For those who remember the Halo CE Demo:

Sgt. Major Avery Johnson: "So. You're wondering what this 'Outsider' comic is, soldier? It's a fully-colored epic sci-fi story available in webcomic form on the 'Well of Souls' website! Crammed full of creepy aliens that make the Covenant look like — actually, no, the Split-jaws are still ugly. If you're ready to take the next step, find it online and read it! It's short enough that you can read it in only a few hours — yes, even you, Marine! Go read it now! Heck, read it twice. That's an order, soldier!"

(All joking aside, this crossover is like 80% Outsider, 20% Halo. It is strongly recommended that you read the Outsider comic to understand who these characters are and what's going on.)

{Jumping in four solon. Four… three… two… one… engaged.}

Tempest surged forwards, leaping across the vast gulf between stars in less time than it took to blink. Torrai Lashret Stillstorm felt only the familiar twinge in the corner of her mind, where a lesser species would have been crippled for hundreds of solon by such a long-distance jump.

Yet more proof of the superiority of the Soia-Liron species, another marker of their destiny — their duty — to once more stand as hegemon over the known galaxy, as their foremothers did before.

A duty which now led Stillstorm and her fleet to this journey far beyond the borders of the Union. To where no Loroi had gone before… at least, not since the days of the Soia.

A sub-verbal flicker of thought from her tactical officer confirmed that the star system was empty of contacts besides the rest of Strike Group 51. Four planets orbited a single brown dwarf star; no moons, no significant asteroid presence. The innermost planet was inside the habitable zone, although its atmospheric oxygen content was slightly too low for comfort, but that could be fixed with—

Stillstorm blocked off the rest of the Listel Tozet's analysis. The girl was a capable enough officer — more than most, or Stillstorm would have rotated her out of SF-51 long ago — but her youth showed clearly in her over-eagerness for discovery and analysis. A welcome trait when applied to finding new and better ways to kill Shells, but… 'tiring' when her focus strayed to lesser topics.

To distract her mind from the usual post-jump flurry of sanzai chatter — both verbal and sub-verbal — that flashed around the bridge, the Lashret let her eyes play across the displayed icons of the rest of the ships in her formation, allowing the familiar glow of anger to rise as she counted how few remained.

To think that it had been only a short while ago that SF-51 had been comfortably ensconced in the routine duties of patrolling the Charred Steppes. As "routine" as any combat duty could be in this war, at least. Until the Shells rammed their Great Offensive straight through the front lines, ships by the thousands pouring in… and the first wave entirely invisible to the Farseers. SF-51 had been among the first to feel the bite of the Enemy's new trick, barely surviving an ambush which cost them the entirety of two sister raider groups. An ambush carried out by ships which they could not see — not properly, at least, and only with their shipboard sensors.

And yet for all the time SG-51 had spent sifting through the Shell wreckage left after that battle, they had found nothing. Not the slightest hint of how the Enemy had pulled off such a coup, had blinded the Union's most important advantage.

Or rather, their second-most important advantage. The nature of the Loroi as the Soia's true inheritors was their greatest aid, the one that would see this war brought — eventually — to the correct conclusion. That had been shown well enough by the fierce fighting withdrawal of the Tinza sector fleet ahead of the Enemy offensive, harrying the Shells' vanguard even as the vengeful strike groups cut at their rearguard.

The Loroi had not been able to stop the Khalkha divisions cold, not at the border. But for fifteen jumps after Leido, every system now bore a hazy field of wreckage tumbling forever in the cold starlight. Umiak warships cut asunder, melted, burned by the dozens. Hundreds.

Thousands.

But they had not died alone.

Five colonies — seventy million Union lives, mostly Neridi — had lain in the path of the attack. Three of those worlds would not see life again for decades, now… and only half a million of their former inhabitants still drew breath.

The Shells had gambled on a thrust deep into the heart of the Union, and had failed in that objective. But they had taken far too much with them down into the depths. Not quite as bad as the vile slaughter that the Enemy had inflicted in the first few years of the war, but every loroi in the strike group felt the same burning anger at those losses.

