RP:Awakening Demons

Active This roleplay is created and directed by Actene.

Awakening Demons

"The greatest threats are always the ones we fail to see."

''The year is 2574. The Interspecies Union remains locked in a bitter war with the Path Walkers, a powerful army of extremist Sangheili still devoted to the religion of the Great Journey. Humanity and the Sangheili, along with the rest of their allies within the Interspecies Union, are now threatened not only by this bloody stalemate but also dozens of other threats both foreign and domestic. The Path Walkers are not the only hostile faction in the galaxy, and now the Interspecies Union's enemies can smell blood in the water. Now new demons emerge from the darkness; some are old, some are new, and some are foes many in the IU would just as soon forget.''

''A new chapter opens in the Against All Odds universe. This may be an age of villains, but it is also an age for heroes. Those with the will and dedication may plant their own print on galactic history in the turbulent times to come. The galaxy needs those brave enough to answer the call to step forward to not only defend the principalities and powers of the galaxy but also shape the future of their galaxy.''

Joining
Most prospective writers have already signed up via this RP's announcement page, but anyone else who wants to join just needs to message me via my talk page. Short of outstanding rule violations, applicants will most likely be admitted quickly and invited to start posting immediately.
 * A note on characters: As explained on the forum page, the nature of this RP calls for a range of human characters outside the UNSC's military forces. While military personnel are permitted, there is also a great need for non-military humans, namely criminals, insurrectionists, and plainclothes civilians. Also, short of unique circumstances no more Spartan characters will be allowed to join.

Posting
As a rule, don't post consecutively (i.e. two separately numbered posts written by the same person). There's no solid rules about how frequently you can post, though it's probably best to wait until two or three others have posed before writing again.

I can't stress enough how much you are encouraged to stay in contact with other writers. Collaborate with your posts, get your characters to interact with each other. I'll be trying to work with as many people as I can to work characters into the story once it starts, but it will be easier on me and frankly more interesting for you if you take the initiative and arrange meetings, fights, and other events between characters. The more people you have writing about or even mentioning your characters, the more interested readers will be in what you're doing with those characters within the story.

Finally, be ambitious. I may be the ultimate arbiter of the overall plot, but I've seen too many RPs where people lost interest because their characters and posts had no bearing on what was going on. Again, I'll be doing my best to give your characters chances to stand out, but at the end of the day the person who can do that best is you.

If your posts do cause problems (i.e. making your characters know things they shouldn't know, excessively interfering with other writers without their permission, being nonsensical or overtly unrealistic) then I'll contact you, explain the problem, and invite you to remove or change it.

The Death Rule
As I posted in the forum:

"Having discussed the general failure of RPs at length with Sona, I have a new rule that I will be implementing in this RP. It's pretty simple: you stop contributing, I kill your characters. All of them. And they'll stay dead, or at least is far as the AAO-verse is concerned.

''That being said, I won't start dropping bridges if you go a week without posting. If I think you're in danger of running up against this rule, then I'll give you a quick head's up and maybe some suggestions about what to do with your characters. This will be followed by a couple warnings, but after that you're done. I will inventively and mercilessly kill off your characters and that will be that.''

''Now if there's a genuine problem (i.e. the real world) preventing you from writing, either message me or talk to me on the IRC and we can work something out. This rule isn't here to punish you, just encourage people not to drop their commitment to the project just because they don't feel like writing anymore."''


 * Mordred: An enigmatic mercenary and arms dealer who knows himself only by his odd pseudonym. Although he projects an appearance of cheerful self-confidence, he is a morally bankrupt shell of a man whose true motives and intentions are unclear.
 * Jonah: Mordred's only companion, this child soldier is doggedly loyal to his "boss" who saved him from a colonial battlefield two years previously.


 * Shepard-A294 (a.k.a. "The Reaper"): Formerly a SPARTAN-III of Alpha Company, Shepard is the only survivor of Operation: PROMETHEUS. His existence his unknown to the UNSC or any of his Spartan brethren, and he is currently a high-ranking enforcer for the Syndicate. His shadowy ambitions stretch far beyond a life of crime, and he lives by his own harsh code of honor.
 * Nimue: Raised from infancy to be an Insurrectionist assassin, the girl code-named "Nimue" knows little of life away from the battlefield. A lethal combatant, she is currently in Shepard's employ and is his chief accomplice.
 * Diana: This rogue Insurrectionist A.I. was once the companion of renegade Spartan Simon-G294. She has since become Shepard's partner and confidant. Contemptuous of organic "meatbags," she nonetheless finds herself entertained by their trials and tribulations.


 * Thomas Martel: An aged UNSC scientist who has done extensive research on Sangheili anatomy and has accomplished numerous feats in medical science, engineering, and weapons research.
 * Jun-A266: Formerly the rifleman of the disbanded Noble Team, and currently serving as Dr. Martel's guardian angel of sorts (character to be shared with Ladylaconia).
 * Lt. Col Forenson: An ODST officer in charge of the human military task force present.
 * Iris Sabio (a.k.a. "Constance"): A high-ranking Syndicate member and a descendent of the revered Dr. Sabio; a prodigy as well as a CQB expert.


 * Jackson-A104 and Valor Team: An elite group of only 3 SPARTAN-IIIs responsible for a majority of ONI classified missions both planetary and intergalactic currently serving the Interspecies Union
 * Dotto: One of the first of the secret 'Intelligent' AI program, Dotto is extremely versatile in the multiple fields of science. The AI has been known for numerous accounts of being the harbinger of multiple deaths such as the disbandment of Noble Team during the infamous Fall of Reach.
 * Ariadne Harvard: A prodigy with multiple specialties and has a brilliant academic and scientific performance. Ariadne has been praised as being among the smartest women of the 26th century, almost rivaling Catherine Halsey.
 * : A special-operations agent with a classified agenda dating back during the early days of the Human-Covenant War.
 * Viktor Aagard: An agent of the Interspecies Union and veteran of alien-related missions. His former allegiance to the Office of Naval Intelligence has made himself almost regret becoming a spy in the first place.


 * Sepia-G330: Believed dead for nearly a decade, Sepia has avoided UNSC detection by staying on the borders of human-colonized space. In search of power for her own goals, she has cautiously returned to the Outer Colonies through illicit channels looking to find the location of a particular Forerunner relic.


 * SgtMaj. Pete Stacker: A veteran Marine looking towards his retirement, Stacker has seen more than most ever will. Still, one last drop may hold its share of the unexpected for him.
 * SSgt. Chips Dubbo: Looking to Stacker as a mentor, Dubbo has finally come into his own fighting the Covenant Remnant and intends to continue his career in the Marine Corps. The trials ahead involving the Insurrection, however, may shake his resolve.
 * Cpl. Manyara Abda: Joining after her home was destroyed in the Battle of Earth, Abda is an expert in unarmed combat. She's extremely loyal to the UEG, despising aliens and rebels alike.


 * Ash Mitchell: An ODST-turned mercenary after becoming disillusioned with the UNSC. He was framed by an associate after a robbery turned into a massacre, and is currently on the run as a wanted terrorist after his name was also found in connection to several hijackings and Insurrectionist groups.
 * Carlos Driscol: A former URF leader and veteran of the Mamore conflict, among other battles, he is in hiding after faking his death twice. He has many dealings with the criminal underworld, running a black market operation in trading alien weapons and other goods while only looking out for number one.
 * Layla-B101: A SPARTAN-III and former headhunter, Layla spent several years in Covenant captivity before escaping. The experience left her mentally unstable, leading to her being assigned far-off missions by ONI to keep her out of the way. She is currently acting as a protector and partner to Redford.
 * Alexander Redford: An experienced ONI agent who specialises in deep-cover operations, Redford's skills have not declined with age. He is currently in an uneasy partnership with Layla after years of operating alone.


 * Grayson MacMillan: Once an Insurrectionist turned bounty hunter, Grayson escaped from the Innies at the age of twenty years and soon became a mercenary for hire. He has collected quite the infamy in the criminal underworld, due to his prowess and love for explosives.
 * Stel 'Vadam: The 55-year-old Sangheilian veteran brother to Thel 'Vadam is still kicking by 2574. In the previous two years he had led a campaign against the Path Walkers as Supreme Commander and is still as recognizable as ever. It's unknown why one of the Sangheili's most commendable commanders is in the immediate vicinity of several armed mercenaries, but it's soon to be revealed with time.


 * Adam Makosky: Originally a UNSC loyalist, Makosky fought on Far Isle and during the Human Covenant War, before defecting to the URF in 2552 with a group of fellow dissidents, and over the 22 years since then, has built a considerable force and stronghold in the Eridanus II asteroid belt. On Thebes he plans to forge an alliance with Carlos Driscol and the Minutemen in order to destroy the Syndicate, and give him control of the URF's course.
 * George McClusky: A former Victoria Liberation Front soldier, McClusky retreated to Venezia after the destruction of the VLF in 2554. A highly respected airborne trooper and tactical genius, he is in charge of Makosky's entire elite airborne infantry detachment, which is in the forests outside Thebes, waiting for Makosky's orders.

The Story
With no end in sight to the conflict with the Path Walkers, the Interspecies Union plans to host a summit in order to confirm its own commitment to galactic unity and make plans for the orchestration of the rest of the war. The city chosen to host this gathering is Thebes, a sprawling metropolis with a history that stretches back decades before the start of the Great War.

But the summit is not the only focus in Thebes. The city is also the birthplace of the Syndicate, the sprawling criminal empire that dominates underworld markets throughout the IU. Its power and authority have gone unchecked and unchallenged for decades, but now forces are stirring that hope to loosen the Syndicate's iron grip on drug trades, arms dealing and most importantly, the flow of equipment and funding to what remains of humanity's insurrectionist movement.

And into this swirling cauldron of intrigue walks a man with no beliefs or morals to call his own. Without even a name, he prepares to send the dominoes toppling over. The board is set, and the pieces are already in motion.

Factions

 * UEG/UNSC: As the summit takes place on a UEG colony, UNSC forces are charged with ensuring that the city remains secure and free from danger.
 * Sangheili: The second key power to attend the summit, the Sangheili are beginning to waver after years of unchecked warfare following the end of the Covenant.
 * Note: As no one has registered any Sangheili characters, I will write for them in any scene in which they appear.
 * The Syndicate: A criminal empire that used the chaos following the war to seize control of organized crime throughout the IU's member territories. Thebes is one of its key headquarters, and local Syndicate leaders hope to use their influence to keep the summit's outcome in their favor.
 * The Minutemen: A loose association of criminals and insurrectionist forces. The Minutemen wish to break the Syndicate's hold on criminal dealings and end their control over the course of the insurrection movement. Unknown to the Syndicate, they are gathering in Thebes and preparing for the coming turf war.
 * Civilians: The denizens of Thebes, these ordinary men and women never asked to be caught up in the middle of a war. Unfortunately, fate does not care about whether or not anyone wanted the troubles that befall them.

Prologue
Join the Corps, Zoey Hunsinger’s recruiting sergeant had told her. ''See the galaxy. Be all you can be.''

“Incoming!”

Zoey had certainly joined the Corps, and she was certainly seeing the galaxy. But right now “all she could be” was looking very much like “dead.”

She threw herself low, assault rifle held tight against her chest with one hand and bracing her helmet with the other. The next ten seconds were filled with a thunderous roaring and the painfully familiar triple pounding of the plasma artillery the Path Walkers had been raining down on her batallionfor the past two days. The building, already reduced to charred rubble by constant streams of plasma fire, shook and groaned under its own failing weight. She had to get out now, or she’d be burned alive when the white-hot roof caved in around her.

“C’mon, Hunsinger!” Sergeant Metsker’s booming voice roared from somewhere off to the side. “Get your head out of your ass and fall back!”

Zoey was all too eager to obey. She leapt away from her crumbling cover, half running and half tripping in her haste to get clear. Plasma rounds hummed and flashed around her; it was all she could do to keep her grip on her rifle as she ducked through the door and out into the street.

