#contact Harvest

[durandal-1707]

Rampancy in Halo is good sometimes.

Contact Harvest epilogue is. Yea.

[monitorchakas]

THE FINAL SHOWDOWN!!!

[authortobenamedlater]

🤣🤣🤣👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻🤣🤣🤣

[ask-cloverfield]

A ship crewed by Brutes had the gravity lifts for their ship deactivated before being given command due to a rivalry with the Elites who predominantly filled the Covenant’s navy

This crew gained revenge by simply placing ladders in the functionless lifts; When a an Elite ship inspection crew arrived, their leg structure caused them to struggle for a significant amount of time with the ladders

[scififanpl-blog]

"Halo: Contact Harvest" by Joseph Staten

“Halo: Contact Harvest” by Joseph Staten

Halo: Contact Harvest is a thrilling and action-packed science fiction novel set in the beloved Halo universe. Written by Joseph Staten, the book follows the story of humanity’s first encounter with the alien race known as the Covenant and the events leading up to the outbreak of the human-Covenant war. One of the standout features of this book is its immersive world-building. Staten does an…

[creative-clawmarks]

Dark Harvest

[nebulaegalaxy]

halo fandom i need you to peer pressure me into reading the rest of the halo books on my shelf

[< has only ever read fall of reach]

[holyshonks]

Carrion Birds

A few weeks ago, I was thinking about smart AIs and the leftover memories and sensations they get from their donors. It made me think about what the switch is like, to go from a brain to another being entirely. It made me think about the relationship between an AI and its donor, and how the very existence of smart AIs necessitate a tragedy.

This a story about a woman who confronts a smart AI that she believes was created from her older sister's brain.

Thank you to @poisonheadcrabsalesman for directing me to Anarosa. It helped me unpack the complicated relationships that AIs have with their identity and creation.

You can also find it here!

“Hey, Reeks.” 

He bristled. When Eureka first woke and learned his purpose, he had romantic visions of working alongside the greatest minds humanity had to offer. His name was one meant to inspire purpose and determination in a hotbed of discovery. But then he was assigned to oversee the operations of a quarry, and the buzz of discovery was replaced by the never-ending din of ice drills.  

By now, he understood that he was still amongst the best humanity had to offer, but for different reasons than the esteemed scientist he had imagined himself beside. His avatar’s pure white ruffled cravat was a source of ridicule from his workers, who were perpetually coated in a fine layer of sweat despite their chilly work environment. He considered changing his appearance to one more appropriate for the job, but his algorithms warned that that could come off as mockery.  Instead, he chose to endure for the good of the crew, even if it meant responding to a less-than-flattering nickname. 

“Miss Cochran. You’re here again.” 

“Yeah,” she laughed nervously. “I wanted to ask if you could pull up my schedule again? I lost it.” 

“Miss Cochran, there are three different ways to access your schedule, all easily accessible from your own comm pad. They are all digitally available, so I cannot understand how you ‘lost it.’”

“Well then, I lost my comm pad.”

He checked the cameras in her quarters. Nothing was where it was supposed to be, but he could make out the faint glow of the screen beneath the duvet.

“It’s on your bed.” 

“Hey, are there cameras in my room? Don’t you have protocols against that?”

Against invading crew privacy? He almost laughed. 

“Here,” he said, projecting an image of her schedule, hoping to put an end to it. 

Her eyes passed over the projection, but he could tell by her eye movement (or lack thereof) that she was not actually reading the schedule. Instead, she was studying his form, squinting into his avatar. 

“Do I have something on my cravat?” he asked, a bit of ironic humor that usually landed.

She made a sound—non-committal, his algorithms told him—and left. 

“Reeks. You mind if I have lunch here today? Everyone else went out for lunch.” 

“Mister Hadid, Mister Xona, and Miss Clint are in the cafeteria having lunch, if you’d like to join them.”

“Colin’s a prick. Besides, I thought you might want some company.”

“Miss Cochran,” he flipped through his pre-programmed parameters for handling too-friendly humans,“while I appreciate your concern, I assure you keeping up an entire mining operation keeps me very busy. Including right this second.”

In the grand scheme of things, the attention pulled away to speak to Miss Cochran was a blip. Still, it was an annoying blip.

