Halo: Ultimatum

HPA is one of the many secretive projects created by the Office of Naval Intelligence. Utilizing candidates originally planned for the SPARTAN-III Project, they carry out assassinations and other covert ops under total secrecy and with no remorse. They are killers to the bone, with no limitations on how to conduct their business. However, when one of those missions intercepts an operation conducted by the UNSCDF-MC SPARTAN-141, sparks fly as the  lead agent  and the enigmatic SPARTAN-II clash.

Characters

 * SPARTAN-141 - UNSCDF-MC SPARTAN-II/Senior Operations Specialist
 * Agent 2994 - HPA Agent
 * Captain Colton Jackson - UNSCDF-MC Fire Team India de facto Commander
 * Frank Dubar - ONI Covert Intelligence Division
 * Lieutenant Wieese Oroman - ONI SEC3 Public Relations Manager
 * Director Cole Whitman - ONI Director of Operations
 * Deputy Director Aaron Montana - ONI Assistant Director of Operations
 * Carl Higgins - Civilian
 * Cynthia Lupo - Civilian
 * Stephen Griffon - Civilian, Insurgent Leader
 * Lieutenant Charles Goodwin - Police officer

Historian's Note: The following takes place between Feburary 2556 to Mid-April 2556. Flashbacks take place between May 2554 to August 2555.

Prologue
''He wrenched open the man's jaw and with a passion bourne only of near-death, screamed as loud as his lungs could expand. His own ears were deafened by the cry, coming from the bottom of his hate-drenched soul and his words expressed a meaning beyond that of human capasity.'' "YOU! WILL! NOT! USE! MEEE!!! I AM NOT YOURS TO MANUPILATE LIKE A TOOL OR A WRENCH! I AM A MAN! I WILL GO ON BEING A MAN! AND NOTHING YOU, YOUR REGIME, OR THE UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!" ''He forced his arms into a scissor cut about his captive's head and pushed with all his might. He was rewarded with a mighty SNAP and Jared Kelmond's days were no more. He exhaled a long, whisiling sigh before his life force drained completely. The massive SPARTAN breathed heavily, standing there, in the pouring rain, holding the man who had almost made him a slave to his maniacal intentions, another weapon in his stash. No more. 141 was done being ONI's runner, tired of doing their dirty work wheil they sipped merlot and nibbled on fresh pita bread sandwithces. Here, SPARTAN-141 was reborn. No longer the man everyone turned to but now'' from. ''He released the pressure his arms were building upon Kelmond's dead chest and his limp cadaver dropped to the muck-covered ground. 141's atmosphereic recyclers cleared out most of the arcid, tacky air, but he nontheless smelt the stained air he breathed, covered in his and Kelmond's death throwes.'' All of a sudden, 141's senses returned to here and now. Here was aboard his personal craft, the Ultimatum. He had been loaned it by ONI for the Kelmond mission, while he was one of their Biological Assets, but had refused to part with is afterwards. Now was 12 Feburary 2556, six long months since that damned incident. ONI had, thankfully, written him off the MIA list after they were through with him, but 126, with whom he was still unable to talk to about the entire sorry mission, was suspicious of his sudden return. ONI had pulled him aside one day after he had been caught sifting through their files and told him simply that if he wanted to know more, he would have to wait the required 50 year declassification prosses. 126 then cut all ties to ONI as well and was assigned as a UNSCDF-MC Senior Combat Specialist, with 3 months training, 1 of which was still to go. 141 missed his old friend, but had to admit that the last year had been difficult for their friendship, especially after the Second Battle of Thermopylae Colony. 141 hoped that the two of them might get the chance to fight together again before 141 was too caught up in his new job as a Senior Operations Specialist. A blinking light caught his attention as his common soujourns into the road already traveled faded like a mist pushed away by a heat front. He identified the light as the alert systenm for ship-to-ship transmissions. He activated his scanning equipment and found that he was being hailed by the UNSC cruiser Harry I. Lieberman, or more commonly known as the "Lieberman". Keyeing his intercom, he responed to the hail in the typical MIL-STD response; "UNSCDF-N Harry I. Lieberman, this is UNSCDF-MC Ultimatum. State your intentions, over." He waited several seconds for the acknolegment signal to reach the Lieberman's post 7 light-years away. "UNSCDF-MC Ultimatum, you are hearby ordered, by direct authorisation of UNSCDF-N Admiral Condowr, to report to our port A-S-A-P", the COM officer replied, taking the STD notation as to spell out the "As-Soon-As-Possible" acronym. He continued, "Mission detail packet sent on encrypted channel Alfa-Hotel-Lima-Golf-Four-Two-Five. Encryption scheme is "House Special", over." 141 never could understand the ideas behind these silly encryption scheme names. Sure, they confused the enemy, but did they really need to be as stupid as "House Special" and "A Christmas Charol"? But, 141 did as instructed and when he opened the mission brief, his jaw fell slack. This job still amazes me with all the damned twists these missions take. he though sourly.