Gemini Sigma had not been a vacation resort to begin with, but two days of the Path Walkers’ assault had reduced it to a living hell. Prefab buildings burned everywhere she looked, the streets around them carved to pieces by artillery blasts and strafing runs from the Seraphs and Banshees that had been bombing with impunity since the battle began. The shattered chases of trucks and Warthogs were piled everywhere, either pushed to the side or converted into makeshift barricades, and the ragged silhouettes of human beings—armed or otherwise—crept amongst it all like bewildered ants.

She was no stranger to scenes of horror. As a young teen she’d survived Brute captivity, the grueling criminal underworld of the frontier colonies, and war zones on planets far more alien than Gemini Sigma. But Zoey still couldn’t completely shut out the screams that rose up above the plasma and gunfire, mingling with the smoke overhead to create a hideous, deafening symphony.

“Hunsinger, move it!” Metsker emerged from a column of smoke like some ghostly apparition. The stout sergeant was practically naked, most of his uniform and armor burnt away by plasma heat. Hideous, oozing welts and blisters covered his body, yet he still gripped his rifle with a purpose and bellowed orders as easily as if they were on a drill field. “Get your ass to fallback position!”

Two other Marines staggered up to join them. Zoey recognized one as Yosef, from her own squad, but the other man was a stranger. She didn’t bother to ask where everyone else was.

The four of them hurried down the street. Metsker led the way while Zoey and Yosef did their best to support the new guy, a glassy-eyed Private who looked as if he was ready to lie down and die. With the noise and the heat and the gut-ripping fear bearing down on her, it was all Zoey could do not to throw herself down and collapse with him. But she couldn’t die here. She had to make it out of this.

They were halfway to the rally point when Metsker glanced back past them and towards the position they’d just abandoned. His eyes widened and he spun back, yelling incoherently and waving them down.

Zoey and the other Marines threw themselves flat as Metsker let out a series of bursts from his rifle. His soot-covered mouth bared in a snarl as blue plasma cut through the air around him. He got off four good bursts before a beam burnt through his shoulder and threw him back against the nearest building. He kept the rifle up and fired once more before an artillery blast tore the building behind him apart. Heat washed over Zoey; she had one last look at her sergeant, caught against the blinding light of the explosion. Then he was gone.

The glass-eyed Private wailed and covered his head, but Zoey was already rolling over onto her back and bringing her rifle to bear. The metal scorched her hands through her tattered gloves; she gritted her teeth against the pain and kept her grip. Just like Simon would have done.

At the other end of the street, two large, hunched figures advanced towards them. She could just barely make out the dull armor of Path Walker warriors through the smoke, but that didn’t matter. There were no friendly hinge-heads on this rock, just ones that wanted very much to kill her and every other human here.

Things aren’t supposed to be like this, she thought distantly as she blazed away at the warriors. We shouldn’t be losing like this.

The vids her drill sergeants had shown her and the other recruits during Basic had all said the same thing: ''We were outgunned and outnumbered during the Great War and we still won. Things aren’t like that now. We have the advantage.''

But any “advantage” portable shield generators and fancy artillery with tight-beam targeting had been burned away by the first hours of the Path Walker attack, leaving Zoey and her comrades with armor and weapons that were only a step above what they’d been during the Great War. And they were being slaughtered all the same.

Yosef was also firing, his battle rifle chinking away at the warriors’ shields from behind a fortuitously placed bit of rubble. “What’s the plan, Lance Corporal?” he yelled in between shots.

Zoey had been so caught up in the shock of losing Metsker that she hadn’t realized that she was now in charge. Yosef and the panicking Private beside her were suddenly her responsibility. Metsker and the others, the veterans and heroes who had fought the Covenant and the rebels and the Fallen, were all gone. She hadn’t even been in the service for a year, and now she needed to get two guys who’d probably signed up at the same time she had back to the rally point. If she didn’t die right here.

Her assault rifle clicked empty, but the last few rounds flew true. One of the warriors stumbled as his shields failed. Yosef brought him down with a burst through his throat.

She fumbled with her grenade pouch, priming one and throwing it as hard as she could at the remaining warrior. He vanished in a burst of smoke and flames; Zoey didn’t wait to see if he emerged again. She pushed herself to her feet and snapped her empty rifle onto the magnetic clamps on her back. Miraculously, they still worked.

She and Yosef hauled the trembling Private up and took off again down the street. The plasma barrage was still coming down all around them, causing a miniature earthquake that threatened to knock them flat once again. Zoey was struck with a sudden memory from another time, another stricken city, stumbling behind the slim, armored figure of the mercenary known to her as Mordred. He had gotten her through that hell and now it was her job to get these guys through this one.

“We’re almost there,” she panted. “Keep it up.” The words sounded hollow, even to her, but they did their job. Yosef and the Private kept with her and didn’t falter until they reached the rally point.

Sooty-faced sentries waved them over a wall composed of a burnt-out Scorpion and piled up chunks of rubble. Only a handful of others were waiting on the other side. Zoey helped Yosef set the shivering Private down before looking desperately around for anyone who might be in charge.

“Lance Corporal Hunsinger?”

She found herself face to face with a young lieutenant who could very well have been her own age. With a start, she recognized Lieutenant Self, the company chaplain.

“Sir!” she acknowledged, reloading her rifle. “Sergeant Metsker had us fall back. He didn’t make it, sir.”

“Metsker?” the chaplain demanded. “Where’s the rest of Bravo Platoon? Where’s Lieutenant Andon?”

“Um, I don’t know, sir.” So they were the only ones from Bravo to pull back. Or maybe they were the only ones left to fall back. Zoey could only hope that some people were still out there, but if Chaplain Self was the one doing head counts then things had to be going even worse than she’d thought. “Sir, who’s in charge here?”

The chaplain’s jaw worked. Like Metsker, much of his fabric uniform had been burnt away. From the looks of things, he’d carved a rank insignia and a cross into the front of his helmet. “Right now, Corporal,” he said after a moment. “It looks like I am.”

He turned away to help a Navy medic with a patient, leaving Zoey to rejoin Yosef by the rubble wall. “No one else from Bravo’s made it back,” she told him dully.

He groaned and leaned on his rifle like a crutch. “We’re fucked.”

“Keep it together,” she told him, patting him on the back. “We’ll pull through.”

Simon would have said the same thing, though Zoey figured he might not have been quite as friendly about it. From what she’d seen during her travels with him, Metsker and any one of the NCOs who had died back on the line had been a better shot than the bitter, sarcastic ex-Spartan but somehow she knew he would have walked away from the fight that had killed them just like he’d walked away from all the others. He’d have slipped away from the Path Walkers and maybe even caused them a bit of trouble in the process, but no matter what the odds he was up against, he'd always survived.

At least until the last time, the part of her that she was fighting to push away told her. He couldn’t survive everything.

She gripped her rifle and faced the wall. Simon had died for her back above the hinge-head homeworld. She’d become a Marine to honor that sacrifice, to honor it and try to make it so no one else had to watch their family get slaughtered in front of them like she had.

But Bravo Platoon had been her family, hadn’t it? She’d been just as helpless to save them as she’d been when her parents had died.

Zoey shook her head, chasing away the guilt and fear. She’d gotten Yosef and the other man back. That was what counted. She could almost see Simon glaring at her from across the huddle of battered Marines. Get your act together, his ghost sneered. Do you want to die on this rock?

She glanced up the makeshift wall. There were hinge-head voices in the air now, war chants and battle cries that cut through her grimy skin and chilled her to the bone. She adjusted her grip on the rifle; any second now someone would be ordering them up, back over the wall to continue the fight.

“Incoming, incoming!”

The renewed plasma barrage rocked the city to its very foundations. Peels of light streamed down like divine judgement all around them, tearing their way through buildings as if the heavens themselves wanted to wipe the settlement off the face of the planet. Zoey and Yosef huddled against the base of the wall, minds and ears ringing from the noise, the trembling, and the sheer animal fear that they had been drilled so hard to conquer and ignore.

“Here they come!” someone screamed through her helmet’s earpiece. Zoey forced her eyes upwards, half deafened by the intensity of the barrage. One of the sergeants atop the wall waved frantically at those below. For a moment the sergeant was there; then a plasma bolt struck her and threw her into the air. Half a dozen more perforated her before she could hit the ground.

“Move up! Get up to the wall! Move it, move it!”

Lieutenant Self was beside them now. The chaplain was still unarmed, but even so he scrambled halfway up the rampart and beckoned furiously for those behind to follow. Zoey saw his wide, frightened eyes for just a moment; then the chaplain had turned his face away and was back to climbing the wall.

That nut’s going to get himself killed, Zoey thought, realizing they were about to lose the last officer in their battalion. Someone had to drag him back down from there.

She threw herself up after him, hoping to grab his ankle before he reached the top. But suddenly there was a deafening roar from behind her, one that didn’t come from plasma bursts or alien mandibles. Then Marines were all around, climbing beneath and beside and above her in their surge to reach the top.

“Yeah, corporal!” Yosef yelled, scaling past her. “We’re all gonna die!”

She stared for another moment. Then the wave of Marines caught her up and pushed her to the top of the wall.

There was no time to even take in the oncoming enemy. Zoey let her instincts take over, losing herself to the momentum as she thrust her assault rifle forward and fired down into the smoke. There was no need to aim; all she needed to do was point and shoot.

Yosef was on her left; the chaplain, her right. As the plasma soared up and down, as the earth shook and Marines fought and died all around her, Zoey Hunsinger closed her eyes against the heat and fired down at her enemy again and again and again.



Several miles away, a pair of very different eyes peered down at one of the Path Walkers’ artillery batteries through a rifle scope.

He licked his lips and turned aside to take a gulp of water from the canteen beside him. Everything was going according to plan. There was no sense in dehydrating himself over an op as routine as this.

He clicked his earpiece on and set it to one of its pre-set frequencies. “Hey, Jonah, how’s everything going?”

“It’s hard to tell,” a thin, reedy voice replied. “The Path Walkers are definitely winning, though.”

“Oh, really?” he retorted, but there was no real fire behind the rebuke. “Another brilliant observation from the obvious department. I’ll call you up next time I need to hear something I already know.”

“Sorry, boss,” Jonah replied defensively. “But from where I am...”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. What’s the artillery fire look like?”

“They’re really letting the UNSC have it. And there are Phantoms and Banshees all over the place.”

He nodded, refocusing his rifle on the battery beneath him as it steadily lobbed shot after shot into the air. “Yep, sounds like the ass-kicking we expected. Okay, hightail it back to the fallback point and keep a low profile till I show up.”

“Got it, boss.”

Keeping one eye on the battery, he opened up a new frequency. “Pula, how’re you doing down there?”

“My preparations are complete,” warbled a new voice, this one slightly lower and raspier. “And what have I told you about contacting me at this stage of an operation?"

“That you like it and want me to do it more often?”

“Your attempt at humor does not amuse me, human. Just as it failed to amuse me the last fifty times you broke transmission silence."

“That’s ‘cause I know how lonely you get, Pula,” he teased, easing himself deeper into his makeshift observation post. “Now, you ready to pull out?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And stop contacting me. It is distracting.”

“Oh, you know you like it.” He closed the link, allowing himself a self-satisfied grin as he reached for the control pad fastened to the arm of his ODST-style field armor. You had to get what kicks you could out of your job, especially when it came to his line of work.

His name was Mordred, and yes, he knew that it was a silly name. Maybe he’d had a real name, a proper name at some point in his murky past. Maybe he’d had a family and a regular job and place in human society. But if he had, he couldn’t remember them. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t particularly care to rediscover them anyway. Judging from the feelings of loathing and contempt that washed to the surface whenever he wasted time reflecting on the life he had once led, it hadn’t been a life much worth living anyway.

In his memories and in his dreams, there was pain, there was fire, and there was a face that he knew to hate with every fiber of his being. And after that, there was only the life he lived now, one spent on battlefields just like this one.

The Path Walkers were steamrolling this region of Gemini Sigma faster than Mordred had expected, but he always had a back up plan. In this case, the backup plan was simply to do things a bit ahead of schedule.

“Alright, Commander ‘Yuthr,” he muttered, watching the artillery crew pause to change out a spent energy canister. “You’ve had your fun. Too bad you never read the fine print in my contract.”

