Although his best friend was officially named Tollia during Processing, that little sosoie always referred to himself as Marcus whenever he could.

Pimya always found that part about him so weird. But it came with a package he held dearly to his heart. He could handle a little bit of disassociation in a person.

The very first thing he could remember happening in life was the sight of Tollia grabbing a worn-looking cloth and wiping off the dust and the grime he had on his person. It looked so time-consuming, but in his ever-present wisdom, he said it was to prevent infection. Having heard a very detailed and frantic explanation by his distraught friend, he came to a startling realisation: Tol probably saved his life.

Poor Pimya had been lying on a mossy and dank floor with an open scratch mark on his back the whole time. Ripe for those nasty bacterias to crawl into his body and grow bigger and bigger. Yuck!

To think he repeated the whole process of disinfection on a good chunk of the others was astounding.

Those were in the very early days.

Naught a fortnight later, when Death swept across their division of Unggoy, seemingly all at once, he pleaded to find something – anything – to cover Pim's nose and mouth. He explained it was a viral endemic, or whatever it's called.

So, he did.

Almost all those who followed his instructions survived by the end of the week, before the Friendly Bags came in to clean things up, spraying some type of liquid into the air.

That's when the stares started to become unbearable for Tol.

People were starting to notice. Pim couldn't understand why Tol slinked at any and all praise. By all rights, he should be a hero by now. To the rest of the Unggoy populace in this unit? He already was. He replied saying it was what anyone would have done.

Pim started to get the feeling they had very different definitions of what 'anyone' was.

He accomplished seemingly impossible feats like it was only an inconvenience to him. Knowledge nobody around him should ever be privy to. Pim was sure he would also improve and reach his level in time, but the rate at which he fast tracks these tasks in only a few units was utterly incomprehensible. Tol being Tol, he would say it was simple stuff a 'toddler' could do.

Now, he wasn't sure what a toddler was, but he feels he should be more insulted by that statement somehow.

During training, Tol learned faster than the others, like his movements were moulded by a master artisan, refined from years of experience. Indeed, Tol's mind was a sponge when it came to combat, but he never felt the courage to ever capitalise on it. He didn't feel confident enough to teach it to others, or use it on the opposing kig'yar younglings during combat training.

Pimya came to a simple conclusion long ago! He worried too much about things that have not even happened yet.

But he understood: all this was a lot of pressure for one guy to handle. He was the golden child of this particular batch of Unggoy after all. When the going gets tough, Pimya had to be the rock Tol can rely on. What good is a best friend for if he fails at that?

So, he would continue telling him stories he made up in his head – of what the mountain range which surrounded the training camp contained and the stories they told; the folk Unggoy heroes he overheard by others, which accomplished brilliant feats of marshal excellence, and made even more trying sacrifices.

Of course, this was all through the grapevine. He didn't know how to separate truth from myth. But that makes his prize all the more tantalising.

When he comes of age, he will step foot on Balaho. He will eat all the crustaceons which bore the ground and were enveloped by the smoked earth. He will tell all the stories of folk-legend; Yara Nawa and the sleep demons which hailed from Balaho, and needn't for the fickle machinations of warships to traverse all over the galaxy to haunt the minds of sleeping Unggoy.

And... and air they could finally breathe.

Tol would often sit, enraptured with stars in his eyes, dried tears and a smile wider than all the width of every starship combined.

Yes, Pim would say he is doing an alright job so far. Yet, in his eyes, it was not enough to merely comfort him.

This was one of the main things that kept him going in the drudgery of Covenant life. To be better, like Tollia. To become more.

----------------------------------------

"Teacher!" "TEACHER!" "Sir!"

"Welcome back to another day of hell, little ones."

Marcus' group collectively shuddered. It was hot, stuffy and cramped. The massive training facility which looked the part of a warehouse betrayed its airiness. Sunlight caked the floor in an alabaster glow. Just the way Teacher liked it.

Standing in front of them was an imposing man whose shadow towered them all. A Sangheili adorning a gas mask on his person which filtered the ammonium air out of his two hearts.

