RP:Beyond Veil's Azure/Archive 1

PREFACE
BEYOND VEIL'S AZURE is a story of the end.

How humanity, which has stood for two hundred thousand years, falls.

For darkness is patient.

She waits in the twilight black, in the black expanse through which the stars wheel. She is even-tempered, she is calm.

Darkness is generous, it is never angered. Darkness always protects, always trusts, always hopes.

She is always there. Submissive, tolerant, always waiting. She bides our time.

There is a shadow beyond the darkness. A fundamental darkness so profound that it is formless, it is primordial. It has been here since the beginning, and it will be here for the end.

This is the twilight of mankind. It starts now.

PART ONE: Midgard
MIDGARD: Toward Argent Storm  Beyond Veil's Azure, above all, is a story of humanity. Of who we are, a species of which heroes are few, a species of which courage is fleeting and difficult to find. It details our ignorance, our corruption, our willing ignorance; everything that makes us human.

The ideal textbook trap has several necessary components. It requires some careful planning, some forethought. Let us peruse it in detail.

It first requires someone to trap, some dangerous entity that the architect of the trap would prefer to die. An ideal example of a quarry would be the UNSC special forces, the best that mankind can offer, her most steadfast fighters, the defender of humanity's pale, dying flame. It would be highly preferable if they did not exist anymore, for obvious strategic reasons.

Secondly, there must be some physical place to stage said trap. This bait must have several attractive characteristics to make it useful. It must be some remote, barren wasteland on mankind's rim, some arid flat of minimal significance, sufficiently removed that its abject destruction and utter sterilization will mean little.

Thirdly, there must be some appetizing bait that will be sure to entice said quarry. An optimal example is an Outer Rim world where over the past four years, mysterious rebel and terrorist activity has almost dropped from sky for no reason, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of civilians for no reason. Such wanton violence is always sure to attract humanity's valorous defenders, drawing them in with the utter, sure certainty of a hapless male seduced by a lusty female. It is indeed such mindless, moronic attractions that are exemplary of humanity's idiocy.

And lastly, with obvious intention, there must be some process to completely cauterize said trap and to extinguish said quarry of interest. We'll leave that until later, but be confident that with the exceeding amount of intensive intellect, thoughtful art, and dedication necessary to engineer the trap known as Midgard, that a sufficient process exists to ensure the exhaustive, consummate, and complete destruction of Midgard and all her inhabitants.

This trap was the first of three sequential strategic tactics employed in the campaign.

Introduction
DAWN BREAKS ON MIDGARD. Her luminous steeds race across the inflamed skies, break the vice grip of the night, wrest her subjects free. Helios's chariot rises, beckons forth the dawn, the rise of day. With every steadfast step, the swollen bloodshot orb of the sun swells in the skies, repealing the gloom with every argent ray.

A new day begins.

Alpha Draconis's climbing rays arouse an aging admiral from restless midnight slumber, each scintillation of starlight recalling a bloody litany of thousands of names; nevermore, nevermore.

On Earth, a young woman awakes beside her husband, chest heaving, hair astray, eyes opaque from the fear of the dark; for the midday is no comfort. She is always there, always whispering. The day is the darkest night, the sun a lie.

With day's break, a mother remembers a daughter she never knew, lost tens of thousands of light-years erstwhile in the galaxy's myriad stars.

Toward a yonder star, a UNSC frigate alights from Slipspace, kneads past the convolutions of complex space-time, penetrates the fabric of reality and time to come again to the familiar three-dimensional confines of our world.

Beyond the veil's azure, ragnarok ascends, draws together his warriors as if the sand upon the shore.

And with the rising of the star, humanity awakes. We remember our fellowships, our sons and daughters, our brothers and sisters.

For if today is the day we die, we die together.

In our darkest hour, remember courage.

Remember our comrades, remember our friends.

If we fall, we fall together.

For long ago, we drew a line in the sand. This is where we stand. For if humanity falls, we will fall together.

WE FLY TOWARD ARGENT STORM.

01
UNSC ''BEYOND VEIL'S AZURE SLIPSPACE EN ROUTE TO HENIZE 3-1357 18,000 LIGHT-YEARS FROM EARTH

THE MAGIC KEY TURNS. Four thousand tons of shaped titanium and noxious hydrazine shudder with extradimensional vigor, abruptly vanish from the ethereal realm of Slipspace to the mathematically-defined existence we know as reality. The metallic bulk of the UNSC Beyond Veil's Azure blots the light of a dozen stars as it emerges from Slipspace, and with its steady intent, its canted prow is the arrowhead aimed towards war.

The Beyond Veil's Azure is enshrouded with light, for a Slipspace transition towards the Henize 3-1357 Nebula is eighteen thousand light-years towards the Galactic Core, away from Earth and towards Sagittarius A. The frigate has left the familiar contours of home, of Earth towards an unfamiliar shore because of a UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence initiative known as Operation: PURPLE WILLOW. For forty years ago, after the closure of the Human-Covenant War, humanity found another relic left behind by the cryptic Forerunners; we found another stepping stone in the stars. We have not forgotten the Halos, the Ark, nor the Memory. We have forgotten none of them.

Human greed is infinite; it is a dimensionless expanse. We remember only the riches, the glory, the royale. We do not remember the blood of trillions shed when the Covenant thought they had found a Forerunner artifact on Harvest. We do not remember how ten thousand perished when we stumbled upon Alpha Halo, how billions vaporized when the Covenant brought war to Earth's sky.

Most of all, we do not remember what will happen if War happens again.

We forget Harvest. We forget Sigma Octanus. We forget Halo. We forget Earth.

We don't remember. We are lost in the rapture of blind ignorance. We love darkness; it our shield, our convenient excuse to forget.

We forget what will happen if plasma will rain from the skies of Earth. We forget what will happen when the rainclouds burst over New York and Covenant commandos rain. We forget what will happen when Covenant soldiers find a human nursery.

We forget all of these things.

It's ironic. It's an epitome to our stupidity, our epitaph.

And still we are searching for more.

For more Forerunner artifacts. For more relics. We are led by blind ambition.

Aboard the Beyond Veil's Azure ' s bridge, Captain Melton calls forth his communications officer.

"Signal FLEETCOM Sydney, secure. We're on station. It's begun."

TASK FORCE 51, FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM

DAWN RACES ACROSS THE SKIES, AND WE ARISE.

As the gloom retracts from the sky, giving the starlight its purchase, already, a tight knot of UNSC special forces personnel gather in Hotel California's Decision Support Center (DSC). For with the dawn comes bloodshed.

The skies are swollen with crimson.

* *  *

TASK FORCE 51, UNSC SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND EXTENDED DEPLOYMENT: DAY 1112 (UNSC RESYNCHRONIZED MILITARY CALENDAR) MIDGARD CAMPAIGN (counter-insurg / counter-prolif / civ-mil support)

1. MISSION #: 3-981 (Operation: ALBANY COBRA) 17 MAR 2954

2. SUPPORTED UNIT: TF51 / SABRE SQUADRON

3. SUPPORTING UNIT: TF51 / SOA

4. TIME REQUIRED: 1hr30min (pre-mission), 0hr45min (insertion), 0hr10min max. (dir. action), 0hr40min (extraction)

5. MISSION (AND CONCEPT SKETCH): AIR ASSAULT (dir. action / counter-insurg)

6. #/TYPE OF AIRCRAFT: SOA ASSETS TO BE CONFIRMED IN BRIEFING

7. H-HOUR: 0730 HR ZULU

8. PICK-UP TIME WITH REHEARSAL TIME BUILT IN: 0hr5min

9. PZ LOCATION (AND SKETCH): RALLY DELTA

10. PZ FREQUENCY


 * A. UNIT TF51 / SOA (UNIT TO BE CONFIRMED)


 * B. AIRCRAFT TF51 / SOA (ASSETS TO BE CONFIRMED)

11. PZ CALL SIGN


 * A. UNIT TF51 / SOA (UNIT TO BE CONFIRMED)


 * B. AIRCRAFT TF51 / SOA (ASSETS TO BE CONFIRMED)

12. PZ MARKING (DAY/NIGHT): 193-175 x 895-003 (hex. dec. 6x6)

13. LANDING HEADING: 037 DEG

14. LANDING FORMATION: ONE-FORWARD (AS PER ORDER OF ASSAULT, SEE ATTACHMENTS)

15. DOOR ENTRY: TO BE CONFIRMED

16. NUMBER OF TROOPS: TO BE CONFIRMED

17. NUMBER/TYPE CARGO LOADS: TO BE CONFIRMED

18. TAKE-OFF DIRECTION: 190 DEG

19. TAKE-OFF FORMATION: TWO-FORWARD

20. FALSE LZ GRID: NO

21. ROUTE: TO BE CONFIRMED

22. TIME OF FLIGHT: 0730 ZULU - 0815 ZULU

23. LZ GRID (ALT IF REQUIRED): 193-178 x 895-001

24. LZ SKETCHES: SEE ATTACHED

25. LZ MARKING (DAY/NIGHT)/LZ FREQ and Call Sign : 1-4 SIDEWINDER

26. ATTACK AVN CONCEPT: NO (UNARMED RECCE ATTACHED)

27. LZ PREP FIRES: NO

28. LANDING HEADING: COME TO 040 DEG

29. LANDING FORMATION: THREE-BROAD

30. WEAPONS STATUS: FIRE ORDER VERMILLION (auth., VADM K.S.)

31. DOOR EXIT: TO BE CONFIRMED

32. TAKE-OFF DIRECTION

33. NUMBER OF TURNS REQUIRED: ONE

34. ABORT CRITERIA: ONI SITUATIONAL AUTHORITY or CCP SPECFOR REQ.

35. WEATHER CALL: FLEET INTEL CONFIRM

36. BUMP PLAN: SEE ATTACHED

37. ABN FREQ: A1-A5

38. CAN/CMD FREQs: C2, G1-G5 (SABRE) Air Mission Commander’s Initials ____G.R., UNSC NAVINTEL____ ; Task Force Commander Initials____K.S., UNSC NAVY____

* *  *

TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA", DECISION SUPPORT CENTER (DCS) MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0513 HOURS ZULU

And as a synchronous union, they looked up.

At the dais, smartly clad in the dress blacks of the Office was Commodore Rowntree, the overhead halogen illumination eerily playing off of her lustrous raven frame of hair.

"We will prosecute ALBANY COBRA at 0730 hours. Expecting clear meteorological conditions, the assault force will insert at 0815 hours at the LZ, which will be reconnoitered and secured by 1-4 Sidewinder. With dedicated decision support from airborne ONI aviation assets, we will confirm mission execution and will stage on-site post-mission assessment, with assault infantry extraction at the HZ designated as Rally Delta."

"The target is a small unarmed insurgent convoy; detailed human intelligence provided from the Office within the insurgent command structure suggests that this convoy will be containing an anonymous high-ranking paramilitary officer coordinating the insurgent assaults. Long-lens photographs are appended within your briefing folders for your examination. The success of this operation is contingent on our prosecution of this singular individual; survival of all accessory forces is a secondary objective at best. Weapons authorization is as per Fire Order Vermillion; we shoot to kill, with shooters guided by on-site intelligence from 1-4 Sidewinder. We will take questions now."

' * Editor's Note: So welcome to Beyond Veil's Azure''! :) I apologize in advance for this unnecessarily complicated "mission" as the preface to our roleplay; this is a straightforward operation so that everyone can introduce their own characters, introduce any unique sub-plots, and get to know each other. After this, we will begin the primary plotline. Please message me with any questions or write on the RP talk page. Again, I apologize for this unnecessarily complicated operation - it was fairly poorly written, but if there are any questions about the intent, again, write on the talk page or ask me :) Feel free to begin the roleplay! Introduce your characters, feel free to ask mission questions (I will write back under Rowntree as fast as I can) and for your characters to mingle and to socialize!! (RR)'''

02
Jamal awoke from his slumber, blinking his eyes rapidly at the bright, intense sunlight that shone through the small window. After rubbing his eyes, he swung his large, powerful legs over the side of the cot, stood up, and walked towards the showers. He stepped in, allowing the cold water to wash over his body, finally awakening from a night mare - the rememberance of HOT GATES, an operation that had happened more than four decades ago - and stepped out, and put on a civilian suit. Wihle walking down the long hallways of the barracks building, he bumped into one of the Myrmidons, those genetically altered and artificially produced "super soldiers", who abruptly turned around and grabbed his arm.

"Hey, you think you can take me on?"

Jamal chuckled, and started to walk on, until the Myrmidon placed his hand on his shoulder.

"I said, do you think you can take me on?"

Jamal waited, then grabbed the Myrmidon's hand, twisted it, snaped a few knuckles, swept his leg underneath the boy, knocking him off balance, then planted his large foot into the boy's neck.

"Hmf... you guys are supposed to replace us? You guys couldn't replace a Marine."

Jamal turned around and continued to walk outdoors, where he met the other two members of his team.

Instead of being in direct combat with the enemy, his team was repurposed to act as Human Intelligence collectors, conducting surviellance and reconnaissance, as well as capturing information. Instead of acting like they used to, as the elite super soldiers of the UNSC, they were instead downgraded to act as ONI spies.

The trio, now reunited, mounted into a civilian warthog and proceeded into a lodge, overlooking the target area.-- Sgt. johnson  16:52, 10 January 2009 (UTC)

03
The last time he'd done a mission like this things had been different.

He'd set a bunch of explosives at various locations and then detonated them when the target convoy reached just the right spot. He'd gone in then, weaved through the smoke and around dazed and confused soldiers to where the target lay beside his Warthog with half his arm blown away and a piece of shrapnel in his gut. The man had seen him and expressed admiration as to how he'd pulled the whole thing off. And then SPARTAN-G294 had drawn his sidearm and blown a superior officer's brains out.

It had been the point at which he'd stopped being just a confused kid to ONI and become the only SPARTAN to ever, ever betray the UNSC, an instant promotion to Public Enemy Number 1. It was the point at which his friends had started trying to kill him and the point at which his life had unclogged itself and gone all the way down the tubes.

Simon stared hard at the gear arranged before him in a neat and ordered pile. Killing Captain Lierne had perhaps been one of the stupidest and most deluded decisions he'd ever made. He'd read too many books during training and had thought that life was supposed to be like one of them: Lierne had headed the unit charged with making sure that no civilian ever got word of the SPARTAN-III program, which meant that he must have been an evil and twisted monster, right? Which meant that he, Simon, was supposed to go in and get some revenge before riding off into the sunset, right?

When did I become such an idiot? he thought to himself. ''Did I really think that I could bring down one of the most powerful military organizations in the galaxy? Me, the hopeless loser who was only good at running away?''

