James’s skin was pale in his helmet. The indicators beeping around him suggested a person not long to live. Olivia’s bullets had punctured his gut somewhere. Curiously, the Forerunner had not spoken up to save them. “You think this run’s a dead end, bastard,” he croaked into the radio. “Guess you’re right.” James left his rifle where it had fallen, struggling away towards the cages. They were small, made of a dense white composite. Just barely big enough for the creatures they contained.