Agent 2994 strode down the hallway, ignoring the screams and sirens from outside the office building. He'd wanted a distraction, and so he'd rigged several of the cars in the lot to explode all at once. Of course, not all of the building's private guards had gone running to the scene, but since when had amateurs like them ever given him any trouble? Come to think of it, the only human enemies who'd ever caused him trouble were the Snakehead insurgents, who had at least fought and acted like true soldiers. He almost found it insulting that just about all of the alien mercenaries and rebels he'd fought seemed to provide some sort of combat challenge, but every human of the same profession practically shot themselves for him. Hell, the guards at the doors and in the lobby had only been armed with sidearms. Sidearms. The current person dumb enough to challenge the UNSC's long arm was a criminal boss called James Visher. He'd attracted ONI's attention when a heist of his had gotten violent and about thirty civilians had been killed or wounded. Visher had proceeded to dig himself even deeper by resisting arrest when the police arrived at his hideout. While most of his men were killed holding off the detectives, Visher and three others had slipped away and sought refuge in this building, which was owned by one of his friends. It would have looked bad if the UNSC had publicly stormed privately-owned property, and so the HPA was contacted and the closest agent was sent in. This had happened to be Agent 2994. He wondered if his superiors would complain about the explosion. It wasn't like they'd said to do the job quietly. 2994 could have handled every guard the building had to offer and then some, but he hadn't blown something up in a while and it had made for a change of pace in just one mission of many that promised to be a bore. I liked those times they used me for infantry, he thought. No two-bit cowards to kill, just an objective to complete and a bunch of soldiers between it and me. He was starting to associate the word soldiers with worthy opponents these days. He'd taken the stairs up to the top floor, blowing out security cameras as he went. A few guards had burst into the stairwell to stop him, and now their bodies were slumped like waypoints along his path upwards. Visher would be on the top floor, probably behind a thick metal door and a bunch of armed men. It was a pathetic defense once you took 2994 into account. They trained me to kill the best fighters in the universe, he thought. And here these guys are, trying to take me down with hired thugs. As far as he knew, he was the best fighter in the universe, barring only Agent 2995 and the Master Chief. 2994 had always been contemptuous of the SPARTANs, but the Master Chief was something special, an exception to his usually all-inclusive rules. He reached the top, and sure enough, the door was locked. With a snort of disgust he kicked it in with a single armored foot and strode inside. The two guards standing behind it were caught by its fall and sent tumbling to the ground, their SMGs clattering from their hands. 2994 fired two bursts from his Battle Rifle and strode on. He finally reached a metal door, complete with a peep-hole. He punched said hole in with his MJOLNIR aided fist and ducked as the bullets poured out. Once they had stopped he turned up the volume from his helmet so that his voice permeated throughout the sealed off room. "Alright, listen up because I'm giving you a chance," 2994 announced. It wasn't often he did this, but it was always interesting to gage the reactions it received. "All I want is Visher. the rest of you only have to die if you keep protecting him. If you want to live, open this door and come out with your hands up. If you don't, be advised that in about ten seconds I'm gonna storm this room and kill everyone inside of it." He paused. "Any takers?" There was no response. Maybe they thought he was lying, or maybe they were afraid that the others would shoot them if they tried to leave. As he planted a small breaching charge on the door, he marveled at how people threw away the chances they were given. And then the charge exploded and he was in the room, amidst the screams and death and explosions that was his line of work. Actene 13:10, 8 November 2008 (UTC)