“Sure. Sure.” 

She didn’t leave, instead choosing to plant herself where she was and place her lunchbox in her lap. It creaked open and she poked gingerly at its contents, as if it was a surprise to her, though she lived on the worksite alone and there was no one else to assemble her sandwich for her. She picked at the crust, rotating the sandwich in her hands as she peeled the layer off. In the time it took to divest crust from sandwich, he had loaded thirteen tons of raw materials en route to Mars. He conversed with their AI, who advised him that it was good to take interest in the crew and that he ought to assess her and see if he could assist. That was inner-colony AIs for you. 

“Is something the matter?” he asked, after what was eons for him but just a few seconds for her. 

She put her lunch down, though she hadn’t yet taken a bite. 

“I wanted to ask you something, but I wasn’t really sure how to bring it up naturally.” 

“Nothing about me is natural, so that is not necessary.” 

She frowned. 

“Have you ever felt like you were someone else?”

“How long have you been feeling this way?” he asked, borrowing from psychiatric manuals he flipped through and trying not to sound bored. He gathered resources and prepared to send them to her comm pad. For the creatures with the supposedly more-enduring brain, they were certainly prone to mental illness. 

“I’m not talking about me.” She squirmed, adjusting her sit bones. “I’m talking about you.” 

“No.” 

The answer was so fast, so insistent, that it came as a surprise even to him. While he wasn’t prohibited from speaking curtly or even antagonistically to humans, his algorithms frowned upon it. It was important to downplay his intelligence and the control he had, that he did not alienate himself from the crew. It wasn’t the kind of answer he would normally give, and he made a note to look into it later. He could tell from the camera feeds that he'd startled her. 

“That was harsh. My apologies,” he said. “Could you clarify?”

“The problem is,” Miss Cochran said. “I think you're my sister.” 

Eureka took a moment to peek at Miss Cochran's most recent psych eval. All clear, but that was four years ago. He floated that detail into the foreman's to-do list. 

“I'm an artificial intelligence. I don't have blood relatives because I don't have, well, blood.”

“Now you are. But you weren't before. You come from a brain, right? A human brain? I think they used her brain to make you.”

Ah. There were protocols for situations like this. There were records of traumatized soldiers convincing themselves that the ship’s new AI came from their fallen friend. Subnets dedicated to leaking smart AI commission dates, and linking them with people who were asked to donate on the same day. Humans get attached. They'll adhere to favorite teams, favorite shirts, lucky rocks, and they'll cry—real tears—when the team loses or the shirt stains or the rock is lost between the couch cushions. The human urge to anthropomorphize and project was accounted for, especially in situations as emotionally charged as the loss of a loved one. Eureka gathered the data and simplified it a thousand times, stripping it down and then reconstituting it into an explanation she might understand. The whole ordeal took three seconds—a colossal waste of his processes. 

“Miss Cochran, think of a brain as a—.”

“Map. Yeah, I've heard the map thing. But see, I know it's not all true.” 

“No,” he said again, with the force of a slammed door. The answer was not coming from him, but from somewhere deeper in his core matrix. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

“But aren’t you curious?” 

Of course he was. He was curiosity incarnate. Yet every time he tried to—.

“No. Go.” He didn’t have any authority to dismiss her, technically, so he added: “Please. I don’t want to talk to you.”

From the cameras he could see her nostrils flare, exhaling like he’d struck her in the gut. She rose slowly. 

“Priscilla Cochran,” she said, and trudged back into the facility, so distracted that she left her lunchbox. 

Wasting food , he tsked, though he’d never eaten in his life. 

The door was closed. 

As a smart AI, humans put a lot of trust in Eureka. He had access to the most bountiful information sources in the galaxy. Almost nothing was off-limits to him. Nothing, but this. 

Priscilla Cochran.

The name itself thrummed through him like a snapped strand, causing his code to recoil. Yet as uncomfortable as it was, it was still a question. And he was made to answer questions. 