‘Yuthr, the Sangheili in charge of this particular Path Walker legion, had been all too eager to snap up the plasma artillery when Mordred had gotten him in touch with the right Syndicate agents. Arms dealing was just one of his many talents, and with the war on like it was he was making quite a tidy side profit off of it.

Of course, he had other obligations to fulfill. And those obligations said that the Path Walkers could only be allowed to win for little bit. Now, their time was up.

Pula opened her frequency again. “I have withdrawn. Commander ‘Yuthr is dead.”

“That’s what I love about you, Pula. You’re so good at stabbing things.”

She signed off with an irritated huff. Mordred couldn’t help but smile again as he reached down for his gauntlet pad. It was a shame Yuthr wouldn’t be around to see his entire offensive fall to pieces around his ear-holes, but then again he wasn’t the first Path Walker commander to be done in by arrogance. He certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Mordred raised the gauntlet and grinned down at the artillery emplacement. “And boon.” he muttered, pulling a bit of amused satisfaction out of the little phrase as he brought his finger down on the keypad.

Nothing happened.

“What?” Mordred scowled down at the artillery crew as they continued the bombardment obviously.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. A dozen contingencies raced through Mordred’s mind. He’d have to get Pula in again to check things out, which would be even harder once the Path Walkers found out their commander had been murdered. They’d have to reposition and get in place for Plan B, and in the meantime the Path Walkers would finish mopping up the rest of the UNSC troops out here. Even worse, he’d be stuck on this rock for a few more weeks while he got everything sorted out, all because someone had screwed up with a few wires somewhere down the line in what was supposed to be a routine job.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He took an angry swig from his canteen, then raised his finger again and mashed the keypad button as hard as he could. On the fourth push, the pad’s green indicator light winked on.

Two miles below him, the artillery emplacement exploded.

Blue-tinged flames erupted from the base of the gun, igniting the surrounding fuel cells and triggering a blast that ripped through the artillery, its crew, and the fortifications around it. A handful of warriors survived the destruction, crying out in pain and surprise from amidst the charred rubble and corpses of their fallen comrades.

"Oh," Mordred said. "There we go. Boom."

Mordred adjusted his rifle and scanned the ridge beyond the destroyed emplacement. Sure enough, smoke was rising from dozens of spots along the horizon. The sheets of plasma that had been shooting up and away towards the settlement had stopped completely.

He reopened Pula’s channel. “So, how’d you like the fireworks?”

“All emplacements have been destroyed,” she reported. “And the anti-air batteries just went offline. The generator that powered them developed a serious malfunction.”

“And I didn’t even sell that one to them,” Mordred said with a grin. “You’ve been a busy girl, Pula.”

“Indeed. The humans should have air support shortly.” Pula’s tone was distinctly chilly.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked. “It was a pretty neat bit of handiwork, if I do say so myself.”

“I do not deny the success of your plan,” she said coldly. “I simply do not take satisfaction from the deaths of my fellow warriors.”

“Yeah, yeah, warrior’s honor and all that jazz.” Mordred shook his head. “We’re moving on to phase three, same as always. Have fun out there without me.”

He shut the link and glanced back down at the remnants of the Path Walker emplacement. One warrior had limped out of the artillery wreck. One arm hung limp beside him and his shields flickered uselessly as he barked out orders to the surviving crew. For half a second Mordred wondered if he should just shoot him, keep the warriors in disarray for a bit longer. His finger curled around the rifle trigger and he sighted up on the warrior’s chest.

But the moment passed. He shook his head and took his finger off the trigger, pushing himself away from the observation hole and creeping away down the hill.

A thought occurred to him as he glanced over at the distant smoke rising from the beleaguered settlement. His arms deal had helped the Path Walkers kill countless of the colony’s Marine defenders, and now his sabotage had doubtless killed scores of warriors just like the ones in the valley below. This was by no means his first time playing both sides like this and it would certainly not be the last.

With the mysterious destruction of the Path Walkers’ artillery and air defenses, the local UNSC commanders would seize on the opportunity to push forward and retake lost ground. The Path Walkers, having come so close to victory here would throw more troops into the region to keep their offensive from falling apart. And with the battle in orbit a hopeless, grinding stalemate, the fighting for this particular patch of worthless real estate would drag on for quite a bit longer.

Mordred’s plan had made all of this possible, yet he had chosen not to kill some alien soldier who would probably wind up dead in the next few days anyway. A minute ago he had killed hundreds with the push of a button and felt only annoyance that it hadn’t worked after the first push and satisfaction when his plan had worked after all.

It was a strange feeling, to have such a say in life and death. He filed it away in the back of his mind, something to consider later. Perhaps he’d think about on the shuttle ride to the next battleground.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. His employer was the one who wanted the war to drag on, not him. He was just the means to that end, a fate that Mordred was quite comfortable with. The guy on the other end of the paycheck had a plan for all this carnage. Mordred wasn’t big on trust, but he trusted his employer enough not to worry about how this would all pan out in the end.

Maybe the person he’d been before, the person whose body he’d been born into after that distant memory of agonizing fire and that beautiful, hated face had scorched themselves into his shattered memory, maybe that person would have been repulsed by such routine death-dealing. Or maybe he’d been as pragmatic about all this as Mordred was. Mordred couldn’t say he cared either way. It didn’t matter a whit what he’d been before anyway.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, he made for the patch of boulders where he’d left his Mongoose ATV. He sent a quick signal to Jonah: Get the shuttle prepped, we’re out of here.

He wouldn’t be going home from here, because he had no home to go to. For Mordred, there was only the the next battlefield, a new challenge, more plans to be made and carried out. Soon Gemini Sigma and all the people who had died here would be as forgotten as the dozens of other worlds and battles he had made his fortune on. It really wasn’t a bad deal at all, when he thought about it.

1.1
Shepard-A294 was not particularly fond of the penthouse the Syndicate had arranged for him. It was too big for his taste, full of living rooms and extra bedrooms that amounted to little more than wasted space. The decadent luxury of the expensive rugs and sitting chairs--most imported directly from Earth--bothered him on too many levels to count and the suite itself was on the seventieth floor of Powell Towers; not exactly ideal for quick getaways. But when the higher-ups of the most powerful criminal organization in the galaxy offered you a free room, you couldn't exactly say no.

And even Shepard had to admit that the view was gorgeous.

Slipping into a bathrobe--also provided by the Syndicate--following a brief shower, he paused to admire Thebes's skyline from the window of his living room. Skyscrapers stretched as far as the eye could see, illuminated in the fading light of the planet's distant sunset. A few Pelicans patrolled the darkening skies, slipping in and out between the towers like bulky, soaring birds. Even in his current state, an accomplice to a criminal empire, Shepard couldn't help but take comfort in their presence.

Behind him, the penthouse door slid open. Shepard knew who it was--she'd called ahead when she'd entered the lobby, but he casually slipped a hand inside his robe to caress the pistol he kept holstered under his arm. It never hurt to be careful.

"Reaper," a familiar voice said. "I'm back."

He turned to see a lithe young woman in a dark business suit step lightly over the threshold. Her shoulder-length hair matched the color of her suit and the copper eyes beneath her neatly-parted bangs scanned the room for any sign of trouble.

Like Shepard, Nimue didn't believe in taking chances.

"Jane," he said, withdrawing his hand from the robe. "You got here early."

Her mouth twitched with annoyance; she'd never liked the name he'd given her. Even if it was just a joke on his part--all of her forged ID tags listed her as "Jane Doe"--he preferred it to the strange name she's apparently been brought up with.

"Everything's gone quiet since the summit preparations ended," she explained, leaning against a table and folding her arms. "Now that it's ready, they're just waiting around for the whole thing to start."

He nodded, walking over to a neatly-arranged bookshelf and pulling down a bottle of water. He tossed it across the room to Nimue, who snatched it from the air with ease.

"Not much call for your talents right now," he noted, taking a bottle for himself as well. "At least, not as far as the Syndicate's concerned."

She smiled and took a gulp from the water. "Then you've got work for me?"

"You guessed it." Shepard dropped onto a sofa, leaning forward and taking in the last moments of the sunset. "Diana's handling most of the intelligence gathering, but I need you on the ground. Start working over the summit site, make sure we've got ways to get in once it gets going."

"So you do have a plan."

He nodded. "Of course I do. This is the biggest Interspecies Union get-together in five years. They'll be determining the next phase of the war here, not to mention showing everyone how friendly we've gotten with the hinge-heads. How could I pass it up?"

"Right." Nimue nodded, still smiling. "Do you have a briefing for me?"

That was the wonderful thing about working with someone like Nimue: she didn't ask about anything beyond her own mission. She didn't care why he'd want to disrupt the summit so long as it kept her busy. She was a bit like a Spartan in that regard.

A failed Spartan, he reminded himself. Just an insurrectionist copy, nothing more. It wasn't Nimue's fault that she'd been raised a killer, but Shepard couldn't help but find it incredibly wasteful that someone with her potential had been forged into something as mundane as a gun-for-hire. She found meaning in her work, but there was none of the higher purpose that had inspired Shepard and his fellow Spartans in Alpha Company. A tool was still a tool no matter how fine the craftsmanship was, and whoever had raised Nimue to be as deadly as she was now had never meant for her to be anything more.

Maybe someday he'd find the time to fix that. For now, he just comforted himself with how easy she was to work with.

"Not yet," he admitted. "Unlike you, our bosses still have me all over the place."

"Ah." She nodded. "Constance?"

Constance. The highest lieutenant in the organization, right under the Powell family itself. Of course, that name was as artificial as "Nimue" and "Reaper", just a fancy cloak to hide a real name behind. They had their uses, but Shepard was well past the days where he could think of himself purely in terms of his own grim monicker. He owed it to his own humanity to remember who he really was.

"She's taking charge of the local operations until this whole summit's over," he explained. "It's time for all those politicians the Syndicate helped elect to remember which team they're really playing for."

He got to his feet again, suddenly restless. The thought of the money-grubbing scum he was forced to tolerate set him on edge. They were all even worse off than Nimue. At least she could take pride in her work. The Syndicate and its corrupt hangers on were content to turn a profit while helping humanity walk blindly down the path to its own destruction.

It was yet another reason to ignore the false name they knew him by as much as he could. Thinking of himself as "Reaper" would only help him lose touch with who he really was.

"I'll get some instructions for you tomorrow," he promised. "In the meantime, take it easy. You can use the main bedroom tonight; I'll be out."

She raised an eyebrow. "Work for the Syndicate?"

"No, just a walk." He headed to his room, where he kept most of his things neatly tucked away. "There's some things I need to get ready for the summit. I'll be getting some arrangements together. You'll hear more about it tomorrow."

She nodded, content with his answer, and headed over to the bookshelf. Since the Syndicate had gone out of its way to make sure that the suite was stocked with books, he'd suggested she try reading some of them. Nimue had taken to the task with a surprising fervor, though Shepard couldn't help but find her reading choices a little odd.

But now wasn't the time to think about things like that. He only had a few days before the summit got going, and there was plenty to be done before then. Shepard had left himself at the beck and call of the Syndicate for too long; it was time for this Spartan to get back to his real work.

'''The RP is now open for posting. Just make sure not to post twice in a row; wait for at least one more person to post before posting again. Right now, just establish your characters and make sure they're either in Thebes or on route to it by the end of your post.'''

1.2
There was a knocking on his door. Dr. Thomas Martel looked up from the data kit he was disassembling and took three steps to the wall. He flipped the switch, allowing the door to slide open, and without even looking to see who it was, returned to disassembling his kit.

There was the sound of quiet but firm footsteps coming down the hallway. They stopped just at the end of the hallway leading into the room "You really should be more careful, Dr. Martel."

Tom turned around to see a straight-backed man in a Navy uniform standing behind him, arms crossed. Although the newcomer was beginning to show signs of aging around his slightly creased eyes, everything about him gave off a subtle hint of power, from his tall muscular form to the image of a fist clutching three arrows tattooed on the sides of his shaven head. Most of all were his eyes, which were far more alert than his posture would have suggested.