And because of his lunacy he'd nearly been killed by one of the only friends he'd ever had, spent over twenty years in a cryosleep maintained by a species that had proceeded to cast him aside before running to tell the UNSC where he was, and was now working for a government that he'd hated for half his life. He still hated it, but the hatred was buried within him now, no longer part of what kept him alive.

''Why didn't Diana stop me? She didn't have a reason to go after revenge, and it was her life I was throwing on the line just as much as my own. She's an AI for God's sake, aren't they supposed to be logical?''

Another consequence of his idiocy: an AI that had been implanted in his head by a bunch of wackjob scientists was now beyond his reach. The modified armor that had allowed her to speak to him and to interface with technology that he touched was gone. And the worst part of it all was that she was still in there. He could feel her during quiet moments, frustrated and afraid. And there was nothing he could do to help her.

I'' shouldn't be here. I don't want to be here. I never wanted to be here.''

But Cassandra had. The meek and timid girl from a destroyed team had grown a spine right at the time it could hurt him most. She'd accepted the admiral's offer and gone with him, and Simon had had no choice. Without her he'd be nothing, just a broken teenager with no one but an AI he couldn't even talk to anymore. And when she'd applied for a combat role in Task Force 51, he'd done so as well. She was all he had. Well, there was always Redmond.

That weirdo Myrmidon would be waiting for him to get dressed so that he could fall in behind him and worship the ground he walked on. With a huff of annoyance, Simon began to slip into his gear.

The only way for him to stay sane was to keep busy and keep his mind off how much he hated his life.

04
'''TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0400 HOURS '''

"Here we go again" said Daniel Jackson. Daniel Jackson, UNSC Marine of the UNSC Marine Force Reconnaissance (UNSC Marine Special Forces Detachment), was in the Barracks of FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA", UNSC Military Base on Migard, UNSC Colony. Jackson was the first one to wake up before his Marines did. Jackson, who lost his family in the Great War and well-known for his Executions of Wounded and Unarmed Rebels on Peleliu II, went outside for little while. Jackson wandered the Base and returned to the Barracks. Upon arrival, Jackson saw Kurt Dawson, Daniel's closet friend, already awake and grabbing his Gear. "Hey Daniel, what were you doing?" said Dawson. "Oh, you know, watching the view" replied Jackson. "Hmph...wuss" teased Dawson. "Hey, we've been assigned on Recon Mission, are the others awake?" asked Jackson. "Nope" replied Dawson. Jackson burst into the room and yelled, "Up and adam, maggots, we've got an assignment" yelled Jackson to the Marines. Daniel Jackson and his Squad of UNSC Marines geared up and headed straight for the Motorpool for thier Reconnaissance Mission.

ShockTrooper

05
'''TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA", DECISION SUPPORT CENTER (DCS) MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0513 HOURS ZULU '''

The officer looked over the information provided in the folder he had been given upon entering the room. It seemed straight forward, too straight forward for the elite special operational forces that made up the military might in this area, just a little too simple for the things that had been occurring on this god forsaken planet. However, it wasn’t his job to think though the reasoning of a mission he and his unit were given, only to execute the orders to the best of his ability, and get his soldiers in and out of harms way alive.

The terrain looked fairly normal, what they were accustomed too; the first thing that caught his eye was a position above the area of operations approximately two klicks away that could easily be taken advantage of by a skilled marksman. Instantly 1st Squad came to his thoughts, Private First Class Alexa Clarke, a skilled sniper was equipped with M55A2 Sniper Rifle System that could easily cover the range accurately enough to provide sniper support and real time information regarding the convoy’s movement.

“Commodore Rowntree, there is an elevated position two kilometers north northwest of the area our forces are operating in, Force Recon has a marksman that could provide line of sight sniper support for ground forces in the area, request to deploy PFC Clarke to the position and include sierra combat team for Operation: ALBANY COBRA.” he spoke up, hoping it would be granted.

'''BATTLEGROUP CHECHNYA HIGH ORBIT MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0513 HOURS ZULU '''

The bridge of the UNSC Chechnya was quiet as it had been since its first trial four years ago. The Navy of today did not have any need for the massive cruiser that they ordered and had constructed; only serving as a deterrent for would be anti-UN forces. At the moment the Chechnya sat idle in the orbit of Midgard, its sophisticated scanning systems analyzing the traffic around the colony.

“MV Arcturus shows 13.2% probability of weapons aboard, displaying scan results on two.” announced the computers AI, the layout of the ship and known cargo appearing instantly on one of the many displays.

This operation was killing Bodet on the inside, the absolute boredom and strict orders not to engage without explicitly being told by planetary command were the opposite of what he had grown to know. Although his first instinct was to send one of the battlegroup’s frigates at the vessel and apprehend its contents was highly unorthodox in the Navy he now served with. For five years he lived in this hell, the boredom, the change slowly eating away at him as everything he ever knew collapsed around him.

No one even remembered the war he had fought so hard to win, his efforts and actions that had been in the interests of Earth all those years ago now considered unorthodox and unneeded in the present day operations he was apart of. The days of naval skirmishes with hostile forces a distant memory in the minds of the sailors that now served with the United Nations Space Command Defense Force.

“Sir, request permission to engage?” queried Alena.

Bodet looked over what the cargo was supposed to be carrying, and what the multimillion credit systems now suspected it of having. A number of things could show up as a possible weapon, anything that contained the alloys used when forging the body of a rifle, the chemical cocktails used when creating explosives, or the mix of propellants used in ammunition.

“Send it through the channels as Priority Delta, hopefully we get the green light from command” the admiral ordered.

Delta

06
Joshua growled as a Myrodomin walked past.

"God, I hate these 'Replacements'" Joshua said to Amy

"Yeah, pretty decent though, better than you." She smiled at him

"Very funny Hun, anyway I hear they found Simon and Cassandra, I personally would've shot them twice in the head,"

"Not nice, but I guess your right" Amy said They deserve a second chance She thought.

Joshua and Amy walked to the firing Range and had a contest to see who would win, Joshua picked up his Customized BR55, which had a flash-hider and increased range Scope. He switched to single shot and fired hitting the centre of the target, Amy followed suit but missed the centre.

"Haha, 10 bucks please sweetcheaks," Josh smirked

"Here you go,now dont spend it all on meth," Amy laughed

"Try not to,"

"Anyway, you wanna go out for a bit? I mean seeing as we have some leave?" Amy said blushing obviously embarresed

"Sure," Josh said and put his arm around Amy as they left.

07

 * TASK FORCE 51
 * FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA", Task Force Provisional Command Center
 * MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM
 * 0514 HOURS ZULU

The gentle blue glow of the computer monitors filtered into the room, receiving and displaying hundreds of myraid mission and operator status signals from across the station. For now the room was still, the only sounds the gentle murmur of conferring officers and tapping of keys on the datatables of the command desks.

Savoring the tranquility of the moment, Lee Winslow placed his long fingers upon his desk and pushed, feeling the gentle rumble in his back as his chair's wheels gently rolled across the the polished metal floor.

The screen at his lower left gently flickered, blackened, and re-lit once more. Witnessing the malfunction, Winslow made a mental note to have maintenance take a look at it.

Any person unfamiliar to UNSCSOCOM who saw Lee in his present state would have his most fundamental assumptions about this august command shaken to the core, for although overeager holomakers had glorified every UNSCSOCOM base as a land of constant action, with operatives constantly being dispatched to save the day in the far-off reaches of Human space, phones ringing off the hook,where life-or-death decisions a mere routine, however the reality was very different. Even with the recent spike in terrorist activity, much of UNSCSOCOM was enjoying piece and quiet, letting the Sector Commands worry about the few minor insurrections and rebellions in their regions.

And Lee couldn't have done much if he had wanted to. The planning and intel processing team Lee headed at UNSCSOCOM was still waiting for ONI to file their report on the latest Midgard activity, a process which Lee knew would take some time, if he correctly estimated the somewhat toothless peacetime ONI he frequently encountered.

Contemplating the moment, Lee idly patted his atrophied leg, its muscles and bone withered from the years of disuse paralysis had brought upon his once youthful frame, a youth full of action and the Corps. But for now, Lee had the quiet he had become so accustomed to enjoy. In many ways he was glad he was a civilian. Promotions were slow in the lethargic skeleton the UNSC now called a "defence force," and capable civilians were often paid better, promoted faster, and given more choice in their assignments. But they paid the price of being derogatorily labeled "civvies," a label even Lee's service as a Marine could not evaporate. Still the choice had not been his to make, that Warthog crash had chosen it for him. There was no room in the Corps for a paralytic, and so it had been off to SOCOM as an adviser for Lee.

But Lee's musings were cut short by the crackle from his desk's phone, and the stream of codes which flooded his computer screens.

"Winslow, FLEETCOM. TF 51 is a go."

FightWithHonor

08
FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA", DECISION SUPPORT CENTER (DCS)

Jon Harper felt something as he waited for confirmation about Operation: ALBANY COBRA. He knew he was needed for this, being signed to TF 51, and as he clicked mindless through messages, he saw the message he needed to see. TF 51 was going, and he needed to be ready. Walking over to the door, he slid it open and walked out. He needed to find the amoury, and quickly. He always felt the urge to clean a weapon, and he bumped into a couple walking past him, and he kept a calm face through it. Jon brushed his hair to the side a bit when he made it to the amoury. The morning would come soon, and he was needed to be ready by 0730 hours. He walked over to a Shotgun, and started to take the barrel apart when he felt something... Someone was watching, but as he looked up, he saw nothing. He was getting worked up over nothing, but he decided to leave and head over to be briefed.

Jawsredfield

09
TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0513 HOURS ZULU

Caleb's helmet resounded with a satisfying clang as he tapped it with his magazine, sliding it into his SRS99C-S2 AM Sniper Rifle with the care that a mother would give her child. He slid the Rifle onto his back, placed his M6 sidearm into his holster, and slid his combat knife firmly into its boot-mounted sheath, before the Sergeant yelled to "hurry the fuck up," to which he happily obliged. His squad moved up to the olive-drab Transport Warthogs waiting, and Caleb moved himself into one of the back seats.

"So, what's up?" his squadmate asked as the Sergeant started up the 'hog,

"What do you think? Damn innies are creeping all around the damn place; our job's just to get rid of 'em." one of the others responded,

The Warthogs sped onto the highway from Hotel California, and one of his squadmates passed around a few beers;

"Cheers to a damn easy job"

10
As the Reconnaissance Patrol continued, Daniel Jackson and his UNSC Marines, from FORCE RECON, traveled on the 2 Warthogs throughout the Patrol. "If I wasn't in this shit hole, I would be at Strip Club" said an Anoymunous Marine that was driving the lead Warthog. "Stow it Marine" replied Jackson, who was manning the Machine Gun Turret on the Warthog. As the Patrol progressed, Jackson thought to himself, "What the hell am I doing Here?". "I should be dead along time ago" thought Jackson. Jackson, who seemed to have become more suicidal each day, had these constant thoughts of ending his life. However, something was driving him to move along and he wasn't sure what it was. After the Patrol, Jackson returned to the Barracks and slept with those thoughts still in his head.

ShockTrooper

11
TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA", OFFICE OF THE COMMANDER, JOINT TASK FORCE (OFFCMDRJTF) MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0515 HOURS ZULU

WHAT THE ADMIRAL SAW was not a realm of light and color, of scent and sound. No, his eyes saw beyond; he heard a bloody litany of thousands of names that would surface nevermore; he saw resolve, smelled their sacrifice, touched their death. Ten thousand names.

At what time he had been submerged in this ethereal realm, he could not ascertain; this hellish meld of the horrid fabric of reality, juxtaposed with these phantasmal names. The day was night; the days were eternally dark, unlit. He was not living on Midgard. He was in heaven now too, already dead, watching those ten thousand names, watching the billions to join...

He was more dead than alive, merely a corporeal complex of flesh and marrow and blood that had no purpose, no reason for existence. He lived simply for the sake of living, nothing more. He was already dead. He knew that with a certainty.

When the TF51 officers came to consult him, it was almost practiced. An academic reflex. There was no soul, no conviction in his words. His actions now merely extended to approving operations, checking off the box that would kill a thousand people. But even in this depraved state on the edge of the world, Admiral Kawika Son of the UNSC Special Operations Command was an accurate simulacrum of a flag officer, and even a living corpse, his "reflexive" intellect and decision were more acute than all of his colleagues - he and Task Force 51 were still the best.

There was a polite rap on the door, and the admiral shuffled away his papers - ONI's classified weekly strategic briefings, for private distribution - and instead replaced them with something more appropriate; in this case, the UNSCSOCOM field manual for cold operations, which he had in fact authored. So when Lieutenant Colonel Mariko, his J3, entered the office of UNSCCMDRJTF, he was lightly perusing the laborious document, the ambrosia morning light reflecting an eerie off-color tangerine in the admiral's patrician glasses.

As scripted, the admiral looked up, and his corpsified mouth uttered pre-programmed words, lying that he was still alive, still breathing.

"Good morning, Colonel."

Mariko, an operations staff officer attached to the Marine Corps and UNSCSOCOM, was a former FORCE RECON operator — the man was methodical, careful, quick to recall critical information, swift to parse lengthy ONI briefings. He was highly competent, the razor-sharp and efficient human machine that was the stereotype for fast promotion in UNSCSOCOM's ranks; a ranking system that encouraged exceptional ingenuity and repressed those that didn't meet its caliber. The special forces community was a darwinian one. Mariko was good.

The lieutenant colonel, as expected, had no requirement for necessities. He had a thermal printout in his hand, which he deftly handed to his commander.

"The Navy thinks they got someone in orbit. The Program confirms that it's a possible, but not a probable."

While civilians might find it an oddity that such an urgent request from a Navy commander — a full four-star Admiral, no less — would be relayed to a subordinate officer - a three-star Vice Admiral - they might also find it curious why it was being relayed with such lethargic speed; one would think it would be easier for the comm. tech at Hotel California to tell the Officer of the Day, who would urgently call up the UNSCCMDRJTF on the internal hot seat line for firing authorization. However, things were managed differently in Task Force 51 under Son.

Firstly, in the Outer Rim, no one cared about Bodet. The UNSC special forces community opinion about Bodet was laughable at best (Bodet's face was the target of dart boards in UNSCSOCOM bars). Bodet was a war horse so ancient he was primordial, who strutted around with a ten thousand ton heavy cruiser and expected to catch elite terrorists with a cruiser that couldn't outpace a civilian freighter. The decrepit war horse, who still clung onto idiotic notions such as glorious battles and honorable dashing last charges, couldn't exactly grasp the purpose of TF51 on Midgard, or the UNSC Special Operations Command as a whole.