Chapter 1
"The Commandant wants you to take this assignment with as least amount of salt as possible, SPARTAN. We don't want this to upset the delicate balance of government we have on Rager XII." Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps Ganaust Easy looked perpetualy tired on the Ultimatums small viewscreen. 141 had called him directly at his office a few minutes after arriving in the UNSC Lieberman's docking bay. "Why don't you have someone else to do this?" 141 queried, "There must be a CovertOps team you can spend on this." "Unfortunatly, ONI is currently borrowing most of our...competant...teams right now for some sting they're having. You're the closest and the best. Besides, what else would we have our Senior Operations Specialist do in a crisis like this?" The SgtMaj. smiled mischeviously. "Sit back, relax and share a tall cold one I suppose?" 141 asked politely The Marine laughed, but shook his head ''"Sorry 141, duty calls. After, i'll take you up on that." 141 smiled gently. "I'll hold you to it, Gan." He moved to colse the channel when he remembered something. "Oh, and give my best to the Deupty Director of ONI. I hear he's healing quite well." "No thanks to you, Captain." "Well, somethings can't be helped. See ya around, Gan." 141 deactivated the screen com and raised himself up off the floor, where he had lain to see Easy from his fallen monitor. He opened up the mission brief he had recieved from the captain of the Lieberman, which had ben given to him from Gan. It entailed his new mission, which 141 had read about 30 times, give or take a few.

United Nations Space Command Official Mission Briefing Document Classification: ORANGE

Operative: SPARTAN-141 Rank: Captain Specialty: Senior Operations Specialist

Background Information: Rager XII is the UNSC's first colony settled after the end of the Human-Covenant war, but in late months, has suffered a failing economy, lack of viable public officials and no police force. 9 days ago, a coup erupted in the colony's capital, in which a rebel force, lead by Stephen Griffon [see pic insert], has overtaken the governement, leading to an uprising of many different rebel factions and gangs. UNSCDF-MC is sending a colony ship with an entire division of Marines and ODSTs to increase UNSC response should things turn violent.

Mission Directives: 1. Protect the colony ship, UNSC Hawaii, at all costs 2. Protect the Marines aboard at all costs 3. Secure any information regarding Stephen Griffon, his affiliates and his regime 4. Set up a direct COM link between the Marine garrison and UNSCDF-MC HQ

Moderate prejudice is authorised. If neseccary, you are allowed to eliminate Stephen Griffon yourself. If neseccary, you are allowed to destroy any industrial components supplying Stephen Griffon's regime or any other regime.

Press Y if you understand these orders

141 hit Y and the document was saved to his personal hard drive, after clearing the self-encryption software. he turned and opened a COM channel to Captain Richardson.

''2789 sprang at him, blasting both of his bodyguards with his assault rifle. 2994 stumbled back, and more of his troops surged between him and the attacking operative, their bullets pinging off of his shields. They failed, and suddenly he was falling, blood spurting from wounds that appeared in his chest and arms. "Forget him!" 2994 screamed. "Kill the other one!" ''As the guards tracked the other agent, who had dived to cover, 2994 looked down at the wounded man at his feet. Remarkably, he was still breathing despite his wounds. With a snort of contempt, 2994 pressed his sidearm to the agent's visor and fired once. He heard the second agent's scream of rage and loss as 2789 crumpled to the floor and died.''

''And then he was finishing off the last of the rebellious agents, putting a BR burst through Agent 2438's head. As he fell, 2438's visor cracked open, and 2994 gasped in horror as 2789's vacant expression gazed up at him through a stream of blood. Moving numbly to the other agents, he removed their helmets, finding 2789 behind each visor. He noticed something odd in the reflection of a helmet and peered into it. His eyes widened and terror clogged his voice. He beheld not his own face, or the image of his helmet peering back at him, but the hard, cold face of Herman Richelieu.''

2994 sat bolt upright in the bed, his face and chest covered in sweat. Gasping for breath, he checked the time a/; cfdevnm{ It wasn't the first time he'd relived the battle on the Sparta orbital station through the eyes of the terrorist leader Herman Richelieu. He'd also had nightmares about the revolt at Fort Mendez, but never had he seen his own reflection as that of Richelieu. Just ghosts from the past, he chastised himself. He'd killed Richelieu there on the Sparta, just as he'd killed so many before him. But with Richelieu, it hadn't been because ONI had told him to. It had been personal. The general had stolen the only friend he'd ever known from him, a friend he'd made only a few hours previously. 2789 had given him the idea that there might be more to what he did than rankings or statistics. He'd reminded him of the people they saved with every kill, the good that they accomplished through violence and death. But 2789 was dead now, and nothing could change that, nor could anything tear down the wall he had built between himself and the rest of the world. The intercom in his quarters aboard the Point of No Return crackled. "Agent 2994? Are you awake?" "Yes," sighed 2994. "I'm awake." "Good." The voice paused before continuing. "Get yourself dressed and then report to briefing room B-12 by 0500. We have a mission for you."
 * e'd only been asleep for three hours. With a growl of frustration, he got up from the bunk and turned on te lights, blinking in the glare they created.