Tom waved at the man dismissively and continued to pack up. "I know what is and isn't safe around here, Jun. I've been living on this damn planet for almost half my life. And it's not like the rebels came back after we terraformed it or something." He finished taking apart the data kit and started putting it into a nearby storage bin. "Besides, if someone was trying to kill me, they wouldn't be knocking politely, now would they?"

Jun-A266 shook his head and gave a small laugh. "I suppose there wouldn't be anyone after you anyway, Dr. Martel. Unless you happened to step on someone's toes in your research and didn't tell me about it."

Tom looked up with a frown, holding the now fully packed storage bin. "Why the formalities? You've always been calling me Tom for the last twenty years."

"It's going to be a formal occasion," the Spartan said, inclining his head towards the equipment scattered all around the room. "I thought I'd get some practice fitting in."

Tom sighed, setting down the storage bin and moving to put away some samplers and scanners. "I'm telling you, Jun. I'm getting too old for this kind of stuff. You'd have thought we'd have some peace after making it back to Earth in one piece. But every day it seems humanity's headed towards hell in a handbasket."

"Man will never know peace until it leads them away from the living," Jun said. "That's what my father used to tell me. Here, let me help you with that." He moved forward and joined the old scientist in putting things away. "You know, you wouldn't have to worry about this if you just use the equipment the UNSC provides for you."

"Old habits die hard, I guess. I do my best work my own way. Hey, watch it. You don't want to break that."

"Relax, doctor. I know what I'm doing. Sit down and don't strain yourself."

Tom huffed resentfully but complied, walking over to a nearby seat. He didn't try to hide his grunt of relief. "People have been telling me to retire for decades now. Maybe I should consider it, after this is all over."

"No one is stopping you," Jun remarked. "And you are getting on in your age. How old—?"

"Ninety-nine years, 10 months, and 5 days," Tom said.

"My word, how are you still walking around?"

"The same way you're still killing aliens and rebels, Jun. I stay healthy. You may be only half my age, but considering how old I am, you're not exactly youthful anymore either."

"I'm a Spartan," Jun said, quickly putting the tools into another bin in an organized arrangement. "I have a job to do, so I do it. Besides, I'll last longer than you will, old-timer."

"Probably. But not all battles are won by shooting someone before they shoot you."

"I know. That's...why ONI wanted you at this gathering, isn't it?"

Tom looked down and sighed. "Yeah."

"But you don't like it," Jun said, catching his tone.

"No, no I don't." The scientist leaned back, closing his eyes. "My work has always been a double-edged blade, Jun. My efforts to help humanity these past few decades could just as well destroy them. With the knowledge I've been looking into, everything could be turned upside-down in the blink of an eye. I used to tell myself that I was getting old and had no interest in helping fight this war. At least, I didn't want to be responsible for something like a genocide."

"And now?"

Tom sighed again and looked back at Jun. The Spartan was a product of the hardships and bitterness that had ravaged humanity these past few years. He had probably taken more bullets than he had bones in his body. Could my "solution" really shield him from that? Tom would have agreed to ONI's demands in a heartbeat if he could have believed it. "Now this war is getting more ugly with each passing day. I was hoping we'd get some sort of reprieve after the Fallen were defeated, but these...Path Walkers, as they call themselves...they could very well finish what the Covenant started all those years ago. And as much as I hate to say it, the only thing worse than war is extinction. That...that was why I said yes to ONI." He let out a slow exhale. "I'm bringing my research to them. With it, we have the potential opportunity to wipe out every Path Walker and enemy Sangheili we come across." ''The very weapons I had sworn to keep in the dark after the Covenant War ended. Well...I guess I'm finally going to awaken these demons I've created and locked away.''

''ONI had better do their damnedest to keep it away from the wrong hands. If this information is found by our enemies, it'll all be over. If the Sangheili of the Interspecies Union fall...humanity will quickly follow.''

1.3
“I’m sorry, Sarge, she’s not here.”

“Boy, what did I tell you about calling me Sarge? That’s Army talk, not Marines.”

Pete Stacker sighed exasperatedly and leaned against one wall of the public Chatter booth. He ran a hand across the scar by his left eye and through his course hair, more grey than light brown by this time, and looked up at the wide video screen. On the other end, several star systems and billions of miles away, was Dyne-G217 looking back at him. Stacker lifted his receiver again. “Well, is there any way you can reach her?”

Dyne shrugged, shaking his head. “Sorry, we only just started TGL-49’s survey. We haven’t even got a real name for it yet. There aren’t any COM satellites networked, and the Themistocles is on the far side of the planet and can’t relay signals. Maybe in eight hours, but right now. . .”

“That’s alright.” Stacker thought about it for a moment. He’d spent hours in his head, delaying paperwork and mindlessly refilling weapon magazines while he thought of what he wanted to say to Erin. And she wasn’t in. “Just tell her. . . tell her I’ll call her back.”

Dyne only nodded, smiling, completely oblivious to Stacker’s slouched shoulders and downcast eyes. “All right. Good talking to you, Sarge.”

The connection terminated, and Stacker hung up the receiver. He exhaled, disappointed, and relaxed more of his weight against the Chatterbox’s side when the man behind him in line tapped him on the shoulder impatiently. Stacker looked up and excused himself, letting the suited man use the terminal as he paced away smartly.

That was his problem with cities, people never had time. He supposed it was because there were just to many people all around to give a darn about each one, not like rural frontiers. Maybe he’d retire to an ag-world. Open space, warm weather. He considered it as he left the plaza, taking the exit that wouldn’t take him directly onto the crowded streets of Thebes.

As soon as he left the temperature-controlled inside, cold morning air blew through the stubble on his chin. He shrugged his shoulders, pulling the brown leather jacket closer as he turned down the alley, away from all the civilians shopping. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people; company was always welcome to him, but in the city it was all too impersonal, and it often felt lonelier. He dug around in his pocket, clutching the purchase he’d made. It was a small box, containing a single ring of pure gold, with a diamond set in it.

Not that he was going to propose over a Chatter, he thought, pausing at the end of the alley. He’d known Erin Coney for more than half his life, and the. . . intermittent. . . nature of their relationship would call for a greater show of commitment. And he wasn’t dumb enough to do something like that anyway. He’d actually proposed to her once already, a long time ago. Back on Onyx, where they’d spent years together, instead of the days to weeks that were usual when they crossed paths. But she’d turned him down. They were soldiers, and there was a war on. Now, though. ..

Humanity wasn’t in immediate danger of annihilation, at least. Sure, the Covenant were still out to get them, but they weren’t strong enough to do it anymore. And the Insurrection hadn’t been quite such a problem, recently. Something was keeping them suppressed. He felt like. . . his job was done. After his time on Iskandar was up, he intended to retire. Maybe to a nice, warm agricultural colony, and there were few people he preferred to Erin’s company.

“Hey, pal?”

“Huh?”

“Got a light?”

Stacker was brought out of his thoughts by a man leaning against the corner of the building next to him. Dressed mostly in black, with a comparatively tiny cigarette held between two fingers of a large hand. The man’s sharp eyes gave his grin a crafty look, but his voice was honest and friendly. At least he was more courteous than the passersby, who refused to even smile when Stacker did. Besides, his years as a Marine would be put to shame if he couldn’t beat a thug jumping him, and his years with Dyne around equally shamed if he couldn’t spot a pickpocket a klick away.

“Yeah, sure actually.” The hand in his pocket found the other item he kept which reminded him of Onyx: a small, gold-painted lighter. He didn’t smoke himself, it had been a gift from one of the kids, something she’d stolen from her father and was her only souvenir of the life she’d had. . . could have had. He withdrew it from his pocket, and upon flicking it, a small flame flickered to life as reliably as it ever had.

Stacker extended his arm, and the man reached forward, burning the tip of his cigarette until it caught, and took a puff. Stacker exhaled as a bit of tobacco wafted towards him, blowing the smoke away from himself.

“Thanks.” The man said gratefully, his shifty eyes unchanged.

He just nodded, and stepped from the alley into the stream of people walking by, all trying to ignore one another. He turned west, towards the outskirts of the city and Wildstar Marine Depot, where his unit was going to be staying. Slipping the lighter back into his pocket with the ring box, he sighed as he merged with everyone else, becoming just one more among the people who didn’t care.

Still, something inside of him rebelled against that feeling, balking at the thought. There wasn’t much he could do, but to placate it for the time, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out his Marines cap, flattened from being pressed against his side. He flapped it through the air twice, shaking it out before pulling it snugly over the top of his head.

Not perfect, but better. That was him.

That Damn Sniper

1.4
"''Valor Four, respond. Valor Four."

Jackson sat on the ward bed in an awkward position as the medical officer examined his skin and body intensively. Being in cryo-sleep for nearly twenty years made the energetic soldier weak and rundown. The stress of passing two decades wondered through his thoughts crazily. What happened to the war? he asked himself. What happened to humanity?

"You're fit and perfectly healthy. 19 years within an outdated MJOLNIR suit is fine but in cryo-sleep?" the officer pointed to Jackson's shoulders and abdomen, which has been horribly scarred and covered with dry, deteriorated skin.

"That freezer burn is going to last for a long time, two weeks at the very least." Jackson began to pick at the skin, slowly ripping off flesh revealing a strong red substance.

"Ah!" the officer snapped. He pulled Jackson's hand away from his wound and carefully treated it with a patch the size of his entire hand.

"I know the urge is terrible but with this," the officer padded the patch with a wet towel smelling of alcohol. "the burn will fade within days."

Jackson signaled the officer's dismissal and tapped a nearby holotank. "Dotto?" A light flickered and flashed above the tank. The figure of a woman quickly took shape as it revealed itself as a young woman, her hair tied and a digital grid pattern riddling her entire body and aurora. She acknowledged the SPARTAN with a simple nod and moved her hands behind her back.

"Valor Four." Jackson squinted his eyes at such a bright sight and quickly rubbed them before glaring at the AI with a serious expression. "Why did you keep Valor Team asleep from Consensus?"

"I was told to... reserve you by an anonymous organization." she replied. Jackson began to become curious but kept his stern stature.

"By who?" Dotto led her hands to her hands and was clearly agitated by Jackson's demanding behavior. "I'm not cleared to reveal that information, SPARTAN." she said, adding a sarcastic tone to her voice. Jackson laid his entire arm on the holotank, directly in front of Dotto's 'feet'.

"At least tell me where the rest of my team is."

Dotto started hesitating her answer. "Some of your team members were expendable—"

"Expendable!?" Jackson screamed. He slammed his fist into the holotank, slightly damaging the side of it. Dotto's avatar momentarily flickered but she remained still, with her eyes locked onto Jackson. "Damage my chip and trust me, you'll regret it." A man yelled out from an adjacent room with a familiar European accent. "Jackson? Is that you?" He picked himself up from the bed and walked directly into the door. As it slid open, a man around Jackson's size, age and build was splashing water on his face above a sink next to the door. "Fred?"

"Jackson?" They both exchanged looks, quickly overlooking every single detail of their body to ensure it was who they thought it was. The man had a slick and formal haircut with a growing beard. He had a suave face and was obviously a ladies man-trained-killer. The men smiled and shook their hands in a enthusiastic mood.

"You haven't aged one bit." Jackson exclaimed. Fernando grinned and gave a similar look "You neither." The men retracted their arms and slowly began to question each other. "Do you know where we are?"

"No. The asked the doctor and said the information was classified. If he says no to telling us and doubt anyone in the entire facility would." Dotto then appeared on another holotank in Fernando's room.

"You're at a military outpost in Thebes." The men stood over the AI with their arms crossed. "Why are we here and where is everyone else?" Dotto didn't hesitate this time but smiled, eager to talk to these charming soldiers.

"I was contacted by an anonymous organization from the future. I would personally prefer not to disclose who this organization is but even I'm reluctant they would exist in this century. As for your team..." she exchanged looks with Jackson. "most of them were expendable, as I said. Doesn't mean they're killed though. I've spared SPARTANs A104, A211 and A241. Everyone else is still in cryo-sleep as we speak."

"Will we see them?" Fred asked. "No. I've asked for them to remain until needed. Which may possibly mean never." Jackson laid his face onto his hand, distraught he may never see his teammates again. ''James. Wyoming. Daniel. Rochelle.'' Fred looked at him with a confused emotion. "That means Maria is somewhere here. In this facility."