The UNSC special forces were an elite cadre of warfighters, rigorously selected, brutally indoctrinated, technically peerless, the best fighters of the galaxy. They expanded the range of options available to a theater commander; when wanting to destroy a dam, one could send either a whole Marine regiment with air and artillery support, well over two thousand personnel in Marines and support personnel and a substantial number of casualties battling for the entrenched position - or else one could send an eight-man NAVSPECWAR team that could infiltrate the dam by its river and destroy it without a shot. When assaulting a heavily-fortified enemy city, one could dispatch a whole Army division of ten thousand soldiers, or else you could send in the Rangers at night, destroying critical command centers and communications points and punching weak spots in the defenses, so that when dawn came, you could take the city with a battalion of a thousand soldiers.

UNSCSOCOM operated through economy of force; efficiency, experience, and excellence.

Bodet didn't quite grasp the concepts of efficiency and speed nor did he appreciate the usefulness of precisely-applied force in comparison to bashing everything with a sledgehammer. That was why Vice Admiral Son, an O-9, on Midgard had complete command over Bodet, a full four-star admiral (O-10). That simply attested to UNSCSOCOM's discontent with Bodet, who had been attached to TF51 only because it was the most convenient place for FLEETCOM Sydney to stash the grizzled bachelor without causing politicomilitary debate. Midgard was the trash can and the end of the line for Bodet, but the admiral, in his senile ways, seemed to appreciate that, much to UNSCSOCOM's laughter. Yet despite the jibes against Bodet, although he was grossly impractical, Son respected his experience and veterancy; he was the only surviving admiral from the Human-Covenant War, and if Bodet and the UNSCDF hadn't carried the banner then, the mothers of the current UNSCSOCOM commanders wouldn't have lived to give birth to the current generation of special forces officers.

If Bodet wanted to chase terrorists (on the ground) with a Navy assault force, that was marginally acceptable to Son as long as "The Admiral" didn't interfere with UNSCSOCOM's operations on the surface.

Yet, there was a necessary jibe requisite for the situation to sting Bodet.

Son looked up from the telefax. "Am I reading this right that the computer flagged a threat index of point oh one, the first index over zero for six months, and Bodet wants to engage with his fleet?"

The two UNSCSOCOM officers shared a bitter laugh and a contemptuous smile.

"That's right, Admiral", affirmed Mariko.

Kawika drummed the deeply-veined sequoia table with his fingers.

"Was the 'Admiral' aware of the fact that two NAVSPECWAR troopers in zero-g gear could have investigated this ship instead of a heavy cruiser with frigate wolfpack support?"

"I'm sure the Admiral expects the freighter to boil out with Covenant frigates and that a glorious battle will suddenly take place over Midgard", said the J3 with a smile. "Replete with last stands and gunfire-lit charges."

Son contemptuously tightly shook his head. "Signal the Chechnya that 'Command' authorizes weapons free."

The irony of Son's subordinate rank hung in the air.

With no urgency, the lieutenant colonel thinly smiled. "I'll tell Signals to comm the Admiral when we get around to it."

The Vice Admiral lazily affirmed his approval with a slothful nod.

"And what else is on the board for today, Ops?"

The ex-FORCE RECON officer consulted a sheaf of papers.

"The assault rotation is SABRE today."

"Oh? And who's strike king now, then?"

"Lieutenant Commander SPARTAN-G294", said Mariko, referring to the formal title for the SPARTAN-III Gamma Company trooper that more colloquially wore the epithet of "Simon". Simon amongst the UNSCSOCOM operators of TF51 also held other titles, too. Although many of the elite TF51 troopers had been apprehensive about the joining of the SPARTANs to the task force, and for the first time being outmatched by their colleagues, losing for the first time, they had enjoyed a welcome surprise with SPARTAN-G294, who was surprisingly unadept at the arts of warcraft, even losing to the very Myrmidon students he had trained, and even inferior to some of the better TF51 operators, who weren't even augmented or in the amorphous, force-amplifying SPI battle armor.

Simon's promotion to Lieutenant Commander (O-4) had moreorless been out of courtesy; Son had been highly interested in what Simon and Cassandra would bring to the program. It had been a mixed bag, with all due candor, with the highly eccentric and hermit-like Simon honestly at times going off the deep end and not sticking to the plan, but regardless, it had been an excellent experience for the candidates. Personal resolve and strength was something rarely seen in mankind these days, not to the caliber of Simon — he had been a welcome lesson in integrity, and had also been adamant about clarification on black ops and over the table "white ops"; part of the instructional regime intended to mold the Myrmidons into a "gloves-on", legitimate special forces group.

TF51's intentions on Midgard, Son would admit at times, was not chiaroscuro. He had no complete omniscience over the activity of the Myrmidons, but was certain that Simon and Cassandra's instilled ethical values and legitimate operations would perhaps lead the Myrmidons to a higher road, unlike the former SPARTANs, who had been the pet tools of ONI Section Three, with agents like Jared-091 becoming assassins whose targets included the servicing of civilians and friendly UNSC personnel.

TF51's actions on Midgard were a discussion for another time.

Regardless while Simon's influence on the training had been ambiguous, Son had confirmed his promotion to Lieutenant Commander, UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence. It was fitting that a man that had been so prosecuted would attain a favorable staff officer rank. It was only fitting that after his crucifixion that he finally be relieved of his burdens, although Son would believe it an ironic and cruel twist of fate that Simon would be promoted in the very organization that had tried to kill him on multiple occasions.

"Alright", reciprocated Kawika. "And who's the number two?"

"Master Chief Artemis."

Artemis was a career special warfare operator, and at an exceptionally young age was already physically, mentally, and psychologically peerless. She was good, by all counts.

"What's the name of today's game?"

"ALBANY COBRA", said the J3. "Air assault; discriminative prosecution of HVT."

That was the UNSCSOCOM jargon for assassination. Both Son and Mariko were seasoned enough and jaded not to flinch at the term.

"Alright", said the admiral steadily. "And who called this one? I didn't remember thumbing this through..."

"Rowntree", answered the lieutenant colonel.

If Kawika was more organic than corpse, perhaps he would have still cared. If he was still living. If he was still breathing.

But he was not.

In the yonder recesses of his mind, he nursed the thought that perhaps some of the TF51 operators suspected, or even knew. He would not put it beyond the mental faculties of some of the senior SPARTANs.

It was a necessary arrangement, and he was so beyond the world's rim, so far removed, he simply no longer cared. Didn't have the energy. Didn't have the resolve. No heart, no soul.

"Keep me informed."

RelentlessRecusant

12
Sarah stared at the incoming Pelican landing on the air pad. Their roaring engines instilled fear into her heart. On top of that, she felt an uneasy feeling in her stomach. Stomach-ache? She had her lunch at the cafeteria, right after chatting with her companions. They were, of course, ship officers and technicians, never have to face the real battlefield.

It was all about the enrolment process. If you're an exceptional mathematician and capable of managing a transceiver pod, you're qualified to become a ship officer. If you're capable of fixing and handling mechanical and technical applications, you would be qualified to become a technician/engineer.

"Stupid Personal Application test", she talked to herself.

An airman came near her with a list. "Are you SR-4911-03?" he asked while going through the list with his pen.

Sarah nod, and packed her equipments. Her duffel bag wasn't heavy as it had all the latest standard equipments. All you need in the battlefield; biofoam canister, morphine injectors, defibrillator and most importantly, bandages, tool of all trades.

"I see you're fresh out of camp." said the airman as he fixed his cap. He scribbled on his list, checking Sarah's attendance. It's hard to have a friendly conversation, especially with those who has anxiety issues.

Sarah started mumbling, and playing with her belt as they walked towards the Pelican. As they came near the Pelican's crew compartment, she took a big breath and talked to the airman, "Well, to be honest, this is my first time serving for the UNSC, for humanity to be precise. I have never seen war upfront. Rumours about them were horrifying, they ... "

And the talk between the two continues

 <[ Transmission established... <[ Acquiring further data... >> User: S eeke R (User ID: 30-1194) 
 * Pelican Echo 914 just landed in the landing pad. It was the beginning of my new life.


 * I met an airman today. Quite nice of him to relieve me of my... well. I guess he had a spot in the [capillary].

 5 ub7 ank (7alk ) 14:25, 11 January 2009 (UTC)

13
He'd thought that the dreams were gone for good. It had been such a long time since they'd troubled his sleep that he'd been sure they were finished and dead. During his time away from the military he'd enjoyed long and restful nights without any dreams of the past to disturb him.

But now they were back.

Agent 299-''no, I have a name now. Not a number, a name.''-Apollo woke after another night spent watching fellow agent 2789 die, the deaths of the four rebellious agents at his hands, and his own battle with SPARTAN 141. The last memory wasn't quite as unpleasant, but the fight had been painful. That memory was more of a happy one, for it marked the point at which he had ceased to be an unquestioning instrument of ONI's will and begun to truly think about things. In choosing not to shoot the SPARTAN as they both lay collapsed on the floor of the UNSC Hawaii's storage bay he had defied a clear "no witnesses" directive but had also developed a new perception of things. He could have followed the directive, Lord knew 141 couldn't have stopped him. They'd beaten, stabbed, shot, and blown the hell out of each other to the extent where it was difficult to move without passing out and the SPARTAN had been looking the other way. No one could have stopped him.

But he hadn't, and in doing so he had created one memory that didn't seek to torment him. But the others...

2789, the first friend Apollo had ever known, had sacrificed himself to allow him to complete their mission. Apollo had avenged him, but the pain had continued for years afterwards. The four traitors had been HPA agents who had decided that they no longer wanted to be ONI's lapdogs and had taken over a base command center in an attempt to secure their release from the military. Apollo had been sent in, and twenty minutes later all four of the agents were dead.

The return of the dreams were obviously a result of where he was. Every day he saw more and more carnage, more and more lives wasted. He had seen rebels barely out of childhood hurl themselves at UNSC patrols with live grenades in either hand. He had seen the corpses of schoolchildren scattered in the road, dead because they had tried to flee their burning classroom only to run into the middle of a firefight. The bodies of mothers who had thrown themselves in front of their children to shield them from oncoming bullets, only to have the ones they had died to save butchered mere moments later. It was only a matter of time before these images became a staple of Apollo's nightmares.

He fitted his battered MJOLNIR plating over his body, its dark paint chipped and worn. He hadn't expected to be issued his old suit after he'd rejoined the military, but someone had saved it for some purpose. Apollo allowed himself a smile as he ran his finger over a piece that looked slightly fresher- if such a word could be applied to any part of his aged carapace-than the others. Here was where 141 had unloaded half a clip into his chest, a few of the bullets missing his heart by inches.

As he slid his helmet onto his head and began to clean his Battle Rifle, he offered up a silent prayer that the fighting would end soon. Let the rebels lay down their arms and join the UNSC in rebuilding the shattered planet. Let the suicide charges and suicide bombings stop, let young lives cease to be thrown away. Because until that happened, the innocent would continue to die by the thousands along with the rebels who believed that they were doing the right thing. And he and the others would have to continue in the killing and torture and destruction.

Any soldier worth his salt should be anti-war. Decades ago Apollo would have scorned such a sentiment, but now that he had lived with civilians and had civilians for friends he could understand the hell that a war like this truly was.

But for now, the only thing he could do was his duty, no matter how grisly a duty it was.

Agent 2994, Apollo, finished with his rifle and once again went off to war.

14
BATTLEGROUP CHECHNYA HIGH ORBIT MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0521 HOURS ZULU

Why had he been found? Spared the rightful death he should have been given all those years ago. Under his command the UNSC The Road Not Taken had participated in over thirty seven naval engagements, and during everyone he and his crew were bloodied, not beaten. When his vessel took a lethal hit while duking it out with a Covenant destroyer in the orbit of Arcturus III, firing the MAC should have shaken the vessel apart, the Archer missiles being flushed should have burned through the damaged hull. No, that was not what happened, his preservation instincts had forced him to evacuate, to try and reach the cryobay for hopes that one day he might be saved.

When the Hemmingway happened upon the marred hulk of his warship, why couldn’t they have overlooked it? Just passed it by and report it as one more ship lost in the fray of the Human-Covenant War. No, they deployed a boarding party, rescued Bodet and brought him into a galaxy that he was utterly unprepared to live with. Instead of the slow transition from wartime to peace, he was thrown from an era where he had been fighting tooth and nail for every colony, asteroid, or space station he was ordered to defend from the onslaught of the Covenant into one where war was non-existent, where he was outdated.

Outdated, a human being that was set in ways not thought about for decades.

“Authorization granted, however I am not sure why they would indicate weapons free” announced the AI as command sent their response.

Either they believed him, or hoped that he sent a MAC round through the hull of an unarmed civie freighter and was kicked from the UNSCDF.

“Alright, have the Minkoskwi flood its comms and get a boarding party together, probably nothing aboard but we might as well have a little check.” Bodet smiled, forgetting what he had just been thinking about and hoping for the best result.

The holographic display updated to account for the frigate’s acceleration away from its battlegroup towards the suspect vessel. Within seconds it began to bombard the freighter with MASER and radio communications over all channels warning that they were about to be boarded by the UNSC for suspicion of carrying weapons, the equivalent of a police siren and blow horn used when an officer attempted to pull over a vehicle. Instantly the ships heading and acceleration changed on the display, the numbers coinciding with the shift of its avatar on the readout, a scan revealing that it was attempting to reach superluminal status as its translight drive began to charge for a jump.

“Looks like we have a runner!” called the captain of the Minkoskwi.

The ships transmissions changed to inform the merchant vessel that if it attempted to enter subspace it would be destroyed through means of force.

“Assume hostile! Both the Harlem and Romeo & Juliet are ordered to engage, make sure those bastards don’t try and skip out.” ordered the admiral, now watching the event unfold on the numerous video feeds being streamed to the Chechnya’s monitors and the main holodisplay of the bridge.

Now it appeared that the ship was attempting to slow its acceleration, its vector changing to one that would bring it closer to the planet instead of an outbound one that would guarantee it could drop into subspace and make a getaway.

Matthew Tocar looked over the interior of the shuttle he now sat in, the subtle changes made to the ships bearing by the various thrusters mounted on the exterior alerting him that they were nearing the MV. As the rear of the vessel was thrown into a 180 degree turn, Tocar knew it was seconds before they stormed the vessel.

“Go. Go. Go!” yelled the staff sergeant aboard the shuttle as the airlock slid open and a portal into the ship revealed.

The six man team moved in a loose sweeping formation, weapons raised as their eyes scanned the aisles of cargo containers that made up the terrain of the ship. This was not the ideal conditions for this type of operation, going into an unknown environment that most likely held hostile forces. To grant this theory credit, five millimeter rounds began to pelt them, their armor withstanding the unsuspected barrage long enough to allow the marines to take cover.

Staff Sergeant Boylan fired his MA5C into the area he believed the rounds to come from, gaining the response of a second spray of five millimeter from around the ninth cargo container up the aisle. Directing his squad’s fire, Boylan began to return fire and order Tocar and Talley to flank along the adjacent passageway.

