The New World.

An explosion rocked the VDF warship known as the Nightingale. It's hull was covered in scorches and torn panels of armor lit ablaze. Fighters adorned in the purple armor with plasma weapons of the Covenant, and those with steel plating and ballistic weapons of the UNSC fired their weapons at the weaker points in the ship's hull.

The captain of the ship sat at his chair, giving the orders to abandon ship, as he prepared a Cole Protocol scenario. A set of engineers behind him worked away at planting what at first glance, appeared to be HAVOK-Class nuclear explosives. One of the engineers, wearing a suit of thin white armor that went over a black body suit, along with a MJOLNIR Mark V variant helmet atop his head, walked over to the captain.

"The nukes are primed and ready. We'll give the order to detonate on your word, sir." The engineer threw up a loose salute. The Nightingale's captain nodded in response, tilting his head back as he downed a shot of whiskey and a few pills.

"Alright, all of you, bug out. Get to the escape pods and make your way to the coordinates punched in. I'm going down with the ship." The crew offered no argument, simply rushing out of the bridge with haste. The captain stood for a moment, staring out at the battlefield below.

VDF warships engaged UNSC and Swords Of Sanghelios ships and fighters in combat over the orbit of a large, habitable planet. They called it Equis. It was the center of the galaxy their ships now fought in, the sun and moon acting as they would normally.

The face of the moon was defiled by the large, empty and destroyed husk of the VDF Emporium Of War, one of the many VDF ships that have been destroyed in the combat before the Nightingale's captain. It, and the debris of several smaller ships, loosely made the form of the head of a unicorn mare, or something of that nature.

"Lucy, take a photograph of this battle, and make sure it's all recorded. Don't smudge any of the details." The captain addressed the Nightingale's AI. Her hologram appeared on the armrest of the captain's chair.

Her form represented that of a naval captain, with pieces of metal and leather armor attached to her outerwear as extra protection, a saber in a sheathe at the back of her waist.

"Yes sir. Would... would you like anything else before we pull the trigger?"

"Some peace and goddamned quiet."

The expressions on the face of a young VDF cadet began changing from enraged, to terrified, and finally, just... blank, as she watched her home, the home of thousands of her fellow cadets, explode in a glorious ball of flame. Millions would die from the explosion. The lives of so many, now have been wasted. And for what? So the United Nations Space Command could reassert their dominance? So they'd have a fresh new colony to inhabit, or, more likely, destroy, thinking it's a VDF stronghold?

"... Hell if I know. We're running around with our heads chopped off. These raids have been increasing in numbers for a while now... We all knew this was coming." one of the marines sitting by the cadet conversed with a VDF Ranger, their equivalent to a SPARTAN-II.

"The VDF's gonna fall. It's... it's inevitable. All we've done, though, won't be forgotten. Trust me. Now, if you'll excuse me-" The ranger stood up and walked over to the cockpit.

Everything went in slow motion for the cadet. The impact of the Anti-Air missile against the glass of the cockpit. The marines, and herself included, being thrown away from the blood-tray's hatch as it was torn apart by high-velocity shells. The blood that spilled from the mouth of one of her friends as a single round grazed their side, blowing them apart, as if a grenade were burrowed into their chest.

The cadet had been reliving this memory (among others) for only God knows how long. Every time, no matter what she did... Everything always fell apart before her. Nothing changed. The VDF Nightingale would go ablaze in nuclear fire. The dropships and escape pods would be targeted by UNSC ships' ballistic guns.

She would die.

Except, now, something had changed.

Because her eyes opened after she watched that incident go down. Her vision didn't go black, and she didn't wake up back a few months before her death, to relive that hell over, and over, and over again.

Instead, her eyes opened. The smell of burnt flesh was apparent, as well was the crackle of a flame. The cadet sat up, glancing around.

She laid in the back of the D-77 TC Pelican Dropship, none of the ship's crew still alive to tell the tale...

Also, their armor was severely rusted, and wherever skin should've been showing, bone showed, or, bone with moss and vine growing over it. The crackle was gone now. It was almost completely silent, other than the noises of the forest.

Birds chirping. Animals making their noises occasionally. The silence was what was killing the cadet. She got to her feet, only to stumble, leaning against a moss-covered plate of steel that used to be the wall of the Pelican, regaining her bearings.

My name is Michelle Campolo. I am sixteen. I am a cadet, squad Four-Five-Seven, Marauder Battalion of the Vanguard Marine Corps... I supposedly died.

Michelle groaned, holding her head as memories flooded through her head, everything soon coming back to her.

My body is augmented to fit the physique of a VDF Marine. I was off to get advanced training, with my squad, when our escort ships began taking fire from UNSC warships. We were raided, and had to evacuate before our ship exploded in a suicide-bombing technique that saved, and ended, millions of lives. Michelle inhaled slowly, then exhaled slowly. Inhale, exhale. Repeat. Repeat...

Michelle opened her eyes and let herself get a good look at herself, and her surroundings.

She wore a cadet's uniform, a white jumpsuit with black patches at the sides, elbows and knees. It had intricate designs sewed into it, with the number "457" imprinted into the shoulder, along with her rank and emblem. Her uniform had pieces of light metal covering the chest, upper arms, thighs and shins, while a basic training helmet with an amber-colored Heads-Up-Display, cracks dotting the screen. She was in the blood-tray of a D-77 TC Pelican Dropship...

Except it was broken down, overgrown with flora of all sorts. The remains of her, apparently long dead, comrades lie around her, partially overgrown themselves, decayed away to bone.

Michelle checked her calendar.

"Three-thousand sixty-seven..." she whispered, nearly collapsing from the shock.

She had been unconscious for a thousand years (give or take a few years), while the world her dropship landed on must've survived, probably left alone, given there doesn't seem to be any signs of civilization.

Michelle climbed out of the ripped open hatch of the blood-tray, shielding her eyes from the glowing sun. Pillars of smoke rose up in the distance. Civilization. Michelle took a check of her weapons and munitions.

She had her M6G magnum, three magazines and the one loaded into the chamber, an M20 SMG, two and a half magazines and the empty one loaded into the chamber. Her knife rested in it's scabbard on her calf, while a saber rested in a sheathe at the back of her waist. Michelle removed the saber and examined it.

It had a golden handle, with intricate designs of people melded into the blade. It was very sharp as well. Michelle sheathed it and began a slow stumble toward the smoke stack...