through my shoulder, and I fall backward, dropping my rifle. I roll over and drag myself to my feet as the Promethean's commander issues orders, surrounding what used to be my barricade, taking charge and stock of the dead.

Something whizzes past my ear. A lightrifle bolt, blue instead of their usual orange. My mind knows there is some significance to this, but cannot recall what it is. The pain is making it hard to think, and it is an effort just to keep moving.

An impact causes me to stumble, and searing pain burns for a second along my limbs. Then all consciousness flees, and I black out.