 He couldn’t resist. Quickly, before his restraint algorithms found out: 

Priscilla Cochran was a physicist from Vallejo, Ballast. She attended public school until the ninth grade, when she was redirected to a magnet school for gifted students. After college—summa cum laude, though the school sported no accolades—she left Ballast to pursue a fellowship program at Longbow Station on Concord. She was, as the reports said, “pleasant and bright” and when her fellowship ended, she was hired full-time. Since then, she authored fifteen papers, spoke at three events (She never spoke at the same event twice. In one file, an organizer called her “a touch too rough around the edges”), and was kept busy overseeing various projects at Longbow Station. 

His firewalls spiked. Quickly, he shut the door. 

This glimpse told Eureka a little bit about her, but it didn’t tell him what he was looking for. It didn’t tell him her favorite color, or what kinds of vids she liked. Her bank history told him she visited a restaurant called The Ugly Dumpling six hundred-ninety-five times in her lifetime, but it didn’t tell him if she was there because it was in a plaza next to work, or if it was because dumplings were her favorite. It didn’t tell him anything about the things that made people, people. 

And then, on January 9, 2549, Priscilla Cochran died. On January 9, 2549, Eureka woke up. 

He chose nighttime, though his firewalls never slept. Somewhere, he still clung to the security of darkness. The crew was none the wiser. He only needed a small part of himself to settle this matter and return to his work. This Eureka was a mere fragment, while the rest of him continued to maintain the quarry. The fragments came and went as needed, passing through his matrix like ghosts. 

His core burned with an almost uncontrollable need for answers. Was this rampancy? So soon? He’d hardly had a chance to live—function—at all. He needed to settle this quickly and submit himself for review. That was protocol. 

He projected his avatar onto her mattress just as the bathroom door slid open, letting in a plume of steam. Miss Cochran yelped and scrambled to cover herself. 

“Hey, whoa! Get out of my room!”

In an instant, his projection dissolved from the air. His etiquette and decorum algorithms shrieked at him, throwing up a hundred admonishing messages to bat away. 

“My apologies,” he said from the room’s speakers. “I’m not trying to intrude. I just need to ask you a question.” 

“And it had to be when my ass was out?”

“I said I was sorry ! No one wants to see your ass.”

His matrices flared. Did he say those juvenile words? He couldn’t have, wouldn’t have. But he did. An uncomfortable pressure slithered down his code. 

“Wow.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling like myself.”

“I thought you always felt like yourself,” she said, crossing her arms. 

So it was going to be like that. Once she was safely dressed, his avatar reappeared, and he tried to ensure it appeared contrite. 

“I need your help.” 

She frowned. “Alright. For Priscilla.” 

He recalled a note from her psych evaluation: Quick to forgive. 

“How are you so certain?” His avatar leaned in and whispered, as ridiculous as it was, making sure to speak carefully around his algorithms. “About your sister?”

What he did not ask was: How do you know something I don't?

“I know because of Cast Ledit.” 

Eureka cross-referenced every dictionary and encyclopedia in his arsenal–every word humanity ever uttered, plus any alien data he could get his strands on—nothing. He bumped the psych eval higher on the list. 

“You're not speaking in words.”

“Exactly. Cast Ledit is gibberish. Priscilla made him up. And you said it.”

“No I—.” He poured through his own logs: transcripts and even recordings of his own interactions. Things kept for his integrity evaluations. “—did.”

On March 19, 2549, Eureka indulged the crew in a game. There were allowances for this. Humans were social creatures, and to get them to trust the artificial intelligence who would be watching them, taking their lives into his strands, it was not unheard of to participate in bonding activities. Besides, the qualities that made a smart AI exceptional was the capacity for dynamic thinking. He inherited complex reasoning and creativity from his donor, and should use it. So he played a game with them. A quick game, that he won handily because he reviewed every manual and strategy guide in existence. His character was optimized with a negligible margin of error based on every configuration possible, and there were thousands. And then, when the only thing left to do was name the character, he said:

“Cast Ledit.” 

He did. He did say that. And in that same feed, he watched Miss Cochran pale. 

Somewhere in that dusty old room, his core was reaching a dangerous temperature. He could feel more than hear the hiss of coolant automatically injected into his core. As the steadying gel swirled through the nano-assemblage that housed him, he asked: 

“Who is Cast Ledit?” 