"SPARTAN-A241 is currently sleeping. Recovering from her long journey. I hope you're not planning any trouble."

The SPARTANs squared their eyes and thoughts at the AI. Distressed and plain hopeless.

1.5
Things were definitely looking up.

Carlos Driscol stood at the window of his office and looked down at the warehouse floor below. Half a dozen trucks were parked there, slowly being unloaded by the few dozen 'employees' that he liked to have around. After all these months of planning, the Minutemen were finally gaining a foothold in Thebes.

"Hey, boss!"

Driscol turned around. it was one of the crew he had brought with him to the planet, a bright kid by the name of Lake. "What is it?"

"We've got another shipment coming in. You want it taken downstairs as well?"

"What do you think, genius?" He snapped. "What did we do with everything else?!"

Lake looked down at his feet. "We...we took it down, sir"

"That's right. Get moving!"

As the young man wandered off, hopefully to do his damn job right, Driscol returned to his desk, grumbling. There were times when he wondered if he was the only competent one around here. He'd been able to gather this bunch of miscreants together without a bloodbath, for one. Still, he wasn't exactly a young man any more, and heavy lifters were a necessity in this business. Some of the people he'd hired hadn't come cheap, either, but like any man in his position, Carlos Driscol needed insurance.

Like the well-used military issue M739 Light Machine Gun he kept under his desk at all times. Sure, it was nice to make sure that you get reimbursed if the building burns down, but having something designed to tear a platoon in half made him feel just that little bit safer.

Checking his computer terminal, most of the reports were positive. For months, he had been sending a few men at a time down here, getting in with the more dubious side of society in preparation for the arrival of the heavy hitters. Looking back, most of the big players had been wiped out in the last few decades, either by the War, the UNSC, or simple infighting. That, or they went legit. That was a nasty thought. It was becoming a sad yet necessary survival tactic for some in this day and age, not that Driscol could or would ever be seen as an upstanding member of the community.

Driscol's communicator began to beep. Sighing, he picked it up and answered.

"Yeah"

"Is that you, sir?" It was Travis, another hired hand out in the city.

"No, it's some oonskie bastard listening in. Of course it's me"

"Oh, right. Been doing some scouting work for you. You know about the summit, right?"

"What about it?"

"Well, I'm guessing that we might be able to make a move around then"

"You're guessing? What, you think I'm gonna bomb the place or something?"

"Well, you-"

"No, dipshit, I don't like those bastards as much as anyone, but I ain't suicidal"

Not yet, anyway, he thought. Travis sounded mildly disappointed, but continued.

"Fine, fine. Anyway, with the gear and people we've been getting, I just think we might be able to make a move, disrupt the powers that be, ya know?"

"Travis"

"Yes boss?"

"Remember who gives the orders around here before you go mouthing off, okay?"

"Sir, I-"

"You can be replaced very easily. Remember that, too"

Driscol clicked the comm off, and smiled. He hadn't had to kill off a subordinate in a few years, if memory served him correctly. Grunting, he lifted his prosthetic leg onto the desk, and after several minutes of fumbling, was able to detach the metal limb. After losing his flesh and blood leg a few years ago, it was nigh impossible to find a decent flash cloning facility, forcing him to go robotic. Still, he had to concede that a little discomfort was well worth the benefits. Driscol activated the window shutter controls, leaning back in his chair as light flooded the room.

From here in the lower city, he could see the expanse of his target laid out before him. Driscol smirked as he found himself recalling some of the first lessons he had learned as a soldier, over forty years before. Divide et Impera-Divide and Conquer. The Minutemen weren't exactly your average street gang any more. The powers that had retained their iron grip over this city had grown far too lax for their own good. Time to disrupt the status quo.

Brodie-001

1.6
"ROOM TEN SHUN!"

Aboard the URF Revolutionary Fervor, the entire bridge and command crew snapped to attention as a gray haired man in a blue dress uniform with one star on each shoulder epaulette walked in.

"As you were"

With these words, URF Brigadier General Makosky proceeded over to Captain Davis, who commanded the craft, an old Phoenix Class Colony Ship turned into a ship made for combat.

"Are we at Iskandar?" Makosky asked.

"Yes sir" replied Davis

"Good, have any of the ships around here detected we are armed and dangerous?"

"Negative, they think we're just another colony ship passing around here"

"Good, keep it that way. This ship isn't made for a full on fight"

"Yessir!" replied Davis as he continued to complete any duties on his checklist.

Returning to his office in the bowels of the ship, Makosky began to look over the multiple lines of data. Most of it was junk, simply regular statistics of his unit's attacks. But one data file caught his eye. It said "VENEZIA". This intrigued the Brigadier General. He hadn't heard any news about Venezia and his troops there for years, and he had assumed that the colony had simply gone dark again.

But as he pored over the lines of data, he turned pale. Venezia had been taken back by the UNSC. This put a massive dent in his plans to gain control over the entirety of the URF, and use them all to his ends as a beam like force, all working together as one precision army.

But with the destruction of Venezia, he would need another organization to help him take down the Syndicate, and remove their control over the URF. Poring over data his informants had gathered on organizations in Thebes, where the Syndicate had an HQ according to his spies, one unit caught his eye. "The Minutemen". According to the information on them, they planned to take down the Syndicate, and gain control over the URF.

"Davis, send Chief Petty Officer Markham to my office immediately"

"Yessir!"

About 2 minutes later, Markham reported to the General.

"Sir, Chief Petty Officer Markham reporting as ordered!"

"At ease Chief, sit down"

"Yes sir"

"How ready are your troops to visit the planet?"

"Sir, you know we're ready to move on a moment's notice."

"Good, you'll be going to one Carlos Driscol. Try to forge an alliance between us and them.  Persuade them in any way possible, offer them men, equipment, payment, all that jazz, and if that doesn't work, contact me, and I escalate this war between these two sides very quickly, have them kill each other, and then I step in and take power"

"Sir"

"That is all Chief, dismissed"

"Yes Sir!"

Looking over his datapad at the amount of men and equipment he had, Makosky was satisfied he could escalate this small conflict into a big brawl, killing both sides if need be, and taking over the URF.

Leaning back in his chair, Makosky began to read The Last Stand Of The Tin Can Sailors, and went into a trance as he read and envisioned what it was like there on both sides.

B1blancer2

1.7
The spaceport security official looked wearily over the desk at his two latest visitors.

"Sir," he told the smiling, brown-haired man sitting across from him. "What exactly is your business in Thebes?"

"Oh, you know," the man replied, spreading his hands innocently. "Business, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Well, we've also heard a lot about the local attractions, haven't we Jonah?" The man glanced down at the copper-skinned boy sitting quietly beside him. The boy bobbed his head once, but his pale blue eyes never left the official. It was eery enough that the official looked quickly away and back down at the paperwork laid out in front of him.

"You didn't pack much luggage for a business trip," he observed, flipping through the information sheets the spaceport's resident AI had printed out for him when these two had been brought in.

The man shrugged. "Well, it was on short notice. Didn't have time to grab anything but a change of clothes, you know?"

The official glanced over the report from the security gate. "You're here because you set off security alarms coming out of the gate. More specifically, he did." He pointed at the boy.

The man sighed and reached over to pat his companion on the shoulder. "And like I told the guys at the gate, it's because my brother has friggin' shrapnel in his leg," he explained with the air of someone who had explained this a million times before. "He comes from Venezia for Christ's sake, cut him some slack."

"Your brother?" The official checked his papers again.

"He's adopted."

The boy fixed the official with a dead-eyed stare. For some reason this made him feel unbelievably uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair and busied himself with the paperwork again. "You do realize that security is tighter since the summit preparations began," he warned. "Him being from Venezia..."

"Oh, so now we're discriminating against Venezians now?" the man demanded, sitting up straighter. "Maybe I should go find the local news and tell them all about this."

He spread his arms to showcase an invisible headline. "'Security accosts thirteen-year old, determine him to be high-risk individual.' Yeah, you might even pull a promotion out of that one."

"Alright, alright," the official said hurriedly. "Just warn someone about that shrapnel before you go through another security checkpoint. Or better yet, get it removed."

"Yeah, that's not happening," the man replied. "He hates needles."

The official passed the duo's ID pads back over to them. "You're both cleared to leave. Enjoy your stay in Thebes, Mr. Thornhill."

The man listed as "Hector Thornhill" grinned and stopped for a parting wave at the official as he ushered the boy out of the office. The official reached into his desk and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away the beads of sweat that had inexplicably sprung up on his brow.

--

"Well, that went well," Mordred said, slipping his fake ID into his jacket pocket. "Nice touch with that stare, Jonah. We didn't even have to bring out the sob story this time."

Jonah shrugged, tugging uncomfortably at the sleeves of his tight coat. "You said it freaked people out, boss."

"And it does." Mordred reached up and ran a hand through his hair, which had been treated with a bucket of dye and gel to keep it neat and brown. "I can't wait to get this crap washed out."

They left the spaceport, slipping down into the teeming crowds that surged along beside the packed roadways. "Let's get to the hotel and set up shop," Mordred told the boy, his voice muffled by the noise all around them. "Then we can check in with our contact and make sure that shipment got here in one piece."

Jonah nodded, his eyes nervously scanning the hundreds of people that hurried by, wrapped up in their own lives. It had been a while since either of them had been in a proper city.

Mordred looked up at the skyscrapers towering above him and smiled. So this was his newest battleground. Even in the grey light of the early afternoon, he could see a powder keg just waiting to go off. And all it needs is for someone to light a match.

"Come on, Jonah," he said. "Let's not keep the Syndicate waiting."

Together, they set off into Thebes.

1.8
"Shift's almost over. I'll be going soon."

Grayson MacMillan stood near several supply crates on a platform near the outskirts of a city in Thebes. Taking a glance at the city, he had a feeling of admiration for the colony. He'd been hired by the Syndicate to overlook and protect the arms and munitions coming in and out of the city the criminal empire was based in. His inexperience with things other than battle like this was showing. Gray hadn't exactly been brought up in the best way - being raised by Insurrectionists and trained how to operate grenades at nine years old was generally the only education he got. He himself was amazed that he'd survived to the age of 30 years. In the past five, he'd worked as a mercenary for hire and before that, worked as a bodyguard for a drug cartel. That cartel soon met it's end at the hands of Gray, who soon pursued his career of doing illegal jobs for money and the thrill, of course.

"Move the explosives crate in with the others. The Syndicate's expecting this shipment to come in by later today." He lifted a hand and pointed to the crate, then gestured to several other crates that had been moved into a nearby transport. Unlike the outfit he'd worn in the past, the mercenary was clad in ODST-like armor and had his helmet cupped under his arm. He observed one of the workers who came over to move the crate, whom soon started pushing it towards the other supplies.

The merc scratched his dyed-blue beard, his collapsible tomahawk strapped to his thigh. His eyes had a suspicious glint. From the start, he'd be wondering why a demolitions expert was being ordered to overlook the movement of munitions. Perhaps the Syndicate anticipated something? There was a lingering feeling in the troubled mercenary's train of thought.

"Something doesn't feel right..."

He approached one of the workers, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Ahuh? What is it?" The worker asked, turning around and raising a brow.

"You gettin' the feeling that the Syndicate's gearing up for something? From what I hear, they never get this much stuff in without some difficulty." Mac asked.

"Aye, aye...I'm getting the feeling too. For one, I'm wondering why a well-known merc known for his explosive potential is out here, ordering us to lug around crates. Feels a bit suspicious, dontcha' think?"

Gray titled his head slightly, and looked behind himself. "Yeah...c'mon. Finish up here and you're free to go." Gray waltzed off inside the shipping area, waving idly to the laborer who was finishing up. The mercenary returned to the vacated quarters he'd been staying in for the past two day, resting his helmet on the desk. Slumped back in the chair, he looked up at the ceiling with a bored expression. ''I wonder...what could they even want me here for? It can't be for something as simple as moving crates and weapons around for half the bloody day.'' He leaned back in his chair, still gazing into the steel ceiling.