The Shells would pay for their latest transgression; this over-confident offensive would be their undoing, spending what must have been the work of years of reserves and yet failing to inflict a mortal blow to the Union.

Yet the greatest error of the Enemy had been found only once the clean-up operation began.

A spinning chunk of wreckage had drifted through space, misshapen, half-melted, massive rents torn in its hull by blaster fire. Only a truly observant analyst could have identified it as the aft main hull of a Shell superheavy.

But Tempest had just such an analyst.

And while the Farseer could detect no life aboard the shattered hulk, Tempest's thermal sensors showed that life yet drew breath within it.
Stillstorm knew just the people who were most eager to change that.

The wreck's reactor had been opened to space by its destruction, and the ship-killing munitions that it had carried had long since been hurled futilely against the vengeful Loroi armada. The Umiak crew aboard had no method left at hand to scuttle their stricken craft, for all that they fought hard against the boarding team.

It earned a few of them a quick death at the hands of soroin blaster fire or teidar telekinesis.

Those were the lucky ones.

Mizol interrogators worked alongside gallen cyber-specialists to plumb the depths of what knowledge could be gleaned from the ship, stored aboard minds both organic and technological. The agonized last gasps of minds and machines had yielded… a map.

One which led deep into the Barren Wastes.

Past system after system pockmarked with ruined, cratered worlds dating far back into prehistory. Whatever had once been there, the Soia had seen fit to remove.

With great prejudice.

Leaving no traces of technology or settlement, no artifacts or faintest traces of habitation.

Yet somewhere out there, the Umiak had found… the Device.

It sat now in one of Tempest's fighter maintenance bays, adjacent to the hangar. They… didn't need as much space for small-craft, anymore. Which left plenty of space to give the backpack-sized ancient artifact a wide berth.

The gallen promised anyone who would receive that the Device had no effect when unpowered. That once it had been removed from the well-hidden compartment aboard the Umiak superheavy, unplugged from the nest of wires and cables that had powered it, it was merely an inert pile of machinery, no danger to anyone.

But still it… unnerved everyone.

It had to be a Soia artifact — who else could have constructed a psionic 'cloak'? — but why it had been forged by those ancient foremothers was anyone's guess. Unless the Soia had been no more immune to infighting than their fallen Loroi descendants, why build a machine that seemed to hold no other purpose than to shield any person — even aliens! — around it from one of the greatest advantages the Soia had bequeathed to the Loroi?

The metal-lined straps that sat on one side of the heavy Device gave a strong hint as to its intent: it was sized to be carried by a loroi. A rather strong loroi, yes, and one of large build, but there could be no doubt. The Device, a machine which completely hid any being within hundreds of paces from the mind of a loroi, had been meant to be carried by one of the same people who stood to lose the most from its use.

Stillstorm herself had marched down to the bay, had held one hand against the smooth, aged metal. Trying to imagine what sort of mind, what sort of person had once carried it, so long ago. It was cold to the touch, and she had told herself that that was the only reason why her palm had tingled.
Had had to repeat that private thought twice before it stuck fast.

And so even she overlooked the few… lapses in discipline among the guards posted to watch the bay. Even when Tempest's own Chief of Security had had to discipline a junior teidar loathe to stand watch in the same room as the Device, Stillstorm had kept her thoughts to herself.

These girls had fought hard against the Shell offensive, and suffered through the grinding crucible of the Barren Steppes before that. They had earned a lighter touch than she might otherwise have shown them.

The red dwarf's gravity well was predictably small, and so it was only a few thousand solon later that Strike Group 51 lined up on their jump vector to the next system. The one that had been specially marked in the Shell computers and carefully guarded in Shell minds.

But not carefully enough to keep its location from the prying thoughts of a seasoned Mizol.