Sounds of a firefight were replaced by the moans of an injured man, signaling an end to the gunfire hopefully. Tocar rounded the corner, finding an elder man lying on the ground with an M7 on the ground beside him. There was no doubt he was dead, seeing as his chest was ripped up by 7.62 NATO and bleeding profusely.

“Clear!” yelled the young recruit, then stepping out around the corner to see his fellow troopers.

He and the rest of the squad relaxed, now eyeing the numerous cargo containers that populated the vessel. The Sergeant began to give orders again, sending two men to the bridge to retrieve any possible information about what was aboard, and for the rest to begin investigating the cargo aboard.

Talley was first to fire at the locking mechanism of the container, followed by grabbing a hold of the now perforated metal and pulling it ajar. All eight eyes of the remaining squad members went wide as a flashlight was activated; over a hundred military-grade assault rifles meeting their gaze.

“Admiral, you need to take a look at this” Tocar managed to get out over his radio.

-

“Oh my god” were the only words that escaped Bodets lips as the true manifest of the Arcturus was displayed on his personal console.

“Transmitting to command, Sir”

// UNSC PRIORTY ALPHA TRANSMISSION Encryption Code: / red / From: ADM BODET To: VADM SON Subject: Merchant Vessel Arcturus, UNSCMF Registry F587-62212-Arc Classification: CLASSIFIED (alpha)

MV Arcturus confirmed hostile to UN interests, contents aboard listed. All equipment has been noted to be manufactured by Jennings & Rall, along with several references to an employee working with the company.

14000 + military-grade assault rifles of M3A3, MA5C, BR55HB SR and M19A2 designations. 1500 + military-grade marksman weapons of M24, M55, and SRSD99-S2 designations. 690 + kilograms high quality plastic explosives similar to C12 350000 + rounds of varying calibers of ammunition. 6500 + military-grade grenades

Delta

15
MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0530 HOURS ZULU

The trio stepped out of their Luxury Hog, Gabriel jumping out of his position in the "cargo bay", while Jamal and Helen stepped out of their positions as driver and "shotgun", respectively. Gabriel threw a bag over his shoulder, which contained highly sensitive recording equipment, as well as three suits of SPI Armor, if need be. They chose a position in a small lodge located in a mountain overpass, which just so happened to be overlooking the location of the take down.

"Jamal, how come they just don't have us go in as the strike team? Why are they dumping all of this shit off on the threes and fours? I mean, honestly, half of them outrank us, and they still can't tell their ass from their elbow!" said Gabriel, expressing his frustration over always being given secondary assignments and placed on backup, while the IIIs and IVs led in the strike teams.

"My guess would be because some Rear Echelon Mother Fucker (referring to Kawika Son) decided that it would be a great idea to hand off the most sensitive missions to little children, terrorists, and genetically enhanced mutants.

Jamal didn't like the Myrmidons, not one bit. While many humans thought that his class, the SPARTAN-IIs were non-human, he still maintained his humanity, making friends, forming a close bond, and still maintaining his personality, even after the brutal augmentations. However, the IVs, those Myrmidons, were artificially created, making them so in-human, that it wasn't even funny.

Jamal sighed, thinking that he should ask Son, that REMF whose only major engagement of the Great War consisted of his ass being saved by actual men who had shed their blood so that him and his dumbass team of NAVSPECWAR Operatives could get out alive, about receiving at the very least MJOLNIR Mk. VI, or even the prototypical VII armor, as even they, the "great" Azure Team, the heroes of Minorca, the Grey Team of class two, the saviors of Ares IV, had only received Mk. IV armor, not being around for the re-issue at Reach, and even after the Great War, they still wore their decades old armor, which was even starting to rust.

He rolled his eyes, setting up a camera that would record the take down in high-speed, and laughed at the Myrmidon's ass that he kicked earlier.

''He probably thought I was some REMF... bad mistake, bud.''

After setting the camera to "record", he slouched back onto a plush couch that was in the Hotel room, and turned on the COM (evolutions of the 20th and 21st Century Television), and watched one of the standard UNSC broadcasts about how they were holding down the terrorist organizations.

TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0530 HOURS ZULU

Nathaniel White, Lieutenant Colonel, UNSC Army, rapped his knuckles on the door of Kawika Son, his immediate superior officer. Leading Task Force Ranger, as well as Ranger 38/6, he had been a veteran of several Counter-Terrorism operations and Insurrectionist suppression, leading his Ranger Platoon, then Company, then Battalion, from the front. However, as he gained more rank, he was deemed "too valuable" to be sent on actual operations, and would have to watch from a tactical operations center. He hoped that his men, especially the enlisted ones, knew that he wanted to be out there, in front, the first one to face the enemy, but he knew that there would probably be a few, probably the newer ones, who would wonder why he wasn't leading them, delegating that authority to who he picked as the assault leader.

However, in the previous days, the Rangers were moved to the back as a quick reaction force, ready to go in if the NAVSPECWAR and FORCE RECON boys were ever caught in an intense fire fight. It probably had something to do with Kawika Son being a former member of Naval Special Warfare, hinting at a nepotistic relationship, him moving his former unit to the forefront, gaining honor and distinction.

He set those thoughts into the back of his head, knowing that a good soldier never questioned his superior officers unless it was a moral dilemma, and heard Son say "come in".

Taking a seat, White watched as Son read an ONI intelligence report, and by the look on Son's face, it wasn't good.

"Lieutenant Colonel White, I have some highly interesting news right here. Want to guess what it is?"

White immediately thought of the worst.

"They have a nuclear weapon?"

"No, but good guess. They do have weapons. And a lot of them, all coming from one of our most trusted Manufacturers.

White ran through the list, knowing full well that HRV or Misriah wouldn't sell their weapons, as they were too high-profile. He started to think of some of the lesser arms-manufacturers, and one name popped into his head: Jennings and Rall.

"Jennings and Rall, sir?"

"Exactly. I want your Ranger 38/6C to start searching for more arms shipments. Raid warehouses, you know how that works, correct?"

"Sir, yes Sir."

White walked out of Son's office, then stepped into the darkness of the early morning, watching as this planet's sun began to come up. He sat his hat upon his head, and stepped towards the "Ranger Compound", where his units, Ranger 38/6 and the 8th Irish Rangers, had set up shop.

''This is going to be a public relations disaster... but who cares what the public thinks?''

-- Sgt. johnson  18:25, 11 January 2009 (UTC)

16
TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" JOINT TASK FORCE (OFFCMDRJTF) MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0535 HOURS ZULU<

As Daniel Jackson woke up from his nap in the Barracks, Dawson approached him. "Hey, Jackson, did you hear" said Dawson. "What?" said Jackson. "The 2 Rogue SPARTAN-IIIs, you know, G-294 and the other one, were captured, let off the hook and are joining us" said Dawson. "What?!" yelled Jackson. "Those 2 Bastards, who betrayed us and killed our buddies, are off the hook and are joining us?!". "Yup, also, ODSTs are probably coming her" replied Dawson. "Oh great, thos arrogant Bastards" replied Jackson. "Knowing you, you probably shot the SPARTAN-IIIs when you meet them, right?" said Dawson. "Damm Straight!!" replied Jackson. Then, UNSC Military Officer came in the Barracks. "Sgt. Daniel Jackson, grab your gear and get your Marines together, you've been assigned an New Mission" said the Officer. Daniel Jackson and Kurt Dawson geared up, rounded the Marines up, and headed straight for the Briefing Room.

ShockTrooper

17
TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" Myrmidon Barracks MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0530 HOURS

Tobias sat at his desk by his bunk, with a disassembled M91 Shotgun all over the desk. He sat there with two pairs of needle nose pliers with his right hand shaking slightly, and his eye twitching quite noticeably. He was trying to pull apart a spring that had compressed over time. He would rather fix the spring himself than get a new one from the armory, that way, he knew that if the spring failed it was his own damned fault. As he finally got it back into the shape that he wanted he started to assemble the gun again as he heard his bunkmate, Conall, walk in.

“I heard that you decided to pick a fight with Jamal.” Conall said snidely.

“What’s it to you? I’m the one who ended face first on the ground.” He snapped back.

“I just don’t want to see you die, I would be the only one that would willingly give you a eulogy.” Conall retorted without missing a beat.

Conall went over to his footlocker and got out a few things as Tobias finished reassembling the M91 and placing it to the side, as he got up to go put it back in his locker at the armory. Most people have “their” guns, but Tobias was a bit OCD about his guns, Conall had seen him heat, melt, and mold plastic pieces back in shape rather than just walk to the armory to get a new part. The guy was crazy, but he did a damn good job keeping his guns up to snuff. He once bitched for an entire day that his gun had slowed its fire rate by a sixteenth of a second and he had no idea why.

“’’Ya, he's a crazy SOB, but he gets the job done.’’” Conall thought to himself.

Tobias then proceeded to load five drum magazines with 12 gauge flechette shot. As he got up to walk to the armory Conall opened up the desk, took out his combat knife and put it in the duffel bag that currently resided in his footlocker.

“’’Better get ready.’’” He thought.

Blake TalkWork

18
As Simon had suspected, Redmond was waiting for him outside his door when he emerged in his SPI armor. The Myrmidon was wearing his own combat suit with his BR clipped to his back and his sidearm on his leg. The young soldier approached him as soon as he was fully out in the hall.

"Good morning sir!" Redmond called, enthusiastic as always. "I was starting to think you'd slept in!"

Simon sighed and adjusted the helmet he carried under his arm. "I don't sleep in, Redmond. You know that. Oh, and you had better not have brought me coffee again."

Redmond shrugged. "Why would I do that after you told me not to last time?"

Because you're too eager to please me, Simon thought. After I said I didn't like coffee you started bringing water, and after I told you to stop hovering around my door an hour before I got out you cut yourself down to a half hour. "Because I know you too well," he said aloud. "We both know you've forgotten about some of my preferences in the past."

Redmond nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe I should write them down somewhere."

SPARTAN-MYR094 had been one of the trainees Simon had instructed during his time as a Myrmidon drill instructor and seemed to be the only one who had ever fully appreciated what he had to teach. While the others had considered him an incompetent and weak DI, Redmond had for some weird reason of his own embraced everything Simon had tried to knock into the Myrmidons with wild enthusiasm. This enthusiasm had rapidly evolved into full-blown hero worship, and from then on Simon had been unable to shake Redmond off. The kid was good; he shared Simon's appreciation for self-preservation and his philosophy of "look and think very, very carefully before you leap". The problem was that he seemed to want to rely on only a single person to maintain his self-esteem. Even a minor compliment from Simon would send him over the moon, and any criticism would drive him to immediately improve.

Redmond was actually a welcome addition to Simon's life. Since he generally shunned contact from other S-IIIs and TF51 operatives, Simon almost always worked solely with Redmond in the field. The Myrmidon was good with a BR, helping to compensate for Simon's own deficiency in the accuracy department. He was also fast, which meant that he worked well with Simon's strategy of huddling in cover for a while before sprinting to another shelter. Another use for Redmond was to keep him informed of what was going on throughout the task force. The skinny Myrmidon was an excellent fly on the wall and was good at uncovering bits of gossip.

"Anything interesting happen while I was suiting up?"

Redmond considered this question for a moment. "Well, Tobias tried to pick a fight with one of the SPARTAN-IIs."

"And how did that end up?"

"The guy knocked Tobias on his back in, like, one second."

Simon nodded. "Anything else interesting?"

"Usual asshole comments about you during breakfast."

Simon squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. "Please tell me you didn't pick a fight again. If I need to defend myself, I will. And I don't need to."

Redmond looked uncomfortable. "Eric'll be fine. I only hit him twice."

Shaking his head, Simon began to walk away from his room. "So is that all? Pretty boring morning for you then, huh?"

"There is one more thing, sorry I didn't mention this before..."

"Spit it out, Redmond."

"Um, I heard that today's rotation for strike king is um, you."

Simon stopped dead in his tracks.

"Shit."

19
TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM 0535 HOURS ZULU

"Who the hell let this happen!"

Lee was screaming now. Livid, waving his arms, shouting into the deskphone. Profanity was a vice Lee reserved only for the times when his rage had reached an usually high pitch, and unfortunately for the luckless Naval Intel Ensign on the other end of the line, this was such a time.

"Jennings and Rall! ONI is supposed to keep tabs on these people! You don't just let arms makers sell guns to random terrorists!"

The news of Admiral's Bodet's discovery of the veritable arsenal aboard the Arcturus had proved severely taxing for Lee's temper, news made all the more unbearable by the momentary impotence Lee felt. The Task Force personnel officer had left Lee to do little more than rummage through monotonous ONI reports, a vast departure from Lee's customary line of work. If Lee had to be a pencil-pusher he wanted to at least be a pencil pusher who made a difference.

And so Lee decided it was time to appeal to Caesar.

"Get me Son. It's time for the shit to hit the fan."

FightWithHonor

20
UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) FOB Hotel California, Decision Support Center (DCS) Midgard, Alpha Corvus System

In the cavernous conference hall, it was an unbroken sea of silence as the commodore drew a telescopic pointer from the lectern, began gesticulating and narrating a topographic map of the operations area (OPAREA).

“Currently, the S-IIs of Azure Team, callsign ‘1-4 Sidewinder’ are providing geographical intelligence on the strike zone, and will provide close reconnaissance to guide the execution of the operation. Azure will be shortly joined by PFC Clarke of FORCE RECON, who will support the SPARTAN reconnaissance objective.”

From now on, it was a droll recitation of the mission timetable—

While again some civilians might have questioned the efficiency of Task Force 51 and the UNSC special forces, that is, the review of a printed index card that a kindergartener could have read, or even why a fire-team of three operators operated every machine gun, this was all an integral component of UNSCSOCOM’s success. Of the three machine-gun operators, one was the gunner, responsible for operating it, one was the loader, who loaded the ammunition and cleared any jams, and a third held the curious title of “team commander”—in a blazing firefight when the platoon commander needed heavy weapons support on one flank, the gunner and the loader could not possibly hear those orders, disengage, react, reposition.

The military chain of command was a simple one, where a commanding officer (CO) at the top called all the shots, and all the lower officers, like those of the company, platoon, and squad levels, were merely messengers, filtering down those orders and elaborating them. In combat each soldier, who was heavily engaged in combat, could not possibly react and respond and reposition himself or herself to fulfill the battalion’s objectives, nor could each company commander anticipate where he and his cohort needed to e in order to fulfill the battalion objective. Instead, the battalion CO told each company OC where to position each company, each OC told each platoon commander where to place each platoon, and each platoon commander was told where to place his platoons, and each platoon commander told each squad leader to place his own squad, and each squad leader and his second-in-charge (2IC) told the individual infantrymen where to move.