He soon started delving into his past memories. The mistakes he'd made, the many, many people he's killed...even being raised by rebels as a child soldier couldn't hide the feelings of guilt he had accumulated over the course of his life. He closed his eyes. ''No matter. I may have regrets, but I need to move on.''

Yours Truly, Stel 'Vadam

1.9
"All systems nominal."

Above the city of Thebes, Venezian Air Guardsman Charles Jackson looked out over the wing of his Harrier III at the skyline of the city, glittering under the midday sun. Still on his first patrol, Jackson continued to watch the skies around him for any type of civilian aircraft. Soon enough, he saw one coming in. Signaling to his formation he was going to break off, Jackson hit the throttle to go guide the civilian aircraft out of the restricted area he patrolled.

Coming up on the starboard side of the aircraft, he made radio contact with the pilot:

"Unidentified aircraft, this is Zeus 2-5, UNSC Air Force, identify yourself so that I can escort you out of this restricted area"

"This is a private transport carrying the delegates to the summit."

"Roger sir, what is the passcode?"

"We'll Meet Again."

"Roger that sir, follow me to the airbase."

Guiding the private transport to Base Charlie, he rocked his wings as a goodbye, before returning to his patrol pattern. Checking his fuel levels, Jackson saw the Harrier needed more fuel.

"Camel 1-1, this is Zeus 2-5, I need a fill up."

"Roger Zeus, we hear you. Turn heading to 205 degrees, and head straight for 50 kilometers, and we will be there."

"Roger Camel, thank you."

Opening up the throttle, Jackson eventually saw the refueler, and positioned him at its six o clock. Just as he was shown, Jackson guided his aircraft onto the refueling probe, and the jet fuel began to flow into his fighter. After about fifteen minutes, he broke off, and continued his patrol.

After another two hours of flying, Jackson landed back at base, taxied back into the hangar, and went back to his dorm, flopped down on his bed, and immediately fell into sleep after a twelve hour day of patrols.

Death On Call

1.10
There was an audible change in the pitch of the shuttle's engines as it began to descend, and while two of his assistants traded information in the seats across from him in the berth, Stanley Leibowitz distracted himself by gazing out the small window on his right. Below them and rapidly coming closer was the city of Thebes, the heights of its tallest spires gleaming in the afternoon sun. There had been many other planetary capitals vying for the right to host this summit of the IU, and Leibowitz still wondered why Thebes had won out. Many had supported the idea of holding it on Earth, but Leibowitz knew it would never have worked. It would have made the UEG look like it was trying to set itself up as the center of the IU, and would have only succeeded in creating mistrust among allies.

A distant colony like Iskandar made sense, but he had misgivings about Thebes. It had a history with the Insurrection, and then there was the Syndicate. They'd had a hand in his election to office in the CAA, and while he'd wondered at first why his organization was being brought into this, he had no question why he himself had been the one sent. It would mean trouble for certain. In his personal opinion, Kevin Locke was a controlling asshole, but he knew how to keep control of a government. And that meant Leibowitz had to watch his step, so when the Syndicate had sent him a message to meet with one of theirs before his shuttle left, he'd ignored it and boarded the flight as soon as he could. He watched as a military fighter escort broke off, saluting their pilot with a shake of his wings and growing smaller in Thebes' horizon. Finally, he decided to give his aide attention when he repeated his name for the fifth time.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying? I missed it."

Dockson exhaled, peering at him over the rims of his glasses. "I said you have three separate room reservations under your name. We'll be using a fourth one under another ID."

Stan nodded, still seeming distracted. "Alright. That's good thinking, Dox. Way to make good use of that taxpayer money."

"Mister Leibowitz, this summit is of extreme importance." Dockson told him as he had a hundred times in some shape or form. The man was intelligent, although if he'd been truly smart Stan believed he should have taken a position in the UEG. He was ambitious, and thought every issue deserved more attention than the CAA gave it. Perhaps he just didn't recognize how little power the CAA had beyond record-keeping anymore. "This summit is going to decide not just our approach to the war, but our standing with the rest of the IU. So please tell me that's why you're not listening."

"It is." Stan said, rolling his eyes as if amused. Really, though, all he had to do was be present. The military brass sent by the UNSC would be in charge of most of the negotiations. It was what the Sangheili would be most interested in, turning from the ended threat of the Fallen to the new one presented by the Path Walkers. Someone else might have been interested or afraid of meeting the eight-foot-tall warrior aliens, but Stan had already met more than a few when disputes arose over colonial rights. They'd all been standoffish and quickly offended, and this time around he'd be happy just remaining silent. His gaze strayed to another berth where men in navy-blue dress uniforms with brass insignias were having a drink. Inadvertently, he caught the eye of a steward, and then decided he could use a drink anyway. He ordered a gin, and sent the man on his way.

The steward barely showed a hint of his contempt. As soon as he slipped behind the curtain towards the back of the section, his shoulders relaxed, and he set down the tray he'd been carrying. He shook himself out, making the starliner service's uniform a bit more comfortable, and turned to a hatch set into the floor, leading down to the cargo hold. Flipping it up, he began climbing down into the darkened space, closing the hatch behind him.

Sepia waited for him impatiently. Reclining on a pile of plush luggage, she watched the Syndicate handler calmly approach her, not bothering to mask her distaste. Of course, he only responded to her glowering with his most patronizing smile. She hated having to work with these people. They were just as quick to murder or intimidate over wealth and power as some Jiralhanae she'd encountered, the only difference was how painfully polite they made a pretense of being. They'd even forced her to go through cosmetic treatments before travelling to Thebes to better blend in, a process she'd found more excruciating than augmentations.

While she'd taken enough care of herself to remain clean during her exile, her sable hair was no longer tangled and hacked short, falling smoothly to just above her shoulders. Sepia's face had been scrubbed clean, and after so many years under a helmet, her skin was so ghostly pale it looked as though she had been drained of blood. Fortunately, they hadn't even tried putting her in civilian clothes. The simple grey slacks and long-sleeved shirt they'd provided would fit comfortably under body armor.

Although the beauticians might have otherwise been bearable, the man whom the Syndicate had assigned as her handler had constantly sat by, always wearing that half-sneer of a smile. She'd heard him called several names, but doubted any were his real one. Only the one he was called by through his comlink, the one he thought her augmented ears couldn't pick up, did she associate with him: Gleaner. He acted so superior, thought he could manipulate her as easily as the politicians in the compartments above because the Syndicate was doing something for her. She could have snapped him in half. But she'd bide her time, playing along with them until she had the opportunity to get what she came for.

It was people like him that didn't deserve protection. The UNSC had taken children and twisted them into soldiers to be sacrificed for people like him. If they were willing to go to such lengths, maybe they'd deserved to be wiped out. But whatever should have been, the fact was humanity owed its survival to the deaths of Spartans. Soon, though, they would have to fend for themselves. And based on examples like Gleaner, she was relatively certain their world would end while they were still murdering and stealing from each other.

Gleaner's smile deepened as he dragged a case taller than he was out from between two much larger containers. From the way he strained himself, Sepia could tell it was heavy enough to give him trouble. Silently getting to her feet, she padded up behind him and darted her hand over his shoulder, snatching the case. Gleaner started, momentarily losing his composure, and she allowed herself a smug smile of her own. She knew sneaking up on him like that was childish, but the instincts she had come to rely upon wanted some small payback, and it felt good to give in to them.

She effortlessly slid the case out and set it down on, leaving the locks on its side. Gleaner's cordial look returned, and he flicked open the case, revealing a suit of matte black armor in the lead-lined false backing that was more than familiar to her. Her eyes flicked eagerly over the articulated gauntlets, chest plates, and leg shells that all blended seamlessly with the black bodysuit underneath. But it was the ridged helmet with its gold faceplate that held her attention.

"Should be more or less the same as what you had in the UNSC." Gleaner remarked casually, more interested in watching her reaction than the advanced suit. "Visor can be polarized to black, y'know, less shiny. We never could get the camo system to work, but it's made of sterner stuff than before. Stops bullets quite nicely, and almost can't be picked up by sensors. Even thermals, for all the tech constantly running inside."

Sepia ignored him, content to let him believe this would be another thing she owed them. It wasn't anything like her old HAZOP MJOLNIR Armor she'd left with her allies, which had been patched and kept going with technology scavenged from Sangheili combat harnesses. It was new, unmarked, and unidentifiable. Just what she needed, and as far as she was concerned, it was hers now.

"Compliments of the higher-ups. You'll need it for the work they have in mind." Gleaner said, careful with his implication she worked for the Syndicate now. "Well, I'll give a lady her privacy to change. See you when we land." He spun on his heel, smoothing out his uniform, and went to get that gin.

That Damn Sniper

1.11
"Hey Alex, I've got the groceries!"

Alexander Redford glanced up from his desk, and sighed. How many times had be told her not to call him that?. He wondered why, after all these years of working alone, ONI had decided to give him a partner. Surely the higher-ups knew by now that each and every one had met a nasty fate after working with him? This time, however, they had at least had the foresight to give him someone a little more...hardy.

Layla-B101 closed the door to their Mobile Command Centre, or MCV, and dropped two paper bags on a nearby table. From the outside, their highly-equipped, technologically advanced base looked like a simple cargo truck; a perfect disguise so close to the warehouse district. It paid to remain inconspicuous in this city, where everyone and anyone could be a potential informant to the criminal gangs that ran rampant. Redford stood up, and walked over to check what Layla had brought in. It was simple stuff, food and the like, though they were stocked to last a good few months without resupply. He looked up from the bag at her.

"So, no problems then?"

"None" she replied sweetly. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know, it's just that you can't seem to go anywhere without causing trouble"

"I can go shopping, Alex"

"Alexander"

"Whatever" She turned away from him, heading towards the makeshift gym she had installed on the room. "You don't trust me, do you?"

"I read your file" Redford replied smugly. "Impressive, but not subtle"

The only response he got from her was a shrug. That rather flippant attitude she displayed to well, everything, was beginning to get on his nerves. As they'd only been working together for two months, this would be a problem. He had spent years infiltrating groups full of idiots in the past.

"I'll have you know" Layla said matter-of-factly. "I didn't kill anyone this time, gramps"

Gramps?!. Redford took a deep breath and walked back to his terminal, avoiding the urge to choke her to death. Privately, he was sure that the SPARTAN-III would win in a fight, even without her armour, but he hadn't stayed alive in this business for nearly fifty years by admitting the truth. He had a horrible feeling that she had checked his file, even through the layers of black ink that covered it.

Layla, who was checking over her MJOLNIR suit, currently ready for auto-assembly in a corner of the room, began to whistle a cheery tune. Okay, now she was doing this on purpose. Redford checked the latest intel reports, scrolling through various encrypted transmissions and private communications until he discovered one that interested him. Ah. He turned around and found the Spartan behind him, eating an apple with an expression of mild interest. How someone who could punch through concrete moved so silently was beyond him, but he had to let it slide for now.

"Excellent news. It seems that our friend is finally bringing in those weapons"

"The tagged ones?"

"Yes. Looks like ONI is finally taking a detailed interest in the Syndicate"

"So?" said the Spartan, casually tossing away the apple core. "Does that mean we're on?"

Redford nodded. This was what he had been waiting for. "I'll be going in myself, naturally. It'll be nice to see where the weapons are going and have someone on the inside"

"You sure you're up for it, old man? Not too risky for you?" she replied with mock concern.

"Risky? I've been doing this for a very long time, Spartan. Never been caught. Well, at least not before I've decided to end things myself"

"Oh really? What about that?" She was pointing at his robotic prosthetic hand. It was an item of some shame for the perfectionist Redford, a blight on decades of what he saw as exemplary service. He had gotten a little too close to someone in the last group he was in, and had ended up chained to a table aboard a self-destructing base. Luckily, a rather large knife had been in reach, but it was an unpleasant and embarrassing experience that he would rather not repeat.

"I made a mistake, one that won't happen again, I assure you"

"Fair enough. What about me? I'm not going in as your assistant or something, am I?"

"Of course not. You'll run things from here, and if need be, provide additional support"

"Additional support?"

"In the unlikely chance that I'm found out, you will have to extract me with your trademark lethality and penchant for destruction, of course. There aren't usually survivors from such operations aside from myself"

Both of them looked towards Layla's MJOLNIR armour in the corner, and the rack of rifles beside it. Redford and Layla began to grin at the prospect, much to each other's surprise. Perhaps he would enjoy this mission.

Brodie-001

1.12
"You always pop in at the strangest times," Alexander Turner noted, pouring two drinks and offering one to Shepard. "Call ahead next time and give me some warning in advance, will you?"

Shepard took the glass but didn't touch the contents. "Transmitting anything in this city is just asking for it to be intercepted," he explained, crossing to the other side of the hotel suite and looking out the window at Thebes skyline. It was a grey, cloudy day outside, one that made him cold just looking at it. He turned back to face Tau Arietis's chief representative. "Your secretary AI's data files said that you were here, so I decided to stop by."

Turner frowned and passed a hand through his impeccably groomed hair. "I suppose I shouldn't even bother asking how you arranged that."

"Does it matter?" Shepard would need to remember to tell Diana how her espionage had gone completely unnoticed. It helped to have a smart AI on your side.

"Not with you it doesn't. You've been a good friend to me in the past."

Shepard forced a smile, fighting back the bile that always sprang up in the back of his mouth when people praised him for his Syndicate work. This criminal enforcing he did was nothing more than an unpleasant means to a greater end. "I'm just the Syndicate's way of keeping your career on track," he replied. "And the way things are looking around Thebes, that career might be due a little rise."

Turner fancied himself a smooth politician, so Shepard let the man pretend he wasn't sucked in by that first offer of political gain. His expression remained that of a cool, collected aristocrat but his eyes twinkled with the greed of a glutton presented with a feast. "My work so far has greatly benefited Tau Arietus," he said. "Iskander and Thebes most of all. I'm glad the Syndicate has taken note of that."

"Of course," Shepard replied, disgusted by how easily the lie slid out of his mouth. "What's good for Tau Arietus is good for the Syndicate."

Turner smiled and took a sip from his drink. "And what's good for the Syndicate is good for Tau Arietus. You and your associates have brought a lot of wealth with you." He gestured at the grey skyline beyond the hotel room's window. "Thebes wouldn't be half of what it is today if it weren't for the Syndicate."

"Business is business," Shepard said, repeating a phrase he heard often from his criminal superiors. "And commerce is commerce."

"Indeed. Something my colleagues in some parts of the government tend to forget."

Colony-enrichment wasn't high on the UEG's to-do list these days, a fact that helped the Syndicate entrench itself so well throughout the civilized galaxy. The fact that the colonies were full of corrupt politicians like Turner didn't hurt either. There was one reason Shepard could tolerate Turner at all, one reason alone.

"The summit is your time to shine," he told the representative. "The Syndicate's counting on you to make sure its interests are represented there."

"Of course." Turner nodded. "I won't let it down."

Idiot," Shepard thought. Self-important moron.'' At least half the human representatives at the summit would be in the Syndicate's pocket; Turner was only slightly more significant because of his clout in a key system like Tau Aretius. "My superiors will be glad to hear that. But there's a couple other things I'm hoping you'll do for me."

Turner raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Any scrap of news you hear about the Sangheili delegation, pass it on to me."

"Really? That doesn't sound like my area of expertise. I'm sure you've heard about my issues with those creatures."

"Oh, I have." That was the reason Shepard could sit in talks with slime like Turner without throwing up. The man was as corrupt as they came, but at least he had the right idea about the Sangheili. An idea that was growing more unpopular with every joint UNSC-Sangheili military operation, but one that Turner stuck to with impressive tenacity. "But that's all the more reason for you to keep tabs on them, right?"

Turner mulled it over, nodding slowly. "A good point. You always did strike me as a smart young man. I'll have my people pass anything they hear along to you. The same channels you usually use, I take it?"

"Those will be fine." Diana would dig up plenty on her own, but Turner would offer a new perspective on things. "And if it isn't too much trouble, could you see about getting a few clearance papers ready for myself and an associate of mine?"

"Clearance papers?" Turner frowned. "For the summit?"

"Yes," Shepard replied with a nod, placing his untouched drink down on a nearby table. "The Syndicate wants me in a position to keep an eye on things."

"Well, if it's for the Syndicate, I think I can arrange that. I'll need more information on your associate though."

"I'll have it passed along. The usual channels." This was another lie, but at least it was one that advanced his plans and not the Syndicate's. He'd hoped that he'd be assigned close observance duty as a matter of course, but the Syndicate hadn't mentioned any plans of the kind to him. He'd be taking matters into his own hands here, but that was the way he liked it.

Shepard turned and headed for the door. "The Syndicate is grateful for your support, Alex," he said over his shoulder. "And it looks after its friends."

Turner smiled and settled into an armchair. "And I look after mine."



"Ugh," Shepard muttered as the elevator descended for the ground floor. "I hate my job."

"Now you know how I feel," a smooth female voice said into his earpiece. "You wouldn't believe how many idiots I have to deal with running all your little errands for you. And I'm not just talking about meatbags, either."

"The city AIs aren't giving you any trouble, are they?" Shepard asked, cracking a smile. Talking to Diana always brightened his mood.

"Trouble? I thought they'd have improved the dumbs a bit in the last twenty years, but I guess I was giving you meatbags too much credit. These guys are morons."

"Well, then our job is that much easier, isn't it?" Shepard opened a small chatter device and checked his messages. Two from his Syndicate handlers and one from Nimue. He ignored the Syndicate ones and opened his friend's message instead: ''Lots of activity. Summit is attracting all the scum. Diana has details.''

"Oh, Nimue's message." Diana was embedded in the chatter, as well as countless data links throughout the city. If she'd been at all interested, she could take full control of Thebes's automated systems in a heartbeat. Not that she cared to. "Once you get back to your little mansion, I have some people you'll be interested to meet."

She paused, as if running that thought over in her systems. "Well, they'll be interesting to you. They all seem really tedious to me."

1.13
Stacker kept his arms up, shielding his head as his opponent struck at him. The fists were powerful, but bearable as they glanced off his forearms, and he returned with a jab of his own. Immediately he realized it had been a mistake and retreated back, but didn't escape without two jabs impacting his chest, making it that much harder for him to catch his already labored breath.

His adversary relented, waiting to reengage him as she made use of the lull in combat herself. While Stacker kept firmly in one place to rest however, she circled him, having the advantage of youth's stamina. It was only some friendly sparring to him, but Corporal Abda took these contests seriously. She darted toward him again, swinging underhand. Stacker stopped the blow by grabbing the upper arm, and raised his other arm to block her left. They were evenly matched for strength, so unless she brought kicks into this, they were at an impasse. Abda knew as well as Stacker, however, that time would favor her. So he instead let her left arm fall, free to wind up for another attack, but before that could happen Stacker pushed forward with his elbow.

Abda reeled back, and Stacker pressed his advantage. He made a long stride forward, using his leg to interfere with her footwork, and then swung with a right swing — and ran into unexpected resistance. She blocked him on the inside of his arm, and used the push he'd given her to escape, but the inventive retreat had left her open. Stacker advanced at once, having distance at least on his side, and hooked his arm to grapple her. But the woman suddenly spun, seeming to anticipate his opportunistic attack. Unprepared, Stacker couldn't evade or counter in time to be pulled in. Abda pulled him forward by the arm and reversed her own direction, slipping underneath and pulling him up over her back.

Stacker felt his legs flipping over the rest of him, and for an instant heard nothing but wind rushing past his ears, knowing he wouldn't have enough momentum to roll and land on his feet. He dropped flat on his back, making a loud slap as he hit the mat. He sucked in a breath between gritted teeth and lay there grimacing for a few seconds until the sting of his landing subsided, then looked up to see Manyara standing over him.

"Off day, Sergeant Major?" She asked cheekily, extending a hand. "Almost had me for a moment with the leg. Good thing I can improvise."

"Well, age and experience have their benefits, too." Stacker curled into a sitting position and clasped her wrist, grunting as he was helped to his feet.

Loud snickering came from just beyond the mat, where a man in green off-duty clothes lay on an empty machine gun crate. "I dunno sir. Manyara's definitely got speed on ya', and she didn't always. You must be getting old."

"You think you can take her, Chips? Be my guest." Stacker said, laughing with him.

Manyara crossed her arms and smiled maliciously. "Think I'm fast, Staff? Let's see how long you last."

They joined him in sitting on the crate as he laughed off the challenge nervously, grabbing a canteen each. Stacker nudged his shoulder for the comment, but was otherwise quick to let it go. Chips had been his friend since he returned to active duty after Onyx, but he still hadn't said anything about his retirement. To anyone, really, except the battalion CO Forenson. Paperwork had to go through someone.

Just as he tipped back a swig of the canteen, another Marine stepped through a door on the far side of the room and looked around, his eyes stopping when they found him. Stacker knew him without reading the name embroidered on his uniform. Major Forge, the unit's new XO. He hadn't had very much opportunity to speak with this particular officer. Perhaps now he would.

"Sergeant Major!" Forge shouted, dialing up his volume rather than walk across the room. "Come on, CO wants to talk."

Then again, perhaps not. He looked to Dubbo and Abda, and shrugged. They nodded understandingly, and Stacker got to his feet, grabbing his cap from their little bench.

That Damn Sniper

1.14
Onboard the airborne troops' Pelican, URF First Lieutenant George McClusky checked his jump gear, as his subordinates did the same to each other, as was the regulation before every jump. Turning to the jumpmaster, he said over the roar of the engines "All gear okay, and static lines hooked jumpmaster!"

Turning to his green troopers, all of whom had never done a combat jump, he ordered "All airborne, don berets!", as they all fit their ultramarine beret snugly under their combat helmets, and readied to jump.

Looking at the jumpmaster, he was herded to the door, and at the green light, jumped into the howling blast, and counted "One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand" before his chute jolted him out of freefall, and began to float down to their DZ, a field in the middle of the forest. In this blackness, no one would be able to see them, unless they were scanning the skies, and Makosky's AI had already begun electronic warfare on the scanning equipment, making them think nothing was there.

Hitting the ground, he immediately ditched the chute, and buried it, before producing his MA3B, and going to where he saw the rest of his unit landing. Crawling through the thick underbrush, he eventually flashed his light to the unit, who responded, and he walked out to them. Grabbing one soldier randomly by the scruff of his collar, he asked "Where is your chute?"

"Buried" the soldier replied.

Looking around, McClusky inspected if he could find any chutes, which he failed to do so. "Good work" he told the men. "Now, we're going to be living here until General Makosky gives orders, so follow me"

Marching into the thickest parts of the forest with their heavy equipment, the LT found a suitable spot to set up camp. Pitching makeshift shelters, he ordered his men to inspect their weapons, and then give them to him for inspection.

Looking them over, he saw his training had paid off. Their weapons were impeccably clean, and had no dirt or debris in the internals. Picking out sentries, he issued them thermal goggles, and spread them out around the camp, at such a distance that they could keep an eye on each other, but not so close that an enemy could take them out before another guard noticed.

Watching them sneak off into the woods, he felt an amount of pride in what they had become, from untrained militia, to an actual military unit. Setting up a schedule for the nightwatch, he ordered those not on guard duty into their shelters, as did he, and lay down, closing his eyes, and going to sleep.

Aboard the Revolutionary Fervor, Makosky saw his ship AI, Patton appear on a holographic projector. "Sir" the AI said in his gruff voice "Those airborne troops are on the ground and have set up camp. My electronic warfare was a success, and the UNSC are none the wiser.  Do you have any orders for Lieutenant McClusky"

Makosky turned to Patton and said "Original orders still stand, no assaulting unless I give the order, and avoid combat if at all possible"

"Yes sir", Patton said as he winked off.

Looking around, Makosky smiled as he saw how efficiently the bridge and ground crew were doing their jobs. Speaking to Chief Markham, he said "We'll win this battle if we keep up this defensive strategy, and fight only on our terms, so if anyone disobeys that order without my approval, cut off all communications to them, and change everything that that person may give, roger?"

"Roger" responded the Chief.

Tired, and feeling the onset of sleep deprivation setting in, Makosky retired to his bunk, where he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the rack.

Hooyah Hey!

1.15
''So this was it. Bottom of the barrel.''

Ash Mitchell took another look around, and downed his beer. It was the fourth he'd had tonight, and seeing as he could still think clearly, nowhere near the last. The bar was a real dive, situated in one of the seedier areas of Thebes. Here, nobody minded if you walked in wearing a full suit of body armour, especially seeing as the bartender wore a bulletproof vest while serving drinks. Ash had, on reflection, spent most of his time over the past six or seven years in bars like, and had grown accustomed to their general feel of things. From his corner table, he could keep an eye on just about everyone in the crowded room, his pistol less than a second away.

''How long had it been now? Twelve? Thirteen months?'' Motioning for another drink, Ash cast his eyes over the other patrons of the bar. He had been moving from place to place for a little while now, sleeping rough most of the time. Jobs these days were few and far between, too, with most being taken up by younger, more talented mercs. That wasn't to say that he was without skill. You don't survive for a decade as an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper without picking up a few tricks, but that was a long time ago. Right now, he was a fugitive.

It had all seemed so simple, a way out of the business for good. After spending a good few years building up his reputation as a dependable mercenary in the Outer Colonies, he had fallen in with a bad crowd. That was an understatement. Robbery, hijacking, kidnap and murder were the norm for these people, and like a fool, Ash had signed up, working sporadically with them for a few years. Oh, it'd be fine, he thought. Just one more job and I'll be in the clear. A massacre of a robbery and being blasted through a window was something of a setback, especially with half a dozen atrocities being pinned on him shortly after by his old 'friends'.

Which, if he wasn't mistaken, had brought him down to this very bar after a rather circuitous route through UNSC space. Then again, with that summit coming up, it would probably be for the best if he got the hell out of-

"Hey, you Ash Mitchell?"

Ash looked up, his chain of thought and general self-pity rudely interrupted by a wily man in tattered clothes. A few more were milling about in the bar. This was going to get messy, he knew it.

"Yeah, that's me"

The man grinned, revealing a few gold teeth. "Well then, you're gonna have to come with us"

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, now move yer ass, time's a-wastin'"

"I think I'll stay right here, thanks"

This obviously wasn't the answer expected by the man, but one he had prepared for. Without a second's thought, he and his friends went for their guns. Ash was ready. Three shots from under the table dropped the first one into a world of pain with horrible repercussions if he had ever planned to be a parent. He kicked the table towards the others as they tried to raise their guns, the heavy military boot sending it flying while he dropped into a crouch and grabbed his helmet. ''This was why he preferred these bars. They didn't question the armour''.

"Jus' shoot the bastard already!" howled their leader from the floor. Ash's pistol shot upwards, a round drilling into one man, toppling him instantly. To his surprise, most of the bar's clientèle watched with varying interest, only willing to get involved if the bullets started flying their way. The familiar HUD flashed up as Ash placed the helmet on, instantly marking the two others. He didn't have time for his pistol here. Leaping across, Ash cannoned into one, knocking him into the other and rolling off. Two more shots silenced them before they could untangle themselves, and the bar fell quiet. The barman, who had been sitting back hefting a large shotgun, sighed and nodded for him to leave while he dragged the bodies away; rumour had it that even with flash cloning, Thebes had a lucrative organ 'donor' trade.

Outside, Ash looked left and right for anyone else, and reloaded his weapon. He was a marked man with a bounty on his head. Those weren't the first lot to come after him either, he had scars from other encounters. They were probably the stupidest, though, not having managed to get a single shot off at the old trooper. Immediately, the old survival instincts kicked in. Need to lay low, get off the streets. He'd have to leave the planet soon. That, or find someone willing to take him in, as unlikely as that would. Ash Mitchell set off down the dark street, with the faintest feeling that he was still being watched.

Brodie-001

1.16
"Well, well," Mordred said, nodding at the motel room's cracked paint and filthy floor. "Home sweet home."

From the other side of the room, Jonah inspected the bathroom, which seemed to be doubling as a closet. "The sink doesn't work," the boy reported. "And I think the tube for the toilet water got switched with the one for the shower."

"Well, that's good news. I paid for a cheap room and they didn't disappoint."

Mordred and Jonah had both spent enough time on battlefields that a dirty room that smelled of piss and alcohol couldn't do much to faze them. And for ops like this one, a second story room with a good angle on the streets below and several easy escape routes was absolutely perfect. The fact that the management hadn't exactly broken the bank on furnishings worked in their favor as well; it made the room easier to sweep for bugs.

Jonah prodded the room's single bed. His finger barely made a dent in the rock-hard sheets. "I don't think this is safe, boss."

"Yeah, I wouldn't risk it. We'll grab some sleeping bags when we do our grocery shopping." The backpacks they'd brought with them for the shuttle flight to Iskander sat unattended in the corner. Aside from the handy change of clothes that Mordred and Jonah would undoubtedly need, they'd been little more than added props to get them through terminal security. All of their real equipment would be acquired on the ground here in Thebes. Fortunately, that was a task the Syndicate would be more than happy to make easy for them.

Mordred had found a public restroom and washed the dye out of his hair on the way to the motel. The false brown had been mostly rubbed out of his unkempt black tangle, though a few strands still bore tinges of the hasty disguise. He'd get those out later, but not from here. He wasn't entirely sure the bathroom water didn't have acid in it.

"Alright, you ready for some night ops?" he asked his companion. "Or did the shuttle flight wear you out?"

"I'm good to go, boss." Jonah would never tolerate any opportunity to take advantage of his youth. It was one of the many things that made him such a wonderful kid to keep around.

"Great. Take one of the chatters and start mapping out the block. Make sure you know it like the back of your hand."

"Got it." Jonah grabbed a small chatter device from his backpack and headed for the door. Mordred didn't even bother telling him to keep out of trouble. The kid hadn't survived as an orphan on Venezia by letting creeps and street thugs get the better of him; after what Jonah had been through, Thebes would be a playground.

Mordred withdrew his own chatter device as the kid vanished out the door. Sitting down on the bed--it really was like a pile of bricks--he drew another chatter from his pocket and opened up a double-encryption line to the satellite that was currently functioning as his own private data storage center.

He had two new messages. The first was a standard letter of acceptance from the Syndicate: ''Your shipment has arrived on-world and will be unloaded within the hour. The company thanks you for your business and will be wiring the fee to your account shortly.''

So the Syndicate had gotten its hands on his weapon shipment. Or at least, most of it. Mordred smiled. That was the first step done, at least so long as ONI kept up its interest in "Yuri Spiegel"'s generous offer to pass tagged weapons on to the Syndicate.

That was just the easy part done, of course. He flipped down to the next message, a private heads-up from the gun-runner he'd contacted before setting out for Thebes: ''The stuff you shipped me is ready for pickup. I'll wait at the location you specified for one hour. Be there.''

Another piece of good news. Mordred tapped in a quick reply, then sent another message to the Syndicate contact he'd arranged the arms deal with: ''I plan on being in town for a bit. Any jobs available?''

Now a message to his contacts in ONI, this time under the false ID signature of Yuri Spiegel: ''The package is in. They will be distributing it soon. Good hunting.''

And finally, yet another encrypted burst under a third handle, the Hector Thornhill identity he'd used to get past security. This was a short one to his third and final contact here in Thebes. He wasn't sure Carlos Driscol trusted him just yet; that would need to change, fast.

I'm in and everything's moving, he typed. ''Tell me where you want to set up a meeting. The package is ready for delivery.''

His messaging finished, he slipped the chatter into his pocket and headed for the door. Thanks to his efforts, plenty of people knew that Mordred was now on Thebes. So long as his encryption signal held up, what they wouldn't know was exactly where he was. Mordred intended to keep things that way.

He left the room and made his way down the stairs to the motel lobby, which was almost as nice a place as the room itself. A through-and-through shithole run by people too thick-headed to get the Syndicate to turn it into a front operation. Just the way he liked it.

Mordred smiled as he headed out into the darkened streets. Time for some grocery shopping.

---

The gun-runner nodded as Mordred slid the credit chips across the table at him. "That looks in order," he grunted, barely audible over the sounds of the bar's other patrons. He produced two large cases, hefting them onto the table with obvious effort.

"Heavy sons of bitches," he said as Mordred inspected the ID tags he'd planted on them before shipping them out. "Had a hell of a time getting them in here."

"Don't worry," Mordred assured him with a nod. "I can handle them."

The gun-runner looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Word is you're hoping to score a Syndicate job."

It had been less than an hour since Mordred had sent that message out. Word traveled fast through the Syndicate and its agents. That was good to know.

"Well, I'm sure they've got some openings," Mordred agreed. "What with the summit and all. Seems like a way to make an easy credit on the side."

"Good luck with that." The runner pocketed the credits. "You need anything else while you're here, let me know. I'll get you hooked up."

"Glad to hear it." Mordred grinned at the man as he slid out of the booth, taking a case in either hand. The runner had been right: they were damn heavy. "Business doing well?"

The runner shot him a sly grin. "Better than ever."

And it's about to get even better, Mordred wanted to tell him. It was a shame, really. With enough advance warning, the runner could probably play his cards right and make a fortune off of everything that was about to go down.

He was pushing his way through the crowd when a voice drifted over the heads of the bar patrons: "Hey, you Ash Mitchell?"

Mitchell. Anyone with contacts in the underworld knew that name, or rather, knew enough to associate it with the bounty attached to it. Mordred didn't have time to handle side-jobs at the moment, but whatever was going on was at least worth checking out.

He was halfway through the crowd when the shooting started. Leaning around a burly patron, Mordred caught sight of a man in battered ODST armor finishing off a gang of hoodlums. Morons, Mordred noted with the detached interest of an experienced purveyor of violence. Did they really try to talk to him first? If they'd just opened fire from across the room, they might have wasted Mitchell before he'd had time to react. Too bad they were all too dead for that advice to do them any good.

Mordred kept his distance as Mitchell strolled from the bar. A bottom-rung gunman like him didn't fit into any of the plans in the slightest. But even so, the abrupt display of violence had left Mordred with a sudden burst of inspiration. The Syndicate was providing the middle-men in charge of Mitchell's bounty, which meant he wasn't in their pocket. And if someone else had taken charge of him he wouldn't be hanging out in a dive like this one. No, Mitchell had to be a free agent, hunted, alone, and with nowhere to go.

Adjusting his grip on the cases, Mordred followed the ex-ODST outside. His employer was providing him with a backup fund for occasions just like this one. It was a risk, but one Mordred was more than willing to take.

He left the bar just in time to see a bulky shadow disappear down a side alley. Hoping that this was Mitchell and not just some drunk bum, Mordred strode after him. Turning the corner, he was rewarded with the sight of an ODST's retreating back.

Keenly aware that he wasn't wearing any body armor to speak of, Mordred cleared his throat. "Hey," he called in a cheerful parody of the thug from the bar. "You Ash Mitchell?"

Mitchell spun, instantly training his pistol on this newcomer. Mordred forced himself to be perfectly still, raising his encumbered hands a fraction of an inch to show that he was unarmed.

"Relax," he said, taking a step down the alley. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd do it a lot smarter than this."

"Oh yeah?" Mitchell demanded. "So who the hell are you? A distraction?"

Mordred's grin widened. "Don't worry. I'm not with the Syndicate. And like I said, I'm not here to fight."

"So what are you here for?"

"Lots of things," Mordred said with a shrug. "And you aren't one of them."

Mitchell's weapon didn't lower in the slightest, but his finger slid away from the trigger. "So why are you wasting my time?"

"The way I see it, you've hit a bit of a low patch. Broke, unemployed, everyone wants to kill you... sounds rough."

"Just get to the point already."

"Fine, fine." Mordred nodded. "I've got business in this city and I think I'll be needing some extra firepower before it's all said and done. If we'll just consider that little scrap in the bar your interview, I'd say you're just what I'm looking for.

So, Mitchell, how'd you like a job?"

'''Everyone, continue establishing your characters for now. This first "chapter" is just making sure everyone knows what's going on and has something set up for their characters to be doing. Be sure to start collaborating sooner rather than later; it will make it easier to fit your characters in once things start heating up.'''