Half an hour later, 2994 sat in the briefing room, staring at the image of a clean-shaven, middle aged man. "This," said the room's only other occupant, his face shrouded by darkness, "is Stephen Griffon. He's a citizen on Rager XII, but he's also the head of a group of insurgents who pretty much control the entire planet through force and fear. Our sources say he's looking to take over some other small dissentist groups in the surrounding sectors, but in order to do that he needs to get offplanet, and the planet's in a state of lockdown." "If you know who he is, why can't the local authorities arrest him?" asked 2994 wearily. He sensed another pointless mission coming up. "Didn't you hear me? He's got people everywhere. As soon as we sent the transmission to bring him in down, he'd know and be in hiding before the detectives could strap on their sidearms. We can't use military force either. The civilians down there are convinced that the UNSC will just bring more trouble, and if we showed any signs of subverting Rager XII's sovereignty in any way, Griffon's people will just get stronger. However, it's Griffon who keeps them together. Take out him and we can have the entire planet back under proper authority within a month." 2994 sighed. "What's my time window?" "One week," came the curt reply. "Things have just gotten more complicated. The sector commander has decided to increase the garrison on Rager XII. He's got a shipful of marines headed to the planet, and if Griffon's men can capture it, they've gotten themselves a ticket offplanet. 2994, if this man escapes and carries out his plans, we could have another Snakehead to deal with in a few years." Whoever this briefer was, he sure knew which buttons to push. "Any special rules of engagement?" "No witnesses, including civilians. You may not be a SPARTAN, but you wear MJOLNIR armor, and that alone is enough to start riots throughout the planet. Murder's fairly common there, so so long as you don't go into crowded areas in your armor, you should be able to dispatch any unlucky bystanders without trouble. This directive extends to other servicemen who see you as well. There's no telling who they might blab to." "You're damn right I'm not a SPARTAN," 2994 growled, standing up. "When do I leave?" "Lieutenant Williams is waiting for you in the hangar. Be ready to leave in one hour." "Understood," said 2994 as he left the darkened room.

141 stepped past the threshold of the automatci door into the captain's personal office, adjacent to the bridge of the Lieberman. Captain Richardson looked up from behind his small desk and greeted 141 with a quick smile that 141 recognised as one of a feint, born from training in the UNSC Diplomatic Corps, used to impress people that the gretter themselves usually didn't per se like being around. "Please, have a seat." The captain indicated a chair across from him. "If you don't mind, Sir, i prefer to stand. My MJOLNIR armor sometimes makes sitting...uncomfortable." Another feint smile. "Of course." The captain set down the data tablet he had been working on and folded his hands on the desk before him, now showing his impenatrable stare into 141's reflective visor. "So, what can I do for you?" 141 manipulated his HUD and transmitted an endited version of his mission brief to the captain via his neural implant. "I'd like the Lieberman to stand by at the edge of the Rager system. I may require your ship to come in, guns blazing, if you will." The captain thought for a long while before speaking again. "I'm going to be honest with you, SPARTAN. I don't relish the special influence your kind has on Navy men like myself, but because you have the majority of the Cheifs of Staff's backing, i'll allow it." His tone dropped to almost a whisper. "However, if any of my crew suffer injury because he had to come in "guns blazing" because you went half-assed and didn't correctly ases your situation, all for some errand of the Corps, I will hold you responsible." 141's anger, while riseing inside, was calmed by his decades of practice. "By order of the UNSCDF-MC, Captain, you and your crew, which I am permitted to comandeer in any way I see fit, are expendable, in every sense of the word, for the duration of my mission. However, i promise to only call you in if my ass is about to die." He leaned closer to the Navy man, who slightly recoiled from his hulking build. "I don't "half-ass" my stuff, Captain. I either do it perfectly, or I die. So the next time you want to piss me off, don't insult my expertice in this. Because, I swear to you, I will prove you wrong." He rose and, without another word, keyed the door and stepped back onto the bridge. He briskly paced the room and entered a turbo elevator car. Entering the code for his quarters, the car zoomed on it's way, with no disernable change in inertia. Arriving at his quarters, he opened every locker, drawer and crevase he could find and retrieved his tools of war. Packing them in presise miliatry style, he hauled them off to the cargo bay and ordered the quartermaster to load them onto the Ultimatum. In a short while, 141 would dock with the Hawaii and ensure that they arrived at the garrison on time and intact. Should this Stephen Griffon character interfere with this mission, he would be at the mercy of 141. Unfortunatly for Griffon, 141 had had just about enough with mercy. It was time for a little payback to ONI. He would take out Stephen Griffon. Whether they liked it or not.