In combat, if the mission clock table was lost in the fighting or if any chalk leader had been killed, all of the soldiers needed to know exactly where to reposition according to the schedule for ALBANY COBRA. Any failure to do so would likely result in the failure of the mission, or their deaths.

Rowntree’s briefing right now, reading off of an index card that they all had, perhaps was the most integral part of the mission. Once the fighting was joined, no one in the field could check a handy little card and figure out where to move. All the unit commanders right now had to memorize the commodore’s schedule, and memorize it with such scrutiny that even if he or she was wounded, that he or she could still order his or her team to continue prosecuting the operation. The success of each squad and team commander to memorize the assault plan right now was more substratally important than the ability of each commander to fight in combat.

“The assault force callsign is SABER. For the combat rotation, core leadership will be provided by the SPARTAN-IIIs of Azygos Team. Lieutenant Commander Simon-G294 is the platoon commander, and Master Chief Artemis is the platoon senior enlisted.”

“The assault force will integrate infantry from all across TF51. The Spartan and Myrmidon force callsign will be NORTH. The NAVSPECWAR force callsign will be OCEAN. The FORCE RECON callsign will be PANDA. The Ranger force callsign will be QUAIL. The airborne SOAR element callsign will be TREBLE. The recon element will be SIDEWINDER.”

“Repeat, in alphabetical order, it’s NORTH Spartan, OCEAN Navy, PANDA Marine, QUAIL Army, SABER ground element, SIDEWINDER recon element, and TREBLE airborne element.”

“Senior Chief Jamal-002, the recon commander, holds callsign of 1-4 Sidewinder, but is currently deployed in the field and is unable to join us. Chief Gabriel-019 is 1-3 Sidewinder on the commo, and Chief Helen-130 is 1-2 Sidewinder. PFC Walters of FORCE RECON, who has joined Azure, will hold callsign of 1-1 Sidewinder.”

“I am the air assault task force commander, and as the battalion AATFC for this operation, will hold callsign of 0-9. The air mission commander is Marvin Ackerby, and he will hold callsign of 0-8. The ground mission commander is Simon, who will hold callsign of 0-Saber.”

“Mission deployment clock is as follows: 0615 zulu hours is crew day start. Intelligence check at 0700 hours. Final meteorological check at 0710 hours.”

“0730 zulu hours is H-hour. All airborne elements deploy from Hotel California with chalks and loads onboard. Deployment order is ASHCROFT.”

“We will make a fast heliborne deployment across the desert and reach the LZ at 0815 hours with an approach velocity of hundred kilometers per hour, at a slow approach, and will maintain holding position five kilometers from LZ. Azure Team, the pathfinders, will confirm LZ security with codeword BROOKLINE, and at 0820 hours, all ground forces will execute a vertical fast-rope deployment into the mountains, with Azure Team confirming perimeter security.”

“At 0820 hours, the medevac will insert at the PZ with codeword CHOCOLATE. At 0822 hours, the extraction vehicles will insert at the PZ with codeword DUKE.”

“At 0825 hours, the target is anticipated to be proximal to the assault zone. Azure Team must confirm the convoy’s presence with codeword ELEGANT, and will subsequently use high-resolution electronic reconnaissance to confirm the presence of the target; FINLAND.”

“As the AATFC, I will confirm the usage of force to take out the objective. Upon consultation from reconnaissance and intelligence, I will issue codeword GUITAR. GUITAR is the order to open fire and to prosecute the hostile convoy. As Task Force 51 elements, we operate under Fire Order Vermillion, with authorization from the Vice Admiral. FO Vermillion allows us to use lethal force even in the slightest assumption of a hostile presence.”

“The target convoy is expected to be unarmed or lightly-armed, consisting of anywhere between five to ten vehicles, mostly civilian or paramilitary, all lightly-armored and presumably unarmed fast personnel carriers. Saber Squadron will be in the mountainline, and will take out the convoy with heavy weapons, directed scoped rifle fire, and small arms fire.”

“Operational security and covertness is paramount. If we are compromised, do not engage. Immediately make your way to the PZ for extraction.”

“Suppressed weapons are not necessary, but all operators will be in heavy camouflage and must engage from camouflaged positions on the mountain slope that are hidden from long-range surveillance. We must execute this with efficiency; we must be quiet, swift, and lethal. If we are exposed, the mission is compromised. Make no mistake on this point to issue to your teams.”

“After FO Vermillion is declared and the convoy is neutralized, Azure will confirm that the target has been prosecuted based on his bio-signature. Upon nullification of the target, they will issue codeword HOCKEY, which will inform the AATFC and the air captain that the mission has been a success. Thereafter, the Lieutenant Commander will pull back his platoon to the PZ, where the medevac will take care of any unexpected injuries, and the extraction force will vector us out at one ten kilos per hour.”

“Remember that for ALBANY COBRA, the theme you need to get to your shooters is that this is a covert direct-action operation. There can be no traces, no surveillance. This is an operation where TF51 shooters will be guided by field intelligence. There will be no changes to the operational plan without the consultation of me, the AATFC. I will have full operational control, and will relay orders to the air mission commander and the Saber platoon commander. Requests for confirmation of execution will be relayed personally to me.”

“Currently, it is 0540 hours zulu. I will take questions now. H-hour is in just under two hours. Prepare your shooters and kit up. There will be no resistance, but we must take care to render the operation as fast as we can; with as heavy weapons as we can; and extract immediately.”

And so the commodore left the dais, and a whole room of special forces officers was alone.

* Editor's Note: This military stuff is thick and tiring to write >.< I look forward to character development soon ... no more special forcesssss hahaha =P

UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) FOB Hotel California, Office of the Task Force Commander Midgard, Alpha Corvus System

Son regarded Bodet's dispatch with some distant, passive academic interest, with Mariko at his side.

The lieutenant colonel's urgency shone through as he waved the telefax insistently.

"Admiral, this is significant. For the four years we've been Midgard, we haven't even caught a single rebel arms shipment—Hell, we don't even know what these terrorists are called, if the rebels and terrorists are even working together, we know nothing of—"

Son held a reprimanding finger up, and the Marine officer was once again reminded of his junior status and his relative inexperience to intelligence work.

"Don't be so quick, Colonel, to make assumptions", the admiral began. "The Arcturus and its cargo are certainly interesting, but may not be related to our mission on Midgard. The fact that a freighter with weapons was found in orbit does not make it our responsibility. It is likely that these weapons were destined for the Midgard OpFor, but that does not mean that they exclusively were. It is also possible that because Midgard is a weak point for the UNSC, that terrorists on other planets are using Midgard as a conduit for their arms."

Mariko's face was twisted with an intense complexion, and finally, he admitted, "It is possible that the weapons are not related to our terrorists."

Kawika smiled lightly. "But then again, I think our dear Admiral deserves our credit. Regardless or not if it's our catch, these weapons could arm a whole infantry brigade. If these weapons fell into the hands of some shooters, this would be an extremely sizable force. I'll have to say that the way that UNSCSOCOM has been rolling for the past few years, that this is likely the biggest catch of the decade for us, and extremely significant for someone in the food chain, if not us."

"And how do you want to proceed, Admiral?"

"We will signal FLEETCOM Sydney that we have a priority transmission, and we'll send it through the back channels, and note that Bodet made the catch. I think such a notation would be necessary to ensure that our Naval forces are reinforced in space. I will append a strategic suggestion that Bodet's fleet be expanded, especially with ONI space reconnaissance assets so that we will increase our detection and screening capability."

"Agreed."

"More importantly, ONI must be informed. I will draft a letter to the Director of Naval Intelligence, and also—"

Son and Mariko both paused, and there was a ready light in their eyes. They both understood that someone else would need this; someone else who could act on it.

He could ascertain it from the bitterness in Kawika's lips, their convoluted shape of disgust. A necessary evil. But necessary. If someone was trying to funnel a brigade's worth of weapons to someone...

The lieutenant colonel piped up, "I'll call Space Ops and ask them to review the manifest logs of all the freighters in the past five years carefully. If we just caught the Arcturus in the fourth year of our campaign, it's highly likely that at least one or more freighters with similar cargo slipped through our net in the past four years."

"Approved."

There was a polite rap on the door, and an aide de camp stuck her head in, averting her eyes from the two special forces commanders and being as meek as humanly possible.

"Admiral, it's Winslow for you."

Son nodded vaguely. "And how did he sound?"

"He sounds...agitated, sir."

Kawika thinly smiled. "Indeed, and he has a right to. Ensign, inform him that we'll be speaking shortly enough. Mariko, call together my tactical staff; we'll meet in my office in five minutes, including Rowntree and Winslow."

"Affirmative."

And he bade both of the officers their goodbyes, and as they made good their retreat, Kawika sharply swiveled in his chair, preparing his notes for the upcoming meeting.

This would be an interesting convocation, perhaps the most significant convocation they'd had together as Task Force 51.

Because for the first time, they had a lead.

And shortly afterwards, TF51 would find, fix, and finish. Because that was what they did.

Finishing it.

He couldn't have been more mistaken.

RR

21
Joshua-G024 had just gotten the word to suit up.

"Team Wolf, rendevous on my postion" Joshua said over his suits, comm he was cleaning his customized BR55HB SR,

"What's up Sir?" Amy asked.

"We're being sent in pretty soon, so I want you all set up and ready in 15 minutes, apparently Simon is leading this op, I dont like but he's the best we've got, any questions?" he finished.

"No sir" They responded

"Alright, see you in 15"

Joshua Stevenson was suiting up in his Ranger gear, as he had been told to get ready as he was going into combat in less than 2 hours.

"8th Rangers! Gather Round!" He ordered.

He waited for the rangers to take there seats at the dining table.

"Ok, were going in in less than 2 hours, objectives are that we are to go with pelicans and go to the target area and take a hostile down, Alpha's coming along because this is and Urban Enviroment and my Company's here as we are trained for Extended Operations as this could go wrong at any moment. Half of Echo is here, Captain McAteer will be leading them if any Hostage's are spotted. Also keep track of the mission clock as if any of the Officer's are hit you need to know how long we have been out there. We cannot engae unless GUITAR is said. This should take no longer than 15-20 minutes. Ok, Good Luck and i'll see you out there." Joshua concluded.

The 8th Ranger disperesed and made ready for the engagement which is a textbook assualt. Joshua couldn't help but feel there was more to this than the Brass was letting on, but he would have to trust his superiors and his men.

22
"Finally, some real action" said Jackson. After the Mission Briefing, Daniel Jackson and Special Forces Officers emerged from the room and left with thier respective units. "About Damm Time!". As Jackson approached the Barracks, he saw Dawson and his Squad of Marines geared up for action. "What happened?' said Dawson. "UNSC Forces are going to ambush Insurgent Convoy that is enroute to designated Strike Zone" replied Jackson. "We're going in assist UNSC Forces partaking in this ambush". "The only part I don't like is that Simon-G294 is in charge" muttered Jackson. As the info was given, Jackson couldn't help wonder that something wrong was going to happen.

ShockTrooper

23
"How much ordnance do we have, Gabe?" asked Jamal, just in case the entire assault plan went to hell and there needed to be a revision.

"Uh... we have... three BR55 Designated Marksmen Rifles here... three MA8 Carbines here as well... three SPI suits... we have a spanker out in the 'hog... as well as an M99C and a DAM... but that's all I can think of... oh, and some grenades and mines as well."

"Alright, we gotta suit up in these suits... just in case. Bring the Stanchion up here, Gabe, you can use the Hyperion Targeting System to confirm the convoy, right?"

"Yeah, same goes for that APOLLO Drone we sent up. Links right up, see?"

Jamal chuckled, then turned to Helen.

"Get that spanker and an MA8. I'll grab the mines, grenades we deal out accordingly, I'll grab a BR55 DMR and an MA8, alright?"

"Alright." replied Gabe and Helen.

"Oh, and one more thing. Helen, get the word to command. LZ is clear. Bring 'em in."

-- Sgt. johnson  01:33, 13 January 2009 (UTC)

24
How the hell could I have let Jamal get the better of me? Tobias thought as he held his throbbing hand, I made the first move, I opened myself up to his attack by grabbing his shoulder, I was just asking to be taken down, I just had to grab him, I just wanted to make it personal, I know he has an issue with me…

“Get your crap together, we are heading off soon.” Conall said as he threw a duffel bag at Tobias.

“I am just going on a formality,” Tobias says as he rolls out of the upper bunk, a little startled by Conall “all I am going to do is sit there, and if I’m lucky, I get to fire a Spanker, oh gee golly gosh, I can’t wait.”

“Come on, you have a BR55 somewhere, grab it.” Conall said as he threw some extra magazines in his bag.

“Fine, I’ll get my gear.” Tobias said on his way out to the supply room to grab some cases for the guns.

“I’ll throw the stuff in the Warthog, and get my sniper rifle, it’s in its case leaning on my locker at the armory” said Conall.

“I don’t understand how you can shoot someone from so far away, it’s so… impersonal,” replied Tobias as he walked back into the room a few minutes later.

“I prefer not seeing the person, that way you don’t have to think about what you have just done.”

“Really? I find a certain kind of closure from seeing my enemies’ face as I kill him.” Tobias says as his left eye starts to twitch again as his throbs from holding the cases.

“Come on we don’t want to be late,” Conall said on his way out the door to the parade grounds to the waiting ‘hog.

“Oh, that would just be horrible, missing this” Tobias muttered under his breath.

Blake TalkWork 04:12, 13 January 2009 (UTC)

25
UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) FOB Hotel California, Flight Line C-106 Midgard, Alpha Corvus System

The flickering rays of Midgard's rising sun filtered through the gentle overcast, the golden rays diffracting into every shade of the spectrum. The blazing orb ascending between the shrouded shapes of the Herons' still rotors and smooth fuselages, casting the first shadows of the young day upon the vast expanse of concrete which composed the flight line.

Couldn't ask for a better day.

Chief Warrant Officer Marvin Ackerby was lithe, gifted with a sharp mind, a keen eye and a quick hand, talents which made him one of SOAR's "masters of the air." Glad in his flight suit, Ackerby was by no means imposing in body, but from his eyes a fire could be seen, a fire which crept into his voice and his every movement. There was a reason Ackerby was in SOAR.

Running his hand over the lightly stained grey hull of his Heron, Ackerby stroked it more one would a child, than one would an 11-ton edifice of electronics and whirling rotor blades.

While for many of his fellow Heron drivers, aviation was simply a job, a good way to earn hazard pay and impress their girlfriends, but Ackerby took a more methodical approach, one which showed a love for the air that often surpassed his compassion for his fellow man.

Yet no matter the tenderness Ackerby showed to the equipment which allowed him to realize his love of the air, there was little doubt his trade was not that of the meek.