The system that doubtlessly would see yet another pitched battle against the hated Enemy, if it was truly the source of their lotai-machines. The Shells would fight dearly to guard their find, that much she knew to expect. But only a few jumps behind Strike Group 51 was a line fleet formation, the survivors of Tinza's reserve forces and sector fleet. Bloodied and thinned by the desperate battles against the Lotai Offensive, yes, but now eager to seek out vengeance against those who had slain so many of their sisters-in-arms. And with the arrival of the Emperor's own Guard Squadrons at Tinza, they were now freed to sate their bloodlust.

One could criticize many things about the Mizol Emperor — Stillstorm had done so repeatedly and publicly — but her willingness to put her own flagship on the line was not one of them. Especially in light of the demise of Greywind's predecessor, which had so panicked the Diadem Council that they put a Spy on an Admiral's throne!

Stillstorm grimaced at the thought, her jaw muscles tightening. Only the thought of imminent action against the Enemy helped lighten her mood. She met the gaze of Tempest's Herald, who nodded in understanding even before Stillstorm could send her instructions.

Herald Forest turned her head towards the bridge's audio recorder and barked aloud "Tempest, at quick for action!"

Stillstorm felt the pulse of excitement race through the crew's minds, expanding outwards from the bridge. She was no mizol herself — for which she was eternally grateful — but long experience with her picked crew had made her able to feel the threads of their surface thoughts as easily as she felt her own pulse racing through her ears.

Resolute soroin stood by their guns, running through last-minute checklists long since memorized.

Gallen deep in the engine compartments felt the pulse of their ship, as Tempest himself readied for battle.

Doranzer checked over their medicines and tools, steeling their minds for bloody work.

The few teidar aboard varied widely, from the smoldering bloodlust of the Teidar Pallan currently on Tempest's own bridge to her much junior caste-sister posted outside of the bridge entrance, whose thoughts kept returning to the last male she had encountered.

Ah, to be young again.

While further aft, the Tenoin were… arguing.

{I can still fly! And better than any of these… children!} Spiral's message echoed through Talon's mind. The Tenoin Arrir didn't let her diral-sister distract her from connecting the hoses of her cockpit up to her flight suit. Especially not now, when Talon had to mentally supervise the younger pilot who would be taking Spiral's normal place flying at her side.

{Tenoin Narrat Ronzasonel is an adequate pilot.} Talon sent back to Spiral. And it was true that of all of Tempest's new replacement pilots, Redmantle was the most promising. It was a pity that this would be her first combat flight, but with none of the other pilots having any more experience, Talon wanted the most promising on her wing. And with Spiral's injury still unhealed…

Some part of Talon's thoughts must have leaked through the sanzai link, because the Maia-born tenoin indignantly sent {I don't need depth perception to fly! Everything is either at my fingertips or too far away to see with just eyes anyways!}

She wasn't wrong, and Talon carefully shielded the real reason why her diral-sister was stuck watching from the observation deck at the side of the hangar rather than climbing into one of the two interceptors left aboard Tempest. After all, if this battle was as fierce as Talon feared it may be, the squadron needed someone with experience left to lead the bare-headed children they had been sent as replacements.

Sorry, sister, but that knife you wear might not be enough to save you from becoming the last of our diral.

The cockpit hissed closed, and she felt the rising cold as Talon's suit began to fill with oxygen-rich breathing liquid. Even after all this time, she still hated this part.

The irony of the tenoin — trained on Taben where all knew well the risks and dangers of drowning! — being the ones who had to let water fill their lungs always stuck with her. Her gut was convinced that she was drowning, in those few heartbeats of instinctual panic before her body accepted that it could still breathe the water.

With long experience, she kept the brief spike of alarm from leaking out through her sanzai.

And chose to ignore the sub-verbal yelp which came from the cockpit of the fighter still held in its cradle next to hers. The girl would get used to it, in time.

If she survived long enough.

While her fingers danced across the controls, running through pre-flight lists, Talon sent to Spiral {I know. But Redmantle needs experience more than you need another kill-marker.}

The voice of Tempest's hangar coordinator came in through the headset. "Blade One, Blade Two, radio check."