23 years ago

He stood, waiting in the sunlight. The figure approaching raised it's hand to block the blinding light, but Jackson thought naught of it. He welcomed the harsh light upon his body, racking in the warmth it provided. Out here, in the boondocks, the cold was unbearable, especially at this time of day. The figure resolved into his father, Harlem, and he stood beside his son, gazing out to the ocean beyond, where many fishing boats puttered around, stealing and waiting for their ripe payments of flesh and meat. "I've just talked to your mom." He looked downwards at his feet, as if they would give him the strength to speak his unwanted words. "She...hopes that you'll...reconsider this...course of action your taking." His speech was slow, maybe because of the tensious nature of his words or because of the Ridgar's Syndrome, Jackson didn't know. He didn't really care either. "What about you, Pop? Do you want me to "reconcider my actions" as well?" Colton asked accusingly, instantly regreting his harsh tone. His father turned to him, with a look of pure affection on his face. The scars seemed to melt away as he spoke. "Colton, nothing would make me happier to see you, my son, go on to become something more that what you are now." He took Jackson's shoulders and he faced his father. "I'd drive you over there myself, if i could." His dad, who had his legs atrophy from the results of a 23-year battle with Ridgar's Syndrome, a deadly flesh-eating virus that attacked skin, internal tissue and brain neurons all at once, smiled at their little joke. Colton looked out across the beautiful vista one last time before he looked into his dad's eyes with a longing. "Then i guess i'd better go." As he turned to go, his dad placed a hand on his shoulder and Colton paused. His father embraced him and held him tight, as if will alone would stop his son from becoming a man, a Marine. The tender moment passed and Colton got into his car, and drove off. He never saw his father again.

Chapter 2
Police Lieutenant Charles Goodwin hated his job. For two years now he'd kissed his wife and three-year old son every morning before leaving their apartment before heading down to to Rager City's police station, passing all of the filth and corruption that went hand in hand with the poverty that had run rampant on Rager XII for the past decade. And then he arrived at the station and descended into another kind of filth and corruption. Even before Stephen Griffon and his followers had seized power a week ago, they'd had just about every public employee on the planet firmly in their collective pocket. Police officers had been their priority target, since controlling them meant controlling most public affairs. Ever since Griffon had set his plans in motion, bribes had been offered for cooperation and those too noble enough to accept them began having sudden, fatal, and entirely unrelated accidents. And so if one of Griffon's thugs was hauled in for anything, money exchanged hands and the man was let go, and would be back on the street in a matter of hours. Charles liked to think of himself as a straight and honest cop, but he also knew what would happen to his family if he too had an accident, and so he took the money and let the rapists and murderers back on the streets just like all of his fellows. It is good money, he thought to himself, feeling lower than dirt. And it was only because of the bribe money that he was able to support Jenny and their kid: Griffon had arranged for the salaries of police officers to be dropped to almost nothing as an added incentive to accept the bribes. Charles lowered his hand into his pocket and fondled the datachip within. That little chip was the only way he could look into a mirror these days without throwing up. Within its memory banks he'd recorded enough information to bring down just about every corrupt official on the planet. He'd been collecting the data for well over a year now, and it was rather easy from where he was positioned. If officials thought that they shared a boss they tended to be a little more chatty than normal. One day he'd find some way to get it to the UNSC and could atone for all of the murders and other crimes he was sure his bribe-taking had caused. He passed a freshly looted store front as he neared the station, its windows smashed and its walls riddled with bullet holes. Charles briefly wondered if the store's owner had died during the looting before pushing the thought away. He might have been the officer to let whoever had done the deed go. As he turned to enter the station, he offered a brief prayer for God to send someone, anyone, to save Rager XII from the chaos Griffon had brought to it. And then he was inside and back to allowing the chaos to go on.