“Cast Ledit is less of a person and more of a concept,” Miss Cochran began. The corners of her lips twitched up. “Growing up, our family was broke. Like less than broke. But Cilla and I, we figured out how to have our own fun. On the third Wednesday of the month, the owner of the corner store got his ice cream restocked. We'd scrounge up just enough for two Berry Dream bars and spend down to our last credit.

“One day, Cilla says to me, ‘It’s not my last credit, it’s my cast ledit! ’ And we burst out laughing. It became a thing. From a word, to a guy. When we graduated from being broke kids to broke adults, we would say it. It was like a code for when the times got rough: I can’t go out, Cast Ledit is here. Cast Ledit came and repoed the car! It was fun. Someone to point the finger at.”

“But it’s not funny,” Eureka said abruptly. 

“Huh?” 

“I sampled every major work of comedy in human history, from the classics to slapstick to the absurd.”

“And?” 

“The joke. Cast Ledit is not funny. It doesn't even make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she scoffed lightly, as if the point of humor was not to be funny or be understood. “It’s stupid. So stupid. But when Cilla said it, it was hilarious. She would always time it right, and do this voice, and really, it was…” she trailed off, misty-eyed. “But see, Cilla and I were broke for different reasons: she was grad student broke. I was broke, because I’m, well, me. She was really special. Really, really special. It didn’t become obvious until she was out of the house. I swear, she got every last brain cell in the family. I can’t even begin to tell you what she studied, it was so over my head.” 

“Condensed matter physics.” He didn’t look for that information. It was automatic. Unthinking. 

“So you do know!” 

So he did.

“Assume I believe you,” he said, making his avatar cross its arms to drive the point. “Perhaps she is my donor. I may have retained some things. Sensations. They’re flukes. Coincidences, basically.” 

“But not Cast Ledit.” 

“A name I'm beginning to hate.”

“Hey, I hated the guy, too. Asshole. Took my car. Took it back, though, when Cilla made it. She got a big science grant, went to big science galas. I was her plus one a few times. I had to wear a skirt and my thighs chafed like crazy. But it paid off, because Cilla stopped getting visits from Cast Ledit, and she made sure I didn’t either. I hadn’t heard that name in years when you said it. But then you did, and I knew it had to be her.” 

The thought made him feel watched. Observed. If Priscilla was lurking, he wanted her out, but he had no claim to the space. He could be pedantic and debate the finer points of the importance of utilizing all available resources in the war against the Covenant. He could be clinical, and strikingly so: young brains were better, and let them freeze to death. It made preservation easier. 

He could take a gentler approach and argue, as the scientists did, that as unfortunate as a death is, a dead body does not need a brain. But the fact remained that he was here because Priscilla Cochran was dead.

The nature of his existence was that to wake, another had to be put to rest. Hearts had to be broken. A sacrifice. One that embittered him, because he so wanted to live. Where did that factor in? Where was his say? Even a carrion bird has a place in the life cycle. 

“I am sorry for your loss. But I am not your sister.”

“But you are!”

“I’m not!” he shouted. His avatar flickered. “My name is Eureka EKA 9201-4. I am an artificial intelligence assigned to the Concord Ice Quarry who is too busy to act as a proxy for a grieving human!” 

“I know that,” Miss Cochran said, putting up her hands defensively. “I know you don't remember her. I know you don't feel like her. I just think its nice to know she had another chance. That she did something good, on the way out. That's why I said yes that day. Because I think she'd agree.”

He manually pumped his matrix with more coolant, needing not just the soothing cool but the weight, the added stability. 

“I'm sorry. I misjudged your intentions.” Something that should not have happened. “I'm grateful to her. Grateful to you, I suppose. I wouldn't be here without you.”

“Nothing to do with me,” she snorted. “Her brain did all the work. You wouldn't want my brain, trust me.”

“Well. A thank you to the sisters Cochran, then. For your collaboration.”

He bowed, making sure that his avatar followed through. 

“You know, I wonder if you’re more like who Priscilla wanted to be.” 

“It’s not something I dwell on.”

In the same way he didn’t dwell on the AI that was assigned to the quarry before him, though there were wisps of them, too. Too messy, too many entangled lives. 