"Looks like a full day Chief," it was Ackerby's deputy strike leader, WO Alexander Harris. Harris was prone to a levity of spirits Ackerby found distracting and somewhat grating, but he was as professional as Ackerby, a skilled airman and a fine XO. "And guess who gets to be the taxi drivers?"

Harris was evidently as happy as Ackerby to be flying that day, but his expression of it was vastly more extroverted.

"Liftoff is ASHCROFT, SOAR is TREBEL, and you got air king, callsign Zero-Eight."

Ackerby nodded slowly in acknowledgment, his eyes still upon his aircraft.

"Chalks'll be here soon, and then it's just a matter of time."

"Right. Harris, time for pre-flight."

And with Ackerby's quiet remark, the two men strode into the early hours of morning, ready for whatever adversity the day would hold.

FightWithHonor

26 (Halo: Beckon Forth Sunrise)
 HALO: BECKON FORTH SUNRISE  A SHORT STORY PREQUEL TO HALO: BEYOND VEIL'S AZURE

RELENTLESSRECUSANT <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 16px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;">HARVARD STEM CELL INSTITUTE HARVARD UNIVERSITY <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 21px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;">With the consultation of ACTENE <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 16px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;"> Dramatis Personae

UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence
 * Artemis, SPECWAR SPARTAN / PROGWARDIV

UNSC Special Operations Command
 * Rear Admiral Kawika Son, CMDRUNSCNAVSPECWARSIX
 * SPARTAN-G044, SPECWAR SPARTAN CMDR 3γ TF BLACK
 * SPARTAN-G288, SPECWAR SPARTAN CMDR 3γ TF VULCAN

HRV Armament Company
 * 2994, Civilian Contractor

UNSC Fugitives
 * SPARTAN-G294, Public Enemy Number One
 * SPARTAN-G006, Public Enemy Number Two

Hekate, Alpha Orionis System April 9, 2578 (Resynchronized Military Calendar) 0425 Zulu Hours

OPERATION: Marshal Yellow UNSC Special Operations Command, PROGWARDIV UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence, Section Three

The flowing pleated cloth of night’s dusky skirt gently brushed Cassandra’s downy cheek, the fleeting glancing touch of an artist’s pastel over canvas. In the suffocated incandescence of the twilight dark, the external foliage of snow-draped conifers and glacial ice reflected themselves in her terra-cotta brown irises, her eyes hollow mirrors of the world that encompassed her—

Hollow. Lonely.

One person in the dark, all alone.

With not a friend in the world, a wanderer forever lost in the night, forever lost in Hekate’s ice.

She was a criminal on the run. A fugitive running from justice. Public Enemy Number Two of the UNSC, the second most prominent terrorist threat in the entire UNSC.

She vacantly stared at the convoluted, darkened landscape of lofty snow and brittle ice that carpeted the plains to each angle of her modest townstead. The eternal winter, held forever in abeyance in Hekate’s poles; Cassandra, forever sentenced to the night.

She didn’t know why she even woke at 0400 hours anymore. A remnant of her military past undoubtedly.

Yes, a remnant of her military past. She was past the military.

She was a traitor to the UNSC.

A UNSC special forces operator gone rogue, who went “broken arrow” and went off the “deep end”.

They’d fled. They’d run for their lives from the UNSC. Run away from everything. From Earth. From the UNSC. From the military. From Naval Intelligence. She and Simon.

They didn’t even know what they were running towards. They were running forever, running through the rain.

A haphazard juxtaposition of coincidences had landed them in alien hands—Sangheili hands. She didn’t know why anything happened anymore. Why she was raised as a child soldier with an operational capacity of one mission; she was a plastic toy soldier. Not re-usable. Use once, throw away in the trash bin (make sure it’s not the recycling bin.

Why ONI was trying to kill them. Why the entire galaxy was trying to kill them. She didn’t understand that anymore than why the Sangheili had taken her and Simon in, healed them, placed them into the stygian slumber of cryo-sleep, why they’d now been woken up again after twenty-four years and been relocated with Simon to Hekate, a desolate UNSC border world on the fringes of UNSC space.

She didn’t know anything anymore.

She didn’t want to know anything anymore.

There were too many tears.

She was a mother’s dear daughter, wasn’t she? A father’s proud child. Where were they?

Why was she alone?

Why was she in the dark?

She felt the jewels of moisture roll over her cheek, tears that she never remembered crying.

And she stood there, a lone, pale, shrunken figure alone in the darkness.

She thought about it often.

About leaving. About shutting the doors on the world.

Who didn’t want her to do it?

No one.

She’d do the UNSC Special Operations Command and the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence a favor, actually. She knew that there were military counterterrorism teams searching for her now, staging advanced reconnaissance operations to find her, neatly put a bullet in her head, throw her into a river somewhere. They wouldn’t have much of a challenge. She’d always been the worst. Always the last one. Last place.

She shook her hair bitterly with such lachrymose self-pity that she choked on it.

It’d help everyone out. UNSCSOCOM, ONI. All the civilians of the UNSC, who thought she was a gun-toting, highly-dangerous commando ready to blow up a hundred schoolkids with a single explosion.

They couldn’t have been more mistaken.

If she was killing anyone, it was herself.

She suspected that Simon knew. For practicality, they’d been given a single 9mm M7 submachine gun by the Sangheili. Simon had disassembled it, hidden the ammunition, and hidden the composite parts, completely rendering the submachine gun out of her reach. Out of her head’s reach.

Actually, she knew he knew. He tried to talk to her sometimes about it. She was beyond caring. No one cared about her, not even her.

It wasn’t really anything she saw with her tear-blurred eyes. It wasn’t a discrete quantum of an object. It was more or less some subtle movement.

If anything, in suicide kid soldier camp, she’d learnt one tenet. In special warfare, everyone on all sides was subtle, covert. Nothing overt, obvious. So when she saw a subtle, surreptitious, indiscrete smear of movement in the forests, it inexorable. It was human nature. Pre-programmed cognitive circuitry, psychological reflexes written in potentiated synapses and GABAergic interneuron pathways, encoded in glutamatergic, cholinergic, and serotoninergic vesicles and post-synaptic densities across her central nervous system. The light was transmitted from the optic nerves through the optic chiasma to the lateral geniculate body, where it was transmitted through the contralateral optic radiation to the primary visual cortex, and where processing of patterns occurred in lower-level statistical complexity in the thalamus and the tegmentum, and where higher-level natural pattern association occurred in cortical neurons in the visual associative cortex.

For one moment held forever in eternity, her tears froze on her face.

And then she saw the keen, familiar viridian glint of distant, reflected starlight.

She knew that.

It was a sniper rifle’s night-vision telescopic scope.

Aimed at her.

Her SPARTAN reflexes were automatic, she inventoried her environment. One disassembled submachine gun without bullets, hidden away in different pieces. No SPI armor. No personal melee weapons. No explosives. No battalion-level asset supports. No orbital assets.

She was a small, prepubescent girl standing in front of a window, contemplating suicide, and a military sniper was pointed at her.

Her first instinct was to run.

Cassandra immediately dismissed that notion. Running would have been a “I see you too” message to the sniper, who had been staring at her with a .50-caliber rifle for God knows how long.

Her best bet, actually, would have been to turn away, pretend she didn’t see the sniper, innocuously walk away, rouse Simon up, reassemble the M7, get ready for action.

She found that she didn’t really care about dying.

In fact, there was a sense of relief that ONI had found her.

It was over. She was going home.

Home to die.

She called softly in the darkness, “Simon?”

His voice answered her from behind her. She didn’t know he’d been watching her too.

“Cassandra.”

She didn’t even turn; her body was locked in the rigor mortis of death. She had already imaged the trajectory of the sniper bullet as it intersected her glabella, penetrated her frontal bone, intersected her cortex and neocortex and made an exit wound in the occipital lobe.

She said softly, with a stoic finality, “They’re here.”

“I know.”

There was a long silence. A nothingness. She stared at the window. He stared at her back.

They were both silent.

Simon shattered the keening silence first. His voice was raspier than she’d ever heard of it. Shy. She’d never heard this voice from him before. It was hopeful, desperate, depressed, all in one.

“Was there anything you wanted to say to me?”

It was so achingly desperate. She knew he wanted to take her in his arms, cling to her as the NAVSPECWAR sniper shot both of them in a single shot. That he wanted to die crying with her in his arms, finally.

“No.”

He said nothing, but even in the darkness, behind her, she could feel him recoil in mortal pain. He had already died because of that one single word, more lethal than any sniper bullet.

That was when they decided to turn on the lights.

The two SPARTAN-IIIs weren’t just two teenagers standing in the darkness now.

Now, twelve high-power neon lights scythed searing cones of brilliant light through the darkness, pinning them in their focus. Three dozen crimson shimmering laser sights appeared out of nowhere, and after the spotlights kicked on, she saw a full platoon of armored NAVSPECWAR commandos with submachine guns and suppressed carbines in flanking and breaching positions by the house, she saw the six sniper-spotter teams in the trees, she saw the M808 Scorpion Main Battle Tank in the background with the 120mm cannon.

She even laughed in her head. It was such as acerbic, acid laugh.

Why did ONI waste a whole reinforced platoon of shock troopers to kill her? They could have called her up on the phone, asked her to kill herself, and she would have done it gladly.

Then she saw the seven shimmering half-shadows flickering in the dusk, and all her mirth drained.

This was it.

Her friends were killing her. They were out there, SPARTAN-IIIs in SPI battle suits, seven of them, two combined fire teams.

It wasn’t enough that a NAVSPECWAR sniper would be shooting her.

Her friends had betrayed her.

She had once thought she knew people in this galaxy.

How much of a fool she had been.

How much of a fool.

She had always been alone.

There hadn’t ever been hope.

There was an androgenized masculine voice on the loudspeaker, loud and blaring.

“This is the UNSC special forces. Lay your weapons down.”

Simon answered for them.

“We aren’t armed, just for the record. You should note that in the op briefing next time before you send a whole strike platoon to kill us, you know, make sure that J-2 has that noted in the tac sack before you guys check out.”

That gave them only momentary pause. No one was laughing.

Cassandra’s eyelids didn’t even flicker as the laser sights of the snipers played over her face.

Her last words were resigned, stoic. With a sense of the end to them. A finality. El fin.

“Who do you think those IIIs are, out there in the SPIs?”

“Black and Vulcan Teams”, steadily answered Simon. “Chiefs Cassidy and Daniels commanding. I recognize them through the suits.”

“We never knew them.”

“No, we didn’t.”

There was a pause.

Simon spoke his last words, and there was a reassuring warmth and strength to them. A desperation. To get it out all before the end. To let her know.

“I’ve always cared for you.”

There was another pause.

“Okay.”

“You’re not even going to look at me, Cassandra?”

“No.”

Pause. He couldn’t breathe.

“Good bye, Cassandra.”

Her eyes welled with unexpected tears.

“Good bye, Simon.”

Bifröst, Alpha Corvi System April 9, 2578 (Resynchronized Military Calendar) 1200 Zulu Hours

OPERATION: Rally Violet UNSC Special Operations Command, SPECWAR SPARTAN UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence, DEPTBIOWAR

He heard the D72-TC King Penguin dropship’s angle-vectored thrust scramjets before he saw the blocky UNSC vessel angle from the stratosphere. He heard the resonant clamor of the sonic boom as they broke Mach One and the sound barrier, and as the furniture and very concrete of his house consonantly reverberated in chorus.

2994 gathered himself in his business casual; a buttoned dress shirt with nicely-ironed jeans, gathered himself to the window for this unusual occurrence.

Within him, something else too was resonating. There was a definite excitement. A pressing hunger, a voracious depth emerging within him. His heart beat in imagined rhythm to the steady ticking of the King Penguin’s navigational rangemeter, his body pulsed with the vessel’s descent. His body was synchronizing with something lost.

Something he’d been missing the last five years of his life.

When he stepped to the window, he saw that there was not one, but three of the angular, planar dropships. They were now hovering around his house, their jets indiscriminating cauterizing his painstakingly-maintained lawn.

His surgically-amplified and acute hearing picked up the omnipresent background hum of military communications and then—“Go, go, go!”

Three dropships burst into clouds of falling black-armored soldiers—Rangers from the UNSC Army, UNSC Special Operations Command. He watched their exacting technique; thickly-padded gloves against the glazed, fibrous fast-rope lines that dangled from the dropship like medusian fleshy tentacles. They executed the vertical envelopment well, sixteen Rangers per deployment platform, then went through angular fire maneuvers, exactingly sweeping the area from field of fire to field of fire with their carbines before settling into strategic defensive fire positions, establishing DEFCON (defensive fire concentrations), rifles smartly covering the flanks and vectors.

He noticed only one oddity.

The first dropship, the one with the squadron leader’s markings, was still hovering above his front lawn. It had a seventeenth sinuous rope hanging from its womb.

He heard a mic crackle—“LZ secure. TF Ranger is secure, repeat Task Force Ranger is green-lit.”

A slender and familiar figure lithely maneuvered down the last fast rope, and 2994 bit off a terse profanity as he felt his mouth become dry, his heart rate pick up against his conscious will.

As the lissome figure landed on the ground, detached the hand-brake from the fast-rope, his eyes met her familiar one, and he felt an unaccustomed sweat wetness gather an oppressive nervous sheen across his skin, an unfamiliar cold, apprehensive nervousness.

He knew those eyes.

She was smartly clad in a tight-fitting black jumpsuit with the emblems of UNSC Special Operations Command, the affiliation pin of the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence, and the SPARTAN-III unit patch. A dozen unfamiliar campaign ribbons had sprouted on the jumpsuit as well.

As she lightly stepped up to the front door, he opened it, observed the fluid grace of her movements, how they melded into one another, feline, lithe, lovely.

He kept his stare steady as he stared at her and she stopped in front of the threshold to his modest home.

He said evenly, “Chief Petty Officer Artemis.”

“It’s Senior Chief Petty Officer now. I’d call you ‘Petty Officer’, right now but that title only holds for those of us that actually remained in the Office.”

The flesh tightened over his brittle cheekbones.

“That hurt”, he said sardonically.

“It should”, she responded tartly.

She’d kept herself in shape, maintained her figure; her build was still athletic, graceful.

She said loudly, “When I heard that the worst operative in the Program had dropped out to become a … mechanical engineer with HRV Armament … I had to go see this disaster.”

“I enjoy life out of the military.”

“You left because you knew you couldn’t keep up with me.” “I never said that.”

“You never could. Always behind me, always a few pay grades below. Now I’m E-8, and you were, what, PO1?”

“Petty Officer Second Class 2994”, he replied, amused. “That’s E-5”.

“Three pay grades below, very good now.”

His answer was light. “Really? I hear that HPA is no longer the hot stick these days.”

“And what idiot told you that?”