Nobody doubted the marshal abilities of Gris'Voldamee.

He was hailed as one of the more successful Zealots and trainers in the Covenant for a reason. That kind of commandeering reputation was bound to be backed up with even more successful units. Anyone worth their salt would jump at his services at the first opportunity. The catch was his rather… rebellious streak. His methods were as unorthodox as his personality. To have made it this far up the Covenant hierarchy at all was a miracle.

It would make sense that he was assigned to this sorry group of Unggoy in preparation for battle. The Covenant probably noticed an unusually low mortality rate within this division, and probably chalked it up to superior genes born of a mutation. This was unprecedented to say the least. Marcus had a slight inkling as to why.

So here they were, in the Artificial Combat Training Facility. Any scenario and weather condition could be emulated here.

Marcus could still remember the reception for the arriving commanders. Their armour which shined a glinting silver and gold... the etched marks and symbols on their persons signalling the arrival of a people wholly...

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

It was clear they were in another class to theirs entirely; almost second to the deities which formed the Covenant religion.

To think all this culture shock could be circumvented if he spent more time on the franchise…

It doesn't matter. What matters to Marcus is getting up to shape and steering clear of the squishy berserker pathway which characterised nearly every Grunt. Right?

Gris walked towards their group with a practiced gait moulded by years of combat experience. On his flank lay slinged a staff adorned with Sangheilian symbols and jewellery more ancient than the collective age of every Grunt in this room.

"Every road all of you have ventured so far has led to this day in your training regimen," the elite boomed, everyone straightening their posture. "Today, you will come face to face with Sangheili hardlight combatants."

Rows upon rows of elites made of hardlight materialise behind him, all of them adopting a stance which flawlessly emanated the calm demeanour of the Sangheili.

"The catch is, of course, you will not be doing such activities individually," Gris continued. "Today, we determine whether coming up against insurmountable odds can be circumvented with clever strategy and team synergy. Hence… well, to tell you more would spoil the fun."

The staff he carried thumped on the floor.

"Form up! Groups of five, no more, no less!"

Not wanting to earn his ire, they did like so.

"Heretics are nothing if not unorthodox by nature! They will use unfair strategies to catch you flustered and off-guard. They serve only to shift the odds of battle in their favour, regardless of skill. Make no mistake; they do not value the honorary rules of battle to the same extent as us."

He glances down toward the hardlight control panel on his wrist and motioned downward.

The warriors harden in intensity and readied their stance.

From the ground rose hardlight structures simulating a battlefield, but as real to the touch as any material. It was a rocky, uneven terrain, one which heavily disadvantaged us, being short and stocky.

"I want groups starting from the front to figure out how to defeat a battalion of four such warriors. Now go! And good luck."

Curse him. This was unfair, and he knew it. His eyes betrayed his words as he stood by, stiffly.

The first group didn't even make it through five minutes. The reflexes of a computer were infinitely superior to any mortal man. It didn't help they were emulating the reflexes of Sangheili minors.

Tol's group was toward the middle of the lot. He stole a glance to his side, catching Pim as he fidgeted with his plasma pistol, checking and tinkering its inner mechanisms. Jitters.

It did not take long for our turn to be up. Toward the side he could see defeated battalions groaning and laying down in defeat, being treated by those gas bag looking things. Poor sods.

"Next!"

He shook his head. Now was not the time for reflection. The simulation changed locales once more, this time simulating a dense rainforest. Plenty of cover, but it was foolish to even think they could compare to the AI in a fair battle of blows.

"And go!"

So they did. As they learned in training they took cover with whatever high structure they could. They settled for a mossy rock a fair bit away from the hardlight combatants.

"Pim," Tol motioned. The grunt in question's swung his head to him. "Cover my flank. I have an idea."

Pim could only nod. The other three, still blindsided at the very notion of challenging Minors, could only cower behind the cover of the rocks.

"All of you." All whipped their heads towards Tol. "I know not everyone is liking the odds. I don't too. But I think we have some advantage here. See those trees? I need all of you to duck in and out of combat. Take potshots, but don't get up for too long. I am going to climb over the branches so I can chuck a plasma nade on top of them while they are distracted. Everyone good with this?"