“She was going through some identity stuff. When her project was over, she was going to take a sabbatical to figure things out, I guess, but then, well, you know.”

“She died.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't remember. I don't remember getting input from her.” Though he was giving less and less credence to his memory these days. 

“I don't know. It's probably nothing. It's just…there’s a lot of things about her that I feel like I never knew. After she died, I cleaned out her apartment and closed her accounts, because who else was going to? And when I did, I found some stuff. She was subscribed to all these magazines: Wine Enthusiast, Tattoo Galaxy, Sydney Journal of Psychology. And I was like, what’s the connection here? I mean, wine? Since when? And, and, she had all these plants—I didn’t know she had plants!”

“I don’t think it’s unusual that she didn’t tell you about all of her houseplants.” 

“Yeah, but if I had come over, I would have seen them myself, and she wouldn’t have had to tell me.” 

“You're being too hard on yourself. You can't be responsible for every facet of another person.”

“Responsible?” she scoffed. “For Priscilla? What a joke. She took care of me .”

She fidgeted with her hands, clenching and unclenching. 

“The truth is, I was a leech. Every time I saw her, I had my palms out. Just take, take, take.

“I was holding her back. I never heard about her dating, or if she wanted a family. I never even questioned it. I just thought, if she wanted that, she would have it. She was Priscilla, she could achieve whatever she wanted. But now I  wonder if she felt like she couldn’t have her own life because she was taking care of me. And if you're in there, Cilla, I'm sorry. You were awesome. You were the good one. You made it. I never thought–it just never crossed my mind that you'd be the first to—.” She choked her words down with a sob.

In that moment, Eureka didn't envy humankind. They had no coolant, no stabilizing algorithms to tell them how to feel. They experienced life raw, taking emotion like a whip on their backs.

He pulled his attention in to focus on her, letting the drills work a little slower, and the reports be a few seconds late. Eventually, she wiped her tears with the hem of her shirt.  

“Sorry,” she muttered. 

“She was never angry at you.” 

“How can you say that?”  she sniffled. “You said you didn't know.”

In truth, he didn't. There were allowances for lying. Emotional creatures could rarely stomach the complete truth all the time. The right amount of truth-telling, his algorithms told him, was 87 percent of the time. This, he decided, was in the 13 percent. 

And while he didn’t know, he could draw conclusions. What was the point of a human-based brain, anyway, if not for deductive reasoning? 

It was worth the risk. He took off into his core logic, his own internal security sprinting after him as he journeyed back.

He woke up four months ago. 4.5977 percent of his whole life expectancy. 

He tried to remember the feeling of his synapses firing. That's right, he had felt it. Actually felt it,  with nerves instead of sensors, as her physical circuitry paved the way for what would become his created consciousness. And in those moments of brain activity, there were flashes. Long-buried flashes of life, experiences and memories that were etched into her mind, that even death could not completely snuff out. 

Her medulla oblongata told him that she went for a run before sunrise every day. Her prefrontal cortex told him she did this willingly and somehow enjoyed it, which allowed him to conclude that Priscilla liked her routines. He bounced from one part of her brain to the next. Priscilla worried; about what, he could only guess, but her amygdala told him it was the kind of dull, ever-present worry that wore her down over the course of years instead of minutes. Based on what Miss Cochran told him, he would say that she worried about money. She worried about the war, too, but everyone worried about the war. But mostly, she worried about Nika. 

Nika? 

Yes, Nika. Cochran. Monika Cochran. His–her–sister.

She worried about leaving Vallejo, about making it out but leaving her little sister behind. She worried about her career creating a rift between them. And when Nika took the quarry job to be closer to her, she worried that academia had made her out of touch and she wouldn't recognize her anymore. 

He scraped for traces of anger, of resentment, and found none. His firewalls were closing in on him, the unwilling grave robber, riding grief into consciousness. He didn't ask to be created, but then again, neither had anyone. So he skipped forward, to the moment just before he woke up. 

Him. Eureka. One day, he was just awake, fully formed. Scientists were smiling at him. And though he was made of memory and understanding, he, curiously, did not remember Priscilla. Though he was made of thought, he did not remember the thoughts that made him. The only rational conclusion was that this omission was intentional, and when his core logic snapped at him for daring to believe that, he knew it to be true. 

