Carved It Myself

 Carved It Myself  The Tale of Emile-A239

"SPARTAN-A239."

The young man known as Emile-A239 glanced up as the door to his cell shuddered with the force of someone's furious pounding. A moment later it slid open, admitting two guards clad in combat armor. Their sidearms were upholstered and at the ready; from the expressions on their faces, Emile could tell they'd use them on him in a heartbeat if he gave them half a reason to. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of making a go for them. Maybe he'd take down one, use him as a shield while he dealt with the second, then sit back down and wait for whoever came in next.

The thought of it brought a smile to his face, even if it was nothing more than a flight of fancy. His hands, clasped together between his knees, were handcuffed while his legs, planted firmly on the cell's dusty floor, bore similar restraints. Even with the manacles, he could feel the raw power that had coursed endlessly through his body ever since the augmentations so many months ago. He missed his armor, with its tight, intimidating helmet and the hardened gauntlets that could turn every punch into a skull-crushing blow, but even without it he looked at the guards and mulled over how easy it would be to kill them.

''I don't need the armor to take you clowns down. But it wouldn't hurt to have it, all the same...''

He didn't rise when Commander Ambrose and Chief Petty Officer Mendez entered the cell. If the insubordination displeased them, they didn't show it. The Commander simply raised an eyebrow and settled down comfortably on the bench facing Emile. The Chief stood behind him, arms folded as he looked down at Emile with those cold, furiously calm eyes that had terrified each and every member of Alpha Company since the first day they'd been dropped off here at Camp Currahee. Since the augmentations Emile had thought himself impervious to fear, but those eyes still managed to send shivers running down his spine.

"Emile," the Commander began. He'd always been able to tell Emile and his fellow Spartans apart, all three hundred of them. His brown eyes bored into the prisoner, seeing everything and giving away nothing. It was a different kind of blankness from Mendez's cutting gaze, but the Commander had always been a tough one to read. Emile had always respected him for that.

"We all know the situation, so let's not waste any time," the Commander continued. "You understand what you're being charged with?"

Emile raised his head. He'd been stripped of his uniform, but he wore the dull grey prison khakis with dignity as if they were a uniform themselves--which they were, of a sort. He was an ugly young man with brutal, jagged features that looked as if a sculptor had begun to chisel them out of granite before losing interest and moving on to a more desirable project.

He gave the Commander an unpleasant grin. "Yeah. I know what I did. And I won't apologize, if that's what your here for."

Mendez's arms quivered, but the days where a slap from those hardened muscles could send Emile sprawling were gone. The Commander raised an eyebrow. "Emile, do you really understand how serious this is? You killed a man."

"Not a man," Emile corrected. "A Spartan. A154."

"One of your brothers." The Commander shook his head. "For all that Anthony was a disgrace to the program, you had no business killing him."

"He had it coming."