Across the street from where Lieutenant Goodwin worked sat 2994. His MJOLNIR armor had been temporarily been replaced by a light brown overcoat and a pair of jeans. He hadn't had to apply any makeup to disguise his face or change his hair color. His face didn't matter. His armor did. It was the fact that he'd needed to don the civilian outfit that was causing the scowl that had affixed itself on the agent's face. His original plan had been to storm wherever Griffon had stashed himself and kill everyone who got in the way mere hours after being set down on Rager XII. It was a plan that had served him well for every other mission he'd run in the past, so why not now? Unfortunately, Griffon was smarter than any of 2994's previous targets. While all of the gang bosses and insurgents he'd traced had tried to avoid detection, they'd all trusted too much in their hired bodyguards and mercenaries to protect them rather than in the secrecy of their location. But Griffon, despite being the leading politician on the planet, was an enigma. His name was all over the news, but he made absolutely no public appearances. Any speeches he made were recorded and displayed on public holotanks. 2994 had tried to trace the holotapes, but they went through literally dozens of small safehouses before being released to the public. For all 2994 knew, Griffon could be in any one of these places, his speeches being recorded from any number of locations. And so 2994 had spent the last two days scouring Rager City for any clues that might lead him to the target. And he'd settled on a living, breathing clue. Police Commissioner Nerval was receiving quite a lot of money through bank transfers. 2994 had investigated the Commissioners from other major cities and had discovered that they too were making a tidy sum, but not as much as Nerval. And so Nerval was first on the list of leads that might help him take out Griffon. 2994 eyed the police station across from the cafe he was sitting in. It was full of crooked police officers, men payed off by Griffon's flunkies to help the insurgents maintain control. And so 2994 had no regrets over what he was about to do. No witnesses, he thought, feeling for the pistol in his jacket.

SPARTAN-141 stepped out of the Ultimatum's loading bay and into the sunlight of the Udepand Terminal. He had landed here, with the express insitence of ONI to back him up, and would soon have the entire Terminal cleared of civilians and workers for his use alone. He spotted someone briksily striding towards his landing pad. His hands instinctivly went to the M6D holstered on his thigh, but he checked the motion before the person spotted him. The figure resolved into a man clothed in the summer blues of a Naval officer, but bore the insigni and patches of an ONI agent. "Lieutenant Wieese Oroman, ONI Section 3 Public Relations Manager, reporting as ordered, Sir." The Lieutenant snapped to, throwing up a sharp salute, to which 141 returned nonchalantly. "Has the terminal been cleared yet, Lieutenant?" 141 asked while gazing at the lazy clouds above, totaly aware that some sharp-eyed civilians saw him and his shining MJOLNIR Mk. VI MOD II armor. "Not yet Sir, but we've got it down to about only essencial personnel now. Sir," He seemed nervous, odd for an ONI agent. Must be new to the force here on Rager 141 thought. "I know yo're here to deal with the new garrison, but do you have any insight on Griffon's actions and motives?" The Lt. asked cautiously. 141 looked into the man's eyes and saw, not fear, as he had expetced, but boiling emotions ready to breach whatever walls Oroman had put up. "How many killed?" he asked. The agent withdrew and spoke slowly. "12, Sir." ''Too many for this shitty rock to have ended on short notice. This guy is skilled enought to kill 12 ONI operatives, then i'm cut out for mt work.'' 141 assesed in his mind. "I feel for you, Lieutenant. But we have a job to do, let's do it before we think about revenge." 41 said, even though he planned on getting this bastard long before then. The next 50 minutes consisted of unloading and setting up his equipment as the Terminal was finally cleared of all persons. 141 activated the custom cloacking on the Ultimatum and it liquified into transparancy. 141 then decided to get a taste of the local color, so he removed his armor, but put it into SAFE MODE so noe one but he could move or activate it. He donned a near-skintight shirt, large boot-cut jeans and a leather jacket with several concealed pockets for his pistol. Deciding to go with an M6B instead of his humongous M6D SpecOps issue, he tucked it into one of the pockets and placed several clips elsewhere. He also carried a hand scanner and lock-picking device. He thought about packing a single M9 grenade with him, but realied the futility of brining such a distracting item with him. He set it back in it's place on his newly set-up weapons rack and disengaged all power to the Terminal. Then, donning a pair of AHUDS Mk. VIII Visors, he left and hailed a public transport vehicle to take him to Rager City.

2994 had tied a bandana over his face and had changed clothes. There was no need for him to lose the ability to work in plainclothes this early in the mission due to a police task force being after him. In the alley beside the police station, he attached a silencer to his pistol and hefted his silenced SMG. The latter weapon he'd taken off the corpse of a man who'd tried to mug him when he'd stepped into the alley. 2994 practiced aiming it one handed and was surprised at how light it was. The criminals here could certainly afford to treat themselves. He took one last look at a photograph of Commissioner Nerval. It would be a shame to mistakenly kill him out of hand.

Charles Goodwin sighed and patted his rumbling stomach. I knew I should have eaten more breakfast. Standing up from a stack of paperwork, he nodded to his office mate, Ben. "I'm going for a bite to eat," he told him. "Want anything?" Ben shook his head. "I've been trying to diet," he said sadly. "But could you grab me a water or something?" Nodding, Charles left the office. He and Ben had been working together for both of the two years he'd been working in Rager City. While Ben took bribes like any other cop, he managed to take as little as possible without being too noticeable. It was obvious that Ben hated the bribes as much as Charles did, but they both needed the money to support their families. Charles told the receptionist in the station's main entrance where he was going and stepped outside.