“I hear that there’s some FORECAST program going around. Little girl by the name of Kim, goes around UNSCSOCOM. She seems to have taken all the tier-one CT and CP special operations from you HPA guys.”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t enjoy losing, don’t you? Sore loser. Such a temper, Artemis. You haven’t changed.”

“Fuck you. Do you need me to break your jaw again?”

He raised his eyebrows sarcastically.

“I saved your ass.”

“No, you didn’t. If you hadn’t fucked up and cut the power earlier, we’d all been fine. It was only incompetent you that could have fumbled shooting a switchboard.”

He smiled wanly.

“That’s right, you’re a goddess, Artemis. Untouchable. Divine, actually. It was indeed all my fault on all the snagged ones. You always rendered them through and through alone. With me, I fucked it up all the time.”

“Yes, you did.”

He nodded approvingly, but his mouth was marked with an unmistakable smile of victory.

She froze. “You didn’t actually mean that.”

“Do they teach sarcasm along with maritime operations these days? Back when I was in SPECWAR SPARTAN, I think that wasn’t in the operations manual. You should get some real world experience, Senior Chief. You know, learn to laugh. Learn to smile. Learn what sarcasm is.”

“Says the person who’s retired from UNSCSOCOM and is now a … mechanical engineer on some backwater hole.”

“And you’ve taken a whole Ranger platoon exactly to see that incompetent engineer”, he noted with a condescending wink.

“Asshole.”

He repulsed her fury with a mild shrug.

“So, ‘Senior Chief’, what brings you to this ‘backwater hole’? We going to stand here all day?”

This time, it was Artemis’s time to shine. She shook her head, and he admired the gleam of Alpha Corvis’s rays off of her strong cheek, the play of smooth muscles running down her neck.

“So I get word from UNSCSOCOM brass that they want a screwup who’s not useful for field operations to be delegated to training duties. All my soldiers are actually useful, and lo and behold, I look at the roster, and find one useless screwup.”

“Which happens to be me, a mechanical engineer.”

“Yes, you.”

“I see.” 2994 glanced at the Rangers, who were covering the grounds and fortifying it. “And what were the Rangers for? To glorify me with fun memories of fast-roping and airborne drops at night at sixty kilometers per hour?”

“I told the brass that it was an unnecessary waste of time, but they insisted on it. I knew you’d be hooked from the start when you saw me.”

He arched an eyebrow and gave a smile he knew to be infuriating. “Oh?”

“You miss us too much. The whole show.” She said loudly, “I imagine it has to be pretty exciting being an HRV engineer, you know, all the close air support, all the orbital-to-surface deployments.”

He met her strong viridian eyes, and for a moment, they acknowledged each other, through all the façade of posing, through all the shells of sarcasm. He saw Artemis again.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, barely a whisper.

“Yeah.”

There was a silence.

He had the temerity to face her and ask, “Who am I training?”

“Everyone in the Program is being reassigned to this training initiative. UNSCSOCOM is pulling off all the tier-one units for this.”

That included elite strike forces from the SPARTANs and UNSC Naval Special Warfare (NAVSPECWAR). It was a significant action; pulling off major counterterrorism deployments to a training command.

There was an instant connection between oddities in his mind, catalogued peculiarities. “This have to do with this Blackburn girl?”

“Mostly no”, she answered evenly. “UNSCSOCOM is raising the second epoch of SPARTANs.”

He was silent for a moment, mulling it through. He thought they’d been the last. The second and last generation.

The War was over. There was no need for more SPARTAN deployments.

He thought of only one word.

“Why?”

For once, there was a humbled, an admiring glistening to her alluring beryl irises.

“It’s a beautiful plan. I’ve read it through and through. Everything’s different, everything’s better.”

She paused.

“It’s just… new. Different. I can’t explain it.”

“Alright”, he said evenly. He was willing to accept that.

Yet, that respect within her eyes died, transfigured into something different—

Her eyes focused abruptly on some imaginary point on the wall, her masseter and jaw tensed, her fingers subtly balled into fists.

He knew her too well.

“Something’s wrong.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Tell me, Artemis.”

Finally, the focal point of her attention faded from the wall to him again. Her face was visibly agitated underneath her mask of honed muscle and cartilage.

“They’re too different. They’re better, but wrong.”

“Explain.”

She took a deep breath, as if to say something, and then shook her head, her black hair lashing against her slender cheeks.

“There are code-word protocols to follow with this.”

He caught her gist.

“Alright.”

She looked up from the ground, and her feet toed the concrete patio.

“So, you in?”

“Let’s go.”

Hekate, Alpha Orionis System April 9, 2578 (Resynchronized Military Calendar) 0430 Zulu Hours

OPERATION: Marshal Yellow UNSC Special Operations Command, PROGWARDIV UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence, Section Three

There was no countdown. No blaring alarm, no flashing lights. No massive clock that counted down the seconds and milliseconds to their deaths. No time glass whose sands quantified their lifespans.

Simon and Cassandra just stood there. Vulnerable. Naked. Exposed.

Dead.

Cassandra didn’t even close her eyes against the bullet to come. She didn’t fear death. No, she beckoned it forth. She wanted it. Wanted the end. This was it.

That was why she saw some of the laser sights become obscured—against the spotlight, she saw a black-clothed officer running in front of the line of the fire of the troops, blotting out their sights, exciting a plethora of terse epithets from the counterterrorism teams.

This was so ridiculous—an ONI officer running in the way of a firing squad of forty-seven assaulters, twelve snipers, and a battle tank—that she had to take notice.

She heard faint words in the distance.

“Fuck! What the fuck? Hold your fire! Hold it!”

Beside her, she felt Simon rustle and stir. This was—

Unusual, to say the least. An interesting accoutrement to make the ends of their lives more interesting before they got shot, nice epitaphs on their graves.

She felt the convective heat roll off of the officer as he strode with angry purpose across the fields of fire, and half a dozen of the UNSC commandos lunged after him furiously, trying to repair the shambles of their shattered operation and to get the two unarmed SPARTAN-III fugitives into their sights.

If she wasn’t about to die, she would almost be laughing.

There was some shuffling beyond her field of vision, and a moment later, the front door was broken down, and the same ONI officer, his black garb of a dress uniform tainted by wet snow, irritably stalked through the ruins of the door, followed by two of the SPARTAN-IIIs.

Their helmets were undoffed.

Cassandra saw their eyes.

It was Cassidy and Daniels, the two leaders of SPARTAN-III Black and Vulcan Teams.

Simon was right.

No one had ever cared.

Even the brothers and sisters they’d trained with were about to kill them.

No one had ever cared.

Despite her flowing tears and swollen cheeks, she managed to stifle a choking cry. Simon stared at the SPARTAN-III team leaders.

They stared back.

The ONI officer audaciously strode through the visual crossfire, raised his hands.

Simon stared at the ONI officer.

It was almost comical. The officer broke out quickly, “Shit. Sorry about that.”

Simon and Cassandra weren’t quite sure if he was joking or not. This wasn’t exactly the place for sarcasm.

The officer, Asian in complexion, quickly looked back and forth between the two fugitives. Behind him, imposing, iron fists, were the two other S-III counterparts, armored in the SPI battle armor, cradling MA5K carbines in their gloved hands.

The officer’s two argent stars gleamed under the spotlights outside, as did his pins for UNSCSOCOM and the UNSC Navy. This was a Rear Admiral of the UNSC Navy. Not an ONI officer, then. This was interesting. Was ONI so contemptuous of the two criminals that they entrusted Navy forces to hunt them down instead of ONI assassin teams?

“So you’re SPARTANS-G294 and -G006.”

Simon’s voice was brittle, colder than the hyperborean wind, than the nebulous aurora borealis.

“We prefer to be called ‘Simon’ and ‘Cassandra’, respectively. Forcibly retired from the UNSC Special Forces after we were shot at by ONI commandos, you know.”

Simon’s stare was copious with indignant fury as he tremblingly held the two other SPARTAN-IIIs in regard.

“SPARTAN-G044, Senior Chief Cassidy, SPARTAN-G288, Senior Chief Daniels. Good to see you’re trying to kill us too.”

The Navy admiral held up his hands reflexively. “No one’s getting killed here, soldier. No shooting.”

“Thirty-six laser sights and a shock platoon were just for props then, yes?”

“They didn’t shoot at you.”

“They only tried to kill us. I know, big difference.”

The admiral instantly sensed he’d chosen the wrong tack. He tried again. “I’m Admiral Kawika Son, UNSCSOCOM, UNSC Navy.”

Cassandra was forever lost in the rain. Running away. In celestial darkness. Running deeper into the abyss, uncaring of where she went. Just anywhere else. Away.

But even those words were enough to dissociate her schizophrenic detachedness. She was temporarily immersed back into reality again.

Her voice was a husky whisper, “Cambridge? Janelia Blue?”

“Yes.”

He paused, gathered himself. “So, as the two of you have seen, I’ve come all the way out here, six hundred light-years, run in front of a platoon of commandos…”

“…That you sent to kill us…”

Son adamantly shook his head. “No. That was a miscommunication. There was supposed to be no platoon. Just me, alone, and you two.”

“Right.”

Yet, his voice was achingly earnest. There was some gleaming genuineness to its syllables.

“There was a FUBAR because a NAVSPECWAR commander got jumpy at the thoughts of Public Enemies One and Two within his sights…”

“Thank you. We like to be remembered as criminals, not defenders of humanity”, answered Simon pointedly.

“…and they jumped the gun. We have no interest in killing you.”

“I’ve only killed an ONI officer. You protect your own. How long have you been watching us here?”

Son’s smile was sad. “Do you remember the Sangheili?”

Cassandra’s heart broke. Shattered. They’d been betrayed even by their doctors. Their caretakers. Their defenders.

She felt Simon’s shock ripple from him.

Yet, not all was as it seemed.

The admiral continued, slowly now, with some thought to each word, “Do you remembered how they said they’d only wake you when you were needed?”

This time, Cassandra reacted. She didn’t know how she felt it, but she did.

The dynamic of power was shifting. Somewhere distant, dawn was rising. Something was afoot.

For the first time in over five decades of existence in the Milky Way, she had courage.

“Yes”, she said firmly, without her cognitive conscious accord.

“Things are different now”, Son said lightly. “Everything’s changed.”

Simon’s laugh was so bitter, it was vitriolic. “That’s right. What’s new? That we weren’t raised as suicide troops, you know, warm up in the microwave, add Covenant, and then throw out?”

Son’s jaw tensed. “I had nothing to do with the first epoch of SPARTANs, and now I have everything to do with the second.”

“Second?” cooned Cassandra softly.

“It’s all different. They’re not the SPARTANs anymore. They’re the Myrmidons; the second epoch of SPARTANs, the future of warfare. Everything we learned from the successes of the Is, IIs, and IIIs, everything we learned after decades of analysis of their shortcomings and failures.”

“Different”, he repeated again.

Neither Cassandra nor Simon had any care.

The admiral said forcefully, “It’s all changed. No more mass deployments, no more accelerating training and augmentation protocols. We took two decades to step back, to rethink everything. The UNSC is in good waters now. There is no more war. We took two decades, redrew the thinking board. The new SPARTANs—the Myrmidons—are different. A single company of soldiers, counterterrorism and defense only. The best of the best. Combinatorial chemical biology, chemical genetics, and specific chemical embryonic teratogenesis and postnatal enhancement. All chemical augmentations, no biological augmentations, little invasive surgery.”

“For every one of the hundred children, we tailor the augmentation protocol to their genetic and kinomic architecture; this took us twenty years. Modeling the profiles of every single future child, performing in vitro high-throughput screening to develop a chemical protocol for each SNP and RFLP signature. One hundred survival rate, the same as SPARTAN-III Gamma Company. Maximum efficiency, far surpassing the SPARTANs of the first era. This is new. Everything is new.”

“No more large-scale warfare training. No more blood. Clean, precise counterterrorism and counterproliferation operations, all above the board, public, documented, taking out the bad guys and only the bad guys. No more high-asset value incapacitation. No more experimental interrogation. We’re raising a hundred children to be the best soldiers that we can have, sending them out on missions that protect the UNSC civilian populace. There are no more wars.”

“We took twenty years to step back, rethink everything. To change all the augmentations from biological to small-molecule chemical compounds, with augmentations specifically tailored to each child. The entire Myrmidon objectives, core fundamentals, all different. It’s a new world. New SPARTANs for a changing time.”

“No more suicide troopers, no more throwaway expendables. We are taking the time to ensure every single one of the Myrmidons is raised to the best, the physical, mental, and strategic best we can make them. They serve the UNSC for thirty years, retire, and are replaced by the second Myrmidon company. They leave the service and live ordinary lives, while the second company takes over, keeps the peace.”

“We’re the keepers of the peace. No more black operations. No more covert action. Every single Myrmidon operation will be suitable for press release. No black corners.”

“And why do you want us?” asked Simon sharply.

“We’re keeping things transparent”, Son said with a smile decorating his lips. “Everything’s open. You two were my first pick for trainers and mentors. You two are the only ones in UNSCSOCOM who’re still above-record and legitimate with no dirty spots, no dirty intentions. I am confident that you two will be able to mentor the Myrmidons, steer them straight, and keep them all above the line and ethical, make sure they do the right things, that they don’t learn the experimental interrogations and the incapactiative direct actions.”

Cassandra stared.

“I don’t believe it”, said Simon flatly. “You should shoot us now, without the pretense.”

“We don’t have a reason to shoot you”, said Son.

“Besides the fact we’re UNSC Public Enemies One and Two, no, you don’t.”

Son’s shrug was appraising but sincere.

“You’re free to go now.”

Simon stared.

Cassandra looked outside. All the NAVSPECWAR and SPECWAR SPARTAN soldiers had left, their presence only tracks in the snow, misaligned conifers in the treetops. “Your records are all cleaned. I ordered a UNSC Judiciary Committee investigation into your records, and everything’s been wiped. No charges can be filed against ONI because of coincidental plausibility on their behalves, but it’s all over.”

“Is that a phrase to suggest how mandatory our service in this Myrmidon program is?”

Son was adamant. “No.” He waved outside. “You’re free to go, now. Everything’s clear.”

“Go where? Into a sniper’s field of fire?”

He shrugs. “Anywhere. There’s no incentive for you two to join us.”

“To join the agency that destroyed our lives and killed our team mates; I’d say ‘no’.”

Kawika’s look was serious, and his bronzed face stared at Son. There was a lull, a silence, and finally, the admiral shook his head tersely, and his look was crestfallen.

When he looked up again, his voice was neither bitter nor enraged. It was with a morose moue.

“I am a man of honor. My offer still stands; all the charges and warrants have been cleared.”

Simon indicated the doorway. “We can just go?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

Simon took a few footsteps towards the shambles of the door, arrogantly shouldering the admiral and the two other SPARTAN-IIIs. As he reached the front door, he pivoted, stared at Cassandra.

“You’re not coming?”

Cassandra was lost; had been lost. She didn’t know why, but—

Somewhere, dawn rose, beckoned midday forth. Somewhere, there was an eye of the storm, a calm.

There was something else, somewhere.

There was sunlight somewhere else, it was irresistible, seductive. She couldn’t resist it.

She was a wreck. A walking human corpse. She had never lived.

There was something else.

For the first time, she felt she breathed life. That she had finally been born.

Her voice was soft, “I’m in for it.”

Simon’s voice was incredulous, and then became angry. “What, with this admiral’s program? Haven’t you forgotten that we’ve lived the last twenty four years in Covenant space, exactly running away from the UNSC and their special forces? You didn’t remember that you were raised a child soldier, a suicide bomber with guns? Did you forget the last three decades?”

The tears had stopped long ago, and she spoke with cold, pale lips. When she spoke, her heart moved her lips for her, without any intention. She was guided by soul, victory of heart over mind and body.

She had won.

The night was over.

Her voice was so quiet.

“I saw it for the first time, Simon.”

His face lost its fury, and he stared into her eyes for a long time, and his voice was reserved, soundless.

“Okay. What did you see?”

“The light.”

“Okay.”

“I saw the sun, Simon.” Her voice was so pale, so desperate. “I saw it for the first time.”

Tears welled in her eyes, glistened.

Dawn’s rays illuminated her tears; Betelgeuse rose over the horizon, brought light to Hekate. The night was over. Dawn had come.

“A second sun rises, Simon. It’s all over.”

Editor's Note: Beckon Forth Sunrise was written by RelentlessRecusant with the consultation of Actene as a prequel to Beyond Veil's Azure and to introduce some of Actene's characters and to formulate some plot details of Beyond Veil's Azure. Enjoy :)

27 (Unsung Heroes: The Delta Anecdote)
<span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 35px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;"> <font color="#4682B4">UNSUNG HEROES: THE DELTA ANECDOTE <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 25px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;"> <font color="#4682B4">A SHORT STORY PREQUEL TO HALO: BEYOND VEIL'S AZURE

<span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 21px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;">RELENTLESSRECUSANT <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 16px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;">HARVARD STEM CELL INSTITUTE HARVARD UNIVERSITY <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 21px; line-height: 30px; font-weight: normal; font-family: georgia, times;">With the consultation of ASCENSION

DO NOT REPRODUCE; ARTICLE IN PRESS

Unsung Heroes: The Delta Anecdote By Kam Nadiah, reporting from Midgard

Dawn breaks on the embattled, terrorized planet of Midgard. Dozens of uncontrollable terrorist actions in the past several months have claimed countless thousands of civilian lives through the most atrocious of combat actions—those of armed forces against unarmed civilians, the indiscriminate slaughter of the innocent, bloodshed without pretense, killing without cause.

Only recently has classified UNSC military intelligence given the first clue to this rampant onslaught—a rebel base filled with thousands of highly-armed terrorists at the foot of a secluded waterfall in Midgard’s uncharted polar jungles, a festering haven for parasites and rebels alike.

This is a mission only for the most elite of the UNSC’s secret assassins, whose very existence has been denied —

Until now.

Their name is Delta Squadron.

At 0245 hours Zulu, two heavily-armed King Penguin special-operations dropships laden with the assassins of Delta Squadron are cleared for take-off from Camp Nineveh, the UNSC’s secret forward operations base (FOB) in the polar regions. They are operated by peerless operators of the UNSC Army’s UNSC Special Operations Aviation Reconnaissance.

The King Penguins are only the running edge of a massive flotilla of a UNSC Special Operations Command strike force, encompassing hundreds of the UNSC’s anonymous special forces. It is a massive undertaking, integrating commandos from every uniformed service of the UNSC. At the fore of the formation are the elusive storm troopers of Delta; the spear-tip of the promethean attack.

At 0423 hours Zulu, still under the spread cloak of twilight’s gloom, one D72-TC SOAR King Penguin of Delta Squadron touches down at the crest of the engorged dam that sits atop the waterfall’s crown above the secret rebel base. A second King Penguin gently nestles towards the ground five kilometers distant, as if cradling the forested earth. Barely visible in dusk’s nigrous black, shadows deplete from the King Penguin, and sparse seconds later, the SOAR dropship seamlessly melds with the night again.

Meanwhile, wispy man-like shadows scatter on the dam’s rim, and then vanish; stray spirits prowling the darkness.

A syncopated heartbeat later, the world trembles, explodes, breaks into fire and light.

The dam has vaporized, and millions of tons of unrestrained, feral lake water thunder down upon the rebel base below, steeds of the ocean, sweeping back and forth, their anger terrible, immediate, the judgment of the gods. Thousands are swept underneath the cerulean blankets, smothered to the abyss and millions of more tons of water completely encompass the base. A sparse few hundred have the speed, or the skill, to flee.

They are unaware that are merely another component of a artistically-detailed orchestration, for a squad of Delta Squadron commandos has been awaiting them in the darkness.

High above circle metallic raptors, birds of prey made from shaped metal and crimson fire — Foray gunships of the UNSC Army Special Operations Aviation Command. For the darkness is not merely a breaking, disintegrated mass of fleeing rebels, breaking for the treeline. For if you saw in the infrared spectrum, you would see a dozen criss-crossed targeting lasers spread across this mass.

Foray gunships dive three times, and with each motion, the metallic furies claim lives. Cannons fire and rebels fall in crimson mist.

The handful that survive are unaware of the massive genocide of their colleagues. They are running, running towards oblivion.

They are unaware that the elite soldiers of the UNSC Army Rangers, UNSC Marine Force Reconnaissance, and UNSC Naval Special Warfare reside there in the treeline shifting shadows, hundreds of demonic ghouls with satanic facepaint and readied weapons. Suppressed carbines lay down a withering crossfire, and the rest of the rebels vaporize.

It is the UNSC’s first victory over the rebels, led by the cryptic and obscured faceless killers of the UNSC special forces unit only known as “Delta Squadron”.

Inside Delta Squadron: The UNSC's Secret Assassins

Highly-placed sources within the UNSC Special Operations Command confirm that the half dozen UNSC victories within the past two weeks that have been scored by UNSC forces over the Midgard terrorists have all been led by this “Delta Squadron”. These same sources refuse to comment on who these “Deltas” are—who are these newcomers that have inflicted such grievous blows against the rebels, blows that the entire UNSC Special Operations Command Sagittarius (UNSCSOCSAG) were not able to inflict after nine months of bitter fighting.

What is known is that these “Deltas” are rumored to be only twenty to thirty strong. While UNSCSOCSAG is believed to have nearly a battalion of Army Rangers and several companies of Force Recon Marines and Navy commandos, heavily supported by SOAR aviators and classified ONI assets, these countless thousands of soldiers have been unable to match twenty to thirty “Delta” troopers who, already in two weeks have achieved what a whole UNSCSOCSAG regional command has been unable to achieve in nine months.

What is also known, from similarly highly-placed sources, is that this cryptic “Delta” unit is in fact highly-placed. Despite being the size of a very small platoon, Delta Squadron is led by a Navy Commander (O-5) and a Chief Petty Officer (E-7) — in the Marines, an O-5 might command a whole brigade of ten thousand troopers. Instead, the secret commander of “Delta Squadron” leads scarcely twenty or thirty troopers.

In second-of-command of this highly elitist assassin platoon is a Lieutenant (O-3) and a Lieutenant, Jr. Grade (O-2). The rest of the unit is made of unknown assets. The popular guesses by UNSC special forces troopers believe that the rest of the Deltas are likely highly experienced veterans that specialize in the most arcane of special forces arts. Experimental interrogation. Strategic capabilities. Discriminative prosecution. Those words, in our parlance, mean “torture and dismemberment”, “nuclear bombs”, and “assassination”, by the way.

Even amongst the exclusive and elitist special forces community, the Deltas have gained a nearly mythological reputation. "We never even see the [Deltas]", said an elite Ranger special forces trooper. "We always arrive on the scene to provide support, and all we get are long-lens photos of the targets, all dead", he said, attesting Delta's machinistic efficiency and precision.

What is concerning, however, is that not only does Delta Squadron not seem to be integrated with the "conventional" UNSC special forces hierarchy, but they remain hidden even from the highest echelons of UNSC Command. An internal electronic search even of the UNSC Defense Council mainframe yields no reference to these Delta soldiers, and even several commanders of the UNSC Special Operations Command have reported no knowledge of this secret assassin unit, even expressing surprise that a secret special-ops force is operating on Midgard.

This immediately raises questions about the UNSC military strategy on Midgard.

Task Force 51 and Section 15: The Story of the UNSC's Secret Police

It began six years ago in 2588 when two radical religious militant armies on Midgard, who had moved to the planet recently fleeing justice, began intense feuding, leading to dozens of hectic close-range atrocious gunfights in the cities, which have been responsible for the deaths of numerous civilians as hundreds of civilians were gunned down in the havoc, with terrorists indiscriminately spraying fire in the streets at each other. While this was concerning to UNSC military commanders, only minor Marine reinforcements were dispatched to Midgard, which was identified as a "low-risk conflict zone", according to a retired Marine officer.

This exploded several months later with the kidnapping of Midgard's UNSC-handpicked governor, Thurmond Huangfu, by terrorists. Of course, it was only the kidnapping of a UNSC politician that could elicit a response from UNSC Strategic Command, while the deaths of thousands of civilians had gone unnoticed. The UNSC's elite military counterterrorism team prepared to deploy and rescue the kidnapped governor, but it was too late. The terrorists, fearing the brunt of the UNSC hammer, suicided, triggering massive bombs that leveled five square blocks, killing thousands instantly, along with the governor. However, once again, UNSC intelligence had failed to underestimate the depth of the terrorist threat; the bomb was indeed a "dirty bomb", a high explosive cache spiked with radioactive compounds, making not only its tremendous blast lethal, but also its generated fallout, which scattered to irradiate millions of civilians in the surrounding city.

The UNSC moved swiftly to stage a military evacuation of the civilian population, relocating many of Midgard's capital city to a massive temporary UNSC Medical Corps facility for contamination screening and immediate medical treatment. The UNSC, however, failed once again, and this time, to even more devastating effects when terrorists, disguised as civilians, blew up a second set of bombs in the tight confines of the UNSC handling facility, killing countless thousands, slaughtering them. Shortly afterwards, dozens of rebel and terrorist attacks occurred throughout Midgard; it took the deaths of tens of thousands for UNSC intelligence to revise its thoughts on Midgard as a "operational theater of interest".

Marine forces on Midgard were unable to cope with the threat, and hundreds of Marines perished in terrorist attacks, unable to save themselves nor thousands of civilians being killed monthly by insurgent threats, with the UNSC unable to protect its own civilians, once again.

It was clear that the UNSC strategy for Midgard, flooding the streets with dying Marines, was failing to work. A new plan was needed.

In 2590, the UNSC would turn this around with Directive 0-3 — a secret order which authorized the assembly of an elite UNSC special forces team to "preemptively prosecute" the Midgard terrorists, bringing the war to the rebels, fighting terror with terror. This UNSC commando shock force, known as the cryptic "Task Force 51". UNSC officials refused to comment on the existence on such a special forces team, even going as far as to accuse the Post of making "sensational claims about the UNSC Defense Force and its fighting men and women".

The new UNSC strategy for Midgard calls for the withdrawal of the conventional Marine forces, replacing them with the secret elites of the UNSC special forces. Task Force 51 draws from the best of the UNSC's executioners, integrating high-quality elite infantry and support assets from the UNSC Navy's Naval Special Warfare, UNSC Marine Corps's Force Reconnaissance, and the UNSC Army Rangers and SOAR. These secret commandos are all from the "UNSC Progressive Warfare Division", otherwise known as the cryptic "Section Fifteen" one of the UNSC's umbrella secret projects to field highly-classified special operations without requiring legal consult or consultation with superior commanders.

"Section Fifteen" is a highly-controversial group even in the jaded UNSC military, and many UNSC personnel accuse PROGWARDIV as being a new UNSC "secret police"; essentially a black box, a completely self-contained program that can operate without orders from higher UNSC officials, and which draws undisclosed funding from undisclosed sources. Many UNSC military teams are controlled by their funding, ensuring that they purchase reasonable amounts of military materiel to conduct ethical investigations. Many UNSC special forces units with redacted budgeting are rumored to instead use their funds to purchase secret weapons of war that are used to gruesomely kill and which support the UNSC's darkest agendas, such as rumored "sonic rifles" that allow UNSC assassins to kill by liquefying heads without trace, and a "creep gas" that mutagenizes the brain, rendering its targets catatonic vegetables.

Section Fifteen is popularly accredited in UNSC special forces circles to be responsible for the death of Sesta 'Laramee, an outspoken Elite war hero that accused the UNSC of empirical self-imposed martial tyranny before, during, and after the War.

Shortly afterwards, Ship Master 'Laramee was found dead in a private retreat on Absolution Court.

Covenant military forces never publicly released the body, citing the planet's weather as too dangerous to transport the body back to Sanghelios. One highly placed UNSC military officer reports seeing an Elite corpse identical to 'Laramee's photographs in Asphodel Meadows Naval Special Warfare Center, a UNSC black-ops nerve center used to coordinate secret UNSC military operations across the galaxy.

Section Fifteen is highly placed in the most elite UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence echelons, and it is not difficult to imagine the relationship between the UNSC's infamous intelligence agency and the UNSC's private assassins.

Task Force 51 on Midgard, expectantly, is heavily invested by ONI assets.

A senior Task Force 51 commander who refused to be identified said in an anonymous note that "[Task Force 51]'s operations are peek and kill operations" where ONI spies within rebel circles identify targets for the elite UNSC special forces, and that shortly afterwards, the Task Force 51 commandos arrive on the scene, flattening everything in sight.

What is concerning, however, is how Task Force 51 operations on Midgard are so blindly guided by "anonymous ONI field intelligence". We all remember how UNSC special-missions units during the Insurrection, supposedly military hostage rescue teams, were responsible for the deaths of dozens of high-ranking political officials. Rumors abound on Midgard that once again, ONI, together with UNSCSOCOM, are hand-in-hand performing political grooming and shaving, with elite TF51 hit squads taking out political renegades whose views run contrary to the UNSC agenda for Midgard.

Despite these worrying possibilities, Task Force 51, if indeed on Midgard to counter the continual rebel threat that has claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands in the past six years, has a long road ahead of it. UNSC commanders on Midgard claim that the planet "is the most hostile environment [they've] even had to work in", and that the only difference between a suicide bomber and a businessman is a grenade underneath the ironed tie. There is no way for UNSC special forces to distinguish between terrorists and civilians, and they claim that there is no difference; that terrorists can simply throw away their rifles when the UNSC comes calