Halo: Road Less Travelled/Act One

The shuttle groaned and shuddered as it docked with the station, its worn docking clamps grinding into place with all the grace of a snoring warthog. Up in the extended cockpit, the weary craft's pilot braced himself against the control board.

"And we are connected," a cheerful female voice announced as if it were a commentator at a sporting event. "And you were going to try to dock manually, too. Go on, dumbass, admit how screwed you'd be without me."

With a sigh, the pilot closed his eyes and ran a hand through his unkempt tangle of dark hair. "Thank you for not getting us killed, Diana," he replied, reaching down with his free hand--a dull metal prosthetic, along with the rest of his left arm-- and unstrapped himself from the chair. The rusted grating of the cockpit floor creaked under his lightly armored feet.

Clad in the remnants of battle-scarred SPI armor, the young man who had once been SPARTAN-G294 limped his way out of the cockpit, his legs sore and stiff from the slow approach. Entering the shuttle's common room, he cast a dissatisfied glance over the mess that lay before him. Scavenged weapons and equipment items were scattered across the floor, a museum of unsecured ordnance laid out in an unending mess. Picking his way over to a small workbench, he frowned down at the wide-faceplated helmet--as beaten and dented as the rest of his armor--that lay on it.

"I still don't have that damn transmitter system up and running," he muttered. "And the targeting system for the holograms is still out of whack."

"You can just fix them after this job is done," Diana reassured him. "I just did a prelim check of the station's defenses. They've got no firewalls up at all; all I need to do is waltz in here and make it mine."