2994 watched the young man leave the station. He wasn't Nerval, and therefore was of no concern of his. Lucky bastard. He pulled a hood over his masked face and strode through the station doors. He instantly noticed the two security cameras and his hand tightened on the pistol in his jacket. The blonde receptionist looked up from a magazine. "Can I help you?" she asked, clearly startled by his outlandish appearance. "I have an appointment," 2994 told her, and as she looked down to check for his name, he whipped out his pistol and shot out both security cameras. As the receptionist's head shot up, 2994 brought the gun around and fired twice into her chest. 2994 strolled down the corridor, towards the Commissioner's office would be. As he did so, a pudgy man stepped out into the hallway. Without even breaking stride, 2994 dropped him with an SMG burst. The sound of the body falling brought more people to the hall, where they met similar fates. 30 seconds after the first man had died, 2994 stepped over the corpses and kicked down the Commissioner's door. The Commissioner cowered behind his desk, his rounded face a study in terror. "What have I done?" he gasped. "I let them all go, just like you told me to!" He obviously thought that 2994 was one of Griffon's men, here to execute him for not behaving as they wanted. Nerval pulled a gun, but 2994 was already beside him, breaking the Commissioner's wrist and slamming his body into the wall. "The two of us need to have a little chat," he told the struggling man, and slammed his head into the wall.

141 was walking the streets of the local Rager City ghetto, only 3 blocks from the RCPD Building. He observed what appeared to be a group of young men talking in hused tones, but 141 noticed that their body language indicated agitation, and figured that a fight must be about to break out. He ignored their petrifed stares and continued to walk when his augmented hearing picked up the sound of footfalls coming towards him from the general direction of the boys. he quickened his pace a little, attempting to lead them off, but they continued to follow in step, roughly 3 meters behind him. He didn't dare a glance back, for they might see it as a sign of weakness. ''Me, weak, in front of a group of drugheads and vandals and all around gang-types. As if that scares me.'' He continued walking untill one of them, in an old Earth accent known as Spanish, said, "Hey, papi, how 'bout you come over here and talk with us, eh?" 141 muttered "No papis here, pal." The boy went on, "'Ey, man, I said, come talk with us. What, you no understand Inglies, dude, is that it?" 141 said loud and clear, even as he continued to walk, "Not interested, boy." This obviously angered the young man, as he suddenly said "Hey, bitch! Get your skinny cracker ass over here!" 141 turned around and started to draw his concealed sidearm when he saw that almost all of the gangbangers had their own firearms, aimed sqaurely at him. Dammit, I knew ''I should have brought that grenade. That would make killing thse guys so much easier.''

As 2994 hustled down the alleyway with the unconscious commissioner slung over his back, attempting to put as much distance between himself and the police station as possible. Behind him, he could hear sirens and the sound of distant yelling as more police converged on the corpse-strewn station. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on the operative, but there was no time to enjoy it as he raced away from the scene. The sooner he got well away, the sooner he could interrogate Nerval. He felt uncommonly guilty about what he had just done. True, the men he had just killed had been corrupt, but what choice had they really had? It wasn't often that 2994 felt anything for those he killed in the line of duty, but he'd had more of these same feelings since 2789 had died. With an annoyed grunt, 2994 attempted to shrug off the guilt as he continued to run. As he passed the entrance to another alley, he heard someone yell, "Hey, bitch! Get your skinny cracker ass over here!" 2994 whirled to face the sound, his free hand bringing up his SMG. But the challenge did not seem to be directed towards him, and he couldn't see who had yelled it. Putting the yell down to a local gang scuffle, 2994 ran on, and wasn't surprised when he heard muffled gunfire ringing behind him. Since it still did not seem to be targeting him, he ignored it.

141 dived right before the triggers of the gangster's guns were pressed. His SPARTAN reflexes enabled him to dodge the majority of the bursts they fired, and he rolled to the other side of the street, his pistol now fully out of it's holster. Bringing it up to bear, he fired 5 shots. Time seemed to slow as the .45ACP caliber bullets struck their targets and knocked them down. The 4 remaining gangbangers returned fire, their shots bouncing off his body armor. 141 grunted as the shots forced him back and he found cover behind a large mailbox construction. He dropped his M6B's empty magazine and fished a new one out of his jacket. "You scared, bitch? Huh?" The leader called out. 141 answereed with 3 blind-fire shots. He heard one of them scream as a shot connected, but that shot's report was drouned out be the retuning automatic fire he recieved. 141 stuffed his half-empty clip back in his jacket and slid a full one, his last, home. He turned and fired 4 precision shots that dropped them all-only one of them, however, was still alive. 141 came out of his cover and briskly strided towards his final target. The young man attempted to raise his weapon, but 141 shot his hand, which then became a bloody mess of flesh, tendons and blood. he picked up the SMG the boy was about to shoot him with and inspected it. "A GP6. That's a little pricey for a gangbanger." 141 comented as he turned it over in his hands. He lashed a piece of string to it's sling mounts and slid it over his shoulder. He kneeled down and stared straight in the boy's face. "Where'd you get the funding for it?" His gaze petrified the boy, who trembled as his blood ran out of his wounds. "I figure you've got maybe, 2 minutes to live, all that blood your drawing, so i'd talk before i make it worse." He punctuated his threat by pointing his pistol right at the boy's groin. He wimpered and answered "The cops! The fucking cops!" 141 was puzzled. Could the corruption of this rock's government extend all the way to LEO? 141 nodded and looked satisfied. "Who you runnin' with?" The boy wheezed "19th...street...Hard...ballers..." 141 had gotten his information. He could just leave and leave the boy to suffer. But, cold-hearted as 141 appeared sometimes, he had a slight inclination to mercy this time. He raised his pistol and fired one round into the boy's skull. Pink brain matter and ruby blood exploded out of the back of his head onto the pavement. 141 stood up and glanced around. He collected magazines fro the SMG he had captured and walked off, leaving the carnage behind. Still got 19 hours before the Hawaii ''arrives. Time to see how deep this rabbit hole runs.''

Chapter 3
Standing in front of the police station, Charles Goodwin idled in stunned silence as his fellow officers brought out the bodies for identification. If I hadn't gone for food... Charles leaned over and peered into the shocked, gaping face that had once belonged to Ben. At least four bullets had torn into his friend's chest, leaving it a shredded mess. Feeling sick, Charles looked away, only to see more bodies being carried out. Whoever had carried out the raid had been brutally thorough. Everyone with an office on the hallway leading to Commissioner Nerval's office had been killed, as had the receptionist and a few officers who had just been it the hallway at the time. The body count included all lieutenants besides Charles and Nerval was missing, so Charles was now in charge by default. Lucky me, he thought numbly. With a shaking hand, Charles pulled out his message pad and texted a note to Laura. It was clear that he'd be working well into the night, if not the morning as well. If anything, the text was to assure his wife that he was alright. By this time, word would have spread throughout the city that someone had stormed the police station and butchered almost everyone there. What Charles just couldn't figure out was who could have done it. The only people on the planet with the kind of weapons the attacker had used were either Griffon's men or the various gangsters that roamed the city (and it was getting harder and harder to discern between the two all the time). Gangsters wouldn't want to risk a police crackdown, and Griffon had no reason to want any police dead. Maybe a local had gotten his hands on some good weaponry and decided to be a hero, although Charles wasn't ruling out the possibility of multiple gunmen. A constable rushed up to him, shaking Charles out of his reverie. "Sir," the man reported. "We've got out all the bodies. All the cameras in the hallway have been blown out by gunfire, so there's no chance of us getting a recording of the attack." Charles nodded. "Get all the officers you can down here ASAP," he told the man. "I want every street and alley within 5 blocks of the station blocked off by some kind of patrol. Break out the heavy ordinance from the armory before you set up the checkpoints, and if anyone asks you about this take them into custody so I can question them." The "heavy ordinance" Charles was referring to were some military-grade shotguns, SMGs, and a few assault rifles. They would have to do. As the constable headed off to follow his orders, Charles braced himself for what promised to be a very long night.

The room was dank, the walls coated in condensation. The man hog-tied to the chair in the middle of the room was breathing heavily, his face bruised and crushed. A door on the right side of the room swished open, and a shadowed figure entered. The bound man started whimpering, muttering unintelligable words. Fear grabbed his heart and refused to let go as the figure drew nearer. It seemed to melt to a kneeling position next to him and a single lamp above the man flickered to life. The figure resolved into a face of smooth, handsome complextion. His eyes alight with an unknown force, their silver depths churning. His voice was a level, monotonus with an aura of exitement barely contained beneath it. "My name is Frank Dubar. I'm the man that's going to tear you apart. You, Quinten Griffon, are going to tell me everything you know about your brother."