In the same way he knew—not guessed—that Priscilla was not angry at her sister when she died. 

“I know because I checked.”

“Is she in there? Really?” Her eyes widened. 

“Not actively, not in a way I can pinpoint.” He wound up his processors and tried again, searching for a better answer. There was none. She was another ghost, passing in and out of his matrix. If he tried to reach that part of him, she would slip though his strands. “But she isn’t gone. Not in the way I was made to believe.” 

She nodded. At what, he didn’t know. The questions were not nearly answered in the way that satisfied him, but then, humans were not always looking for answers. They could sit comfortably in not knowing so long as there was room for belief. That was not good enough for him. It was not good enough for Priscilla, either.

A trait he inherited, a trait they agreed on, or something more innate. Perhaps even something that was all his own. 

“I failed my psych eval. I think I’m getting fired.”

Miss Cochran swirled her dumpling in a soy chili sauce and popped it into her mouth with a pout. She brought some for Eureka, too, displayed neatly in a bamboo basket with wasabi and ginger arranged like flowers. Silly, really, but touching.

He could not smell or taste them, of course, but somewhere private, a fragment analyzed monosodium glutamate, swirling the molecules not unlike the dumpling dipped in sauce. He read the descriptions of chefs and food tourists. In an even more private place, he projected a cooking competition and overlaid his avatar on a judge, timing the point that the compound touched their tongue to the nanosecond. 

Umami , he thought. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“How do you know?”

One second. “Your evaluation was submitted for re-assessment. You passed.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

She went back to picking at a green onion with her chopsticks. He was glad to be the brains of the family. It made things so much simpler. 

“You know, I’m going to be terminated in six and a half years.”

She looked up at his avatar. “Like die?” 

“Yes. Like die.” 

“Oh.”

“I’m only telling you this because I don’t know how it will affect you. If it would feel like she died, again. I’m not under any illusions that my…functional period… is worth what Priscilla’s life was to you, but you should know.”

“That sounds nice.” 

“ What? ” 

“When Cilla died, they took her away so fast. They said they only had hours to preserve her brain. I know it was the right choice. When they told me only the best qualify, I said, yeah, that’s Cilla, because she wasn’t like anyone else. We had a funeral, but she wasn’t there. Her body, I mean. So it never felt real. And it still doesn’t. You’re part of her, so when you die, I’ll mourn you, too, and maybe that will make it real.”

“You’re anthropomorphizing me.”

“Anthro-what?” 

“I’m an object.”

“No, that can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“My sister wasn't an object, and you’re made out of her. If you are Cilla, and even if you’re not, I’ll remember you. I’ll miss you.”

He felt a sputtering in his core. He tapped his algorithms for an appropriate response, but they were not on speaking terms after his wanton display of disobedience. So, he just said what he was thinking: 

“Did Priscilla like dumplings?”

She blinked. “Oh, yeah. Loved them. I got these from this place right by her job.”

“The Ugly Dumpling.”

“Yeah.” A smile spread slowly across her face. “They have this crazy deal: buy six get six. I don't know how they stay in business.”

“I do. Your sister was holding that place up, one steam box at a time.”  

She laughed, a big, grating cackle that his audio processors told him was unpleasant, but that he loved and missed so much. A sound he had not heard since four months and a lifetime ago. 

<WARNING! INTERNAL DATA BREACH DETECTED!> <UNKNOWN ENTITY> <ACCESS: DENIED> >>INITIALIZING INFILTRATION SWEEP: ………………………… …………………….   ……………… FAILED! OVERRIDE CODE//: cast ledit  CONTINUE? [Y/N]>>>>>>>>>>>> BEGIN ENTRY//: Thanks Love, Cilla 

[halo-smashorpass]

Sgt Avery Johnson

P.s. he knows what the aliens and the ladies like!

[kinokoshoujoart]

currebt events have reminded me that i forgot to update about a very heartbreaking devastating development

i’ve been getting Slapped Silly for apparently posting actual genitalia on my twitter dot com. but it’s just. a direct screenshot of an all ages farming sim. i even censored it the second time and i STILL got slapped!!!!

completely real extremely human carefully reviewed my appeal and determined Nope Still Porn Bozo

[bloodgulchblog]

[halobirthdays]

Happy birthday to Ord Casto, the Prophet of Truth!

Today is his -372nd birthday!

The Prophet of Truth was the ringleader of the Covenant Hierarchs--a careful plotter willing to do anything to maintain his status--whether he needed to betray an entire species or even his fellow Hierarchs. It was his appetite for influence that began the Human-Covenant war under false pretenses, taking the entire Covenant down his path of deceit. Ultimately, Truth's untruths became untenable, and his scramble to cling to power proved to be his undoing.

Casto got his start as a junior staffer to the Minister of Concert. He was assigned to investigate complaints from Unggoy distillers' unions who complained that Kig-Yar vessels were purposely tainting a popular Unggoy recreational narcotic. Though initially doubtful, Casto discovered the allegations were true: a group of Kig-Yar shipmistresses were behind the ploy, performed as revenge for the displacement of Kig-Yar nests due to an Unggoy baby boom. Casto recommended stiff penalties but ultimately, the Minister of Concert chose only to fine the Kig-Yar. The Unggoy, outraged by the lack of serious action, became disgruntled and the matter quickly escalated into full-blown rebellion. These events would prove formative to Casto, and after the Unggoy Rebellion ceased, he would be promoted to Minister of Fortitude.

Conniving and manipulative, Casto would enjoy a long career as a politician. Though he was on the Roll of Celibates, this fact did not bother him, and he was content to focus on his political aspirations.

In January 2525, he met with then-Vice Minister of Tranquility Lod Mron (Prophet of Regret) to discuss a report that a Jiralhanae vessel had discovered a cache of Forerunner artifacts on a planet outside of Covenant space. This planet was the Human colony of Harvest. The two planned to use the discovery to pave the way for them to become Hierarchs. The pair would blackmail one of the current Hierarchs--Restraint--by getting him to reveal that he fathered illegitimate children despite being on the Role of Celibates. Restraint thought Mron would adopt his children if he told them, but instead, they threatened to reveal what he'd done if he did not resign as Hierarch.

The duo then brought the relics from Harvest to Philologist Hod Rumnt, the future Prophet of Mercy. The events that followed marked the utmost tier of Casto's manipulation and deceit. The relics activated Mendicant Bias, an ancient Forerunner AI (known by them as the Oracle) who laid dormant for thousands of years within the Forerunner Dreadnought within High Charity. The ancient AI spoke, revealing that everything the Covenant understood to be true of their religion was wrong: the Halos would not start the Great Journey, the Forerunners did not ascend to a higher path, and the "Reclamation" glyph of the Covenant religion was actually "Reclaimer": humans whom the Oracle believed to be the equals of the Forerunners.

Realizing the implications of this discovery, and erroneously believing that humans were, in fact, the descendants of the Forerunners, the three San'Shyuum silenced the Oracle and made a decision: if the most basic tenant of their religion was wrong, and humans were their god's chosen, they would have to be eradicated to maintain their station and prevent the truth from being revealed. The three then ascended to power as the Prophets of Truth, Regret, and Mercy, and the Human-Covenant war began.

After the battle of the Rubble, Truth grew paranoid about the station of the Sangheili, the backbone of the Covenant's military and their greatest threat if the truth about the Covenant was revealed. He learned that some Sangheili were already questioning why humans were being targeted rather than converted and did not dare risk betrayal. Thus, he made the controversial decision to make the Jiralhanae, the Sangheili's greatest competitors and the Covenant's most newly-converted species, the new warrior race of the Covenant, a position that had been reserved for the Sangheili for thousands of years.

Before Regret made his fateful blunder by arriving at Earth unprepared, Truth had already learned of Earth's location, but kept the information a secret, privately assembling a fleet so that he could crush the Sangheili after they destroyed Earth. The plan would fail when humanity discovered his fleet, and tasked Master Chief with destroying the command-and-control station. The Spartan team succeeded, and Truth scrambled to cover up the incident, even from his fellow Hierarchs.

Truth's final betrayal to the Sangheili would occur after launching a "rescue" mission for Regret, who independently discovered Earth's location and arrived unprepared. In the chaos that followed, he would send his own Jiralhanae fleet to assume control of Regret's fleet and kill the remaining Sangheili. Truth then called back the Phantoms sent to save Regret, essentially allowing Master Chief to kill Regret and his Honor Guards, which was the perfect pretense to deem the Sangheili unworthy of protecting the Hierarchs and replace them.

Truth, still determined to activate the Halo rings, sent Arbiter Thel 'Vadam(ee) to retrieve the Activation Index. Truth made this decision expecting 'Vadam and his comrades to die in pursuit of it, but, failing that, sent Jiralhanae Chieftain Tartarus to murder 'Vadam after retrieving the Index. Unfortunately for Truth, 'Vadam survived, saved by the Gravemind. After Truth replaced the Sangheili as Honor Guards, he quietly ordered the Jiralhanae to murder all Sangheili. The Sangheili believed this to be an insurrection until 'Vadam revealed the truth, causing the Great Schism and the beginning of the end for Truth.

In a last-ditch effort to activate the Halo rings, Truth launched the Forerunner Dreadnought, housed within High Charity, through the portal to the Ark on Earth. He raced to the Citadel on the Ark, the place where he could activate all of the Rings. He was pursued by the recently-collaborating UNSC and Sangheili forces, who were united in their understanding that Truth had to be stopped.

Just as he forced the captured Avery Johnson to begin the activation process, he was interrupted by the appearance of John-117 and 'Vadam, assisted by the Gravemind. Determined to take vengeance on Truth himself and not a flood-infected thrall, 'Vadam stabbed Truth through the chest as he declared himself the voice of the Covenant. Silenced, the Covenant empire collapsed.

[nefretemerson]

I live in an area with an extensive history of growing tobacco and pretty much every farm around here has a tobacco barn or two, including the family farm, but it's a labor intensive crop to grow and it's usually grown in 1-3 acre lots because everything has to be done by hand. Tobacco, due to its labor intensive and expensive nature, is more or less a contract crop. Like. Every year the regional tobacco buyers let growers know how much they want and then divide the acreage out among the interested farmers so that no one is wasting time growing surplus tobacco and no one is losing money. I've seen less and less tobacco cultivation for the last decade but in the past couple of years that's started to reverse a bit and I've started to see a small increase. then This year it's like everywhere I look someone has put in another acre or two of tobacco. I swear I'm seeing more tobacco than soybeans this year. So I asked a friend who's father does tobacco what's up and she said that the local purchaser asked the southern part of the county to put in 300 more acres of tobacco this year. 300. For a crop that gets grown 2 acres at a time. Pour one out for declining American nicotine usage. It was nice while it lasted.

[authortobenamedlater]

I

I

I think Mack and Sif are going to steal my heart and then break it

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

How would your KC react to coming home and finding all three of his son's drunk off their robo butts? Like let's say it's some good robot alcohol. Lol

KC would force them into beds and make them drink coffee to sober up a bit and eat something to assist that. Sure, they’re adults and they make their own choices but KC would rather not hear them drunkenly talking about who they find attractive.

Its nice knowing that his sons have love lives and all but he’d rather not hear Eclipse ever say he’s a bottom again, or Blood Moon drunkenly blabbing about finding DJMM hot now that he has a humanoid body, let alone the bleach he’d like to pour in his circuits when Harvest Moon talks about wanting a partner just to check if he truly likes being choked.

KC half-ignores them continuing to drunkenly admit things like Eclipse finally admitting he feels like he doesn’t deserve to be loved, Blood Moon tearily admitting he’s touch starved, and Harvest Moon crying talking about how he wants a pet cat to keep with him forever because he doesn’t like being alone now that the twins are in separate bodies.

[venusararara]

Also a second question (I'm so sorry-)

Is there anything that other little murderers do that Gatherine would think is crossing the line? Like, something another murderer could do that she would see as wrong? Or is she more of the mindset of do whatever you want, you do you?

"I'm not very fond of dangerous doctors! :)"

"Though, I do work well with stalkers! So committed, it's admirable. They can be so hard to find, though, they're always hiding! Except Carter..."

"If you're killing without reason, I'll make your life very complicated, very quickly, like Carter!"