The creases around their cheek travelled up as they smiled nervously.

"Okay," they almost said collectively.

"Thanks, guys."

Their small yet stubby hands made most Unggoy natural climbers; their hands can easily withstand what their small body weight afforded them. In a previous life, Marcus would never have dreamed of having a core and upper body strength this solid. Now he can.

Climbing over the branches silently, he quickly positioned himself on top of the AI-generated Sangheili. Below him were streaks of green and lightened shields, the Minors grunting each time a shot connected.

"Come on, come on…."

Given enough time, any living being would get mad at such a cowardly way of fighting. Such mannerisms could be seen a particularly ticked Minor who charged into the direction one of his teammates was hunkered in.

"Gotcha."

By the time the Minor realised it was a ruse, it was too late. The damage his shield sustained combined with the already deadly plasma grenade was enough to send him flying.

A barrage of leaves and foliage flew into the air, rousing the remaining Minors to huddle together.

"Oh… crap!"

Tol didn't really think this far. He didn't think that the AI was capable of learning from experience on the spot, that quickly.

Nor did he see in time that their rifles were pointing right at him. Almost comically, he sprung in the air as beams of purple flew by his face. As he desperately crawled back to the tree proper, the heat from the plasma melted through the branch, and gravity took its course.

It was lucky the leaves the hardlight generated was as true to life as real ones were, because a few broken bones would not be the greatest start to the day.

But goddamn did it hurt. He was still reeling when the ground quivered in the wake of Minors coming to finish him off. It was when he resigned to defeat and bolted his eyes shut did he hear the Valkyries descending from the heavens.

"Guys, distraction!"

Pim was always a good kid. If a bit suicidal.

"Go go go!"

"Oh, god."

The brief respite the bombastic declaration afforded him just enough time to stick another plasma grenade onto another Minor. But Sangheili were known for their reflexes for a reason.

Swiftly catching the grenade, the Minor tossed it toward the charging group of Unggoy. Return to sender. How the fuck could they pick it up and throw it back?!

"Uh oh."

A gust of dust ballooned in the air, and emerging from the clouds flew out a good chunk of his teammates, as if they were hit by a ten-ton truck. When the dust cleared, he could only watch as they laid in a heap of broken weaponry and military equipment. Out of commission.

"Shit!!" Tol screamed. He let his plasma pistol rip at the group, scuttling back to a safer location. Almost as if they were sapient, the model Elites growled in irritation and pressed onward to face their assailant.

8-foot-tall beasts did not make for good tree climbers. He reached for the branches and caught it in a vice grip, hanging on for dear life. His legs scrambled onto the wooden platforms, praying they missed their shots as they hailed down the might of heaven upon him. Left and right the shots rang, brief sparks flashing all around him. Thank God – they were all false. He was simply too small and nimble.

In and out he weaved among the tree branches, scampering for safer purchase as he climbed higher. He was so close—

A sharp burst of pain panged on his leg, making him lose his grip and pushed him over the edge. He was lucky he landed on even more bushes – otherwise he would have had to make a trip to the infirmary.

Goddamnit! Not now... not now...

Groaning, he sat back up and unclicked his remaining grenades. He needed to make these count.

Going only by hearing, he made calculated lobs, hoping any of them would hit their target.

He grinned. The cry of pain and debris consisting of Minor armour was his answer.

Yet, this was all he had – he didn't have the opportunity to upgrade to better weaponry or move to a better position. The crunches of dead leaves and sticks was all he heard before…

*ding*

"Course level failed."

The environment immediately shifted around him. The equipment around his person dissipated, and all he was left was a bruised and battered body and the sounds of his teammates groaning around him.

The back of his head hit the floor in exasperation. That was pointless.

Yet, as he mulled over his loss, Pim, toward his side, tossed him a thumbs up. Marcus closed his eyes and smiled sheepishly. He couldn't believe it. The bravery of his teammates to run to their deaths... for him?

"Next!"