Talon keyed her mic and responded, voice distorted and deepened by the liquid filling her lungs. "Blade One, ready for launch. All systems prepared, six missiles loaded and ready."

What she wouldn't give to return to the days when she carried torpedoes and hunted warships, not this glorified point-defense mission.

After a moment, Redmantle added in slightly-broken spoken Trade "Blade Two, all is ready. All machines are being ready, also six missiles."

A smile tugged at the corner of Talon's mouth. She sent to Spiral {Watch out, her vocal Trade is already as good as yours!} along with a sub-verbal laugh.

{Tail-wag!} Spiral sent back with a mental smile, adding the sensation of pinching Talon's ear. The two shared a few seconds of warm camaraderie, before Spiral rapidly sobered. With a sanzai link so intense that Talon could see her diral-sister's face in her mind, complete with the patch covering her missing left eye, Spiral sent {Just… be careful. Please.}

"Sixteen solon until jump." the hangar coordinator announced. "Prepare for launch in twenty solon."

Stillstorm was playing it cautious, then. Getting her fighter screen — what was left of it — deployed as soon as they arrived.

Smart move.

Talon turned her helmet to the side, looking across the hangar to the observation deck even as the launch-shutters closed. She met Spiral's eyes — well, eye — and nodded.

{I will.}

"Jump in four… three… two..." the helmswoman intoned aloud "one… engaged."

Stillstorm surreptitiously licked at dry lips as her eyes bored holes into the tactical display. The screen stayed blank for several solon after the strike group blinked into their new system, as Tempest's sensor network combined their inputs into a cohesive view.

All at once, a sea of hostile-blue markers flooded into the display.

Tempest's sensor officer blurted out over sanzai {Multiple Enemy contacts! Hundreds of— no, thousands!} The Listel Tozet's alarm was palpable, but to the girl's credit she wrestled it under control in a heartbeat and returned to spoken speech. "Nearest group, thirty-three vessels. Eight light-solon ahead of us, time to weapons range ninety solon."

Strike Group 51 had emerged right on top of a Shell force. Although that wasn't difficult, given just how the Enemy swarmed throughout the system.

"Vessel classifications?" Stillstorm asked.

"Of the nearest group, readings indicate twenty-six transport vessels and seven escorts. Escort consists of one Type-Kh light cruiser and six Type-H destroyers."

Stillstorm frowned. That wasn't an unusually heavy escort… for convoys near the battle lines. But this system was far behind the front. She eyed the tactical display, which flagged more and more of the Shell contacts in the system as warships. And not all small vessels, either.

Why was the Enemy spending so many ships on patrolling a system this far from the actual war?

"Alert, Fifty-one!" called out the red-armored Torret who commanded the vanguard squadron. Her performance during the long-running Battles of Tinza had earned her a transfer to the Torrai caste, but there had not been time to formalize her promotion to Mazeit rank. Stillstorm was always glad when those officers who had proven their talent were moved to a position to continue their career's upward trajectory… even if it meant that Nova would inevitably be transferred out of the strike group 51 all the sooner. "Eyes on sensor trace at position bishires-four-three. Winter Tide has readings on an unknown structure, and the Enemy are heavily concentrated around it."

Stillstorm flicked a thought at her sensor officer, and the overhead display obligingly shifted to show the image of the contact in question, a composite view generated by the sensors of the entire strike group working together.

The Torrai Lashret nodded to herself. She knew an intact Soia artifact when she saw one, for all that none had yet been found of such scale. That object could only be the reason the Shells swarmed all over this system, and why they guarded it so heavily.

Indeed, she allowed her own feelings to flow into the waves of shock that echoed around the bridge, as battle-seasoned loroi stared at the image projected on the display walls.

Against the backdrop of a swirling orange gas giant, there floated a colossal structure. Nearly thirteen-thousand mannal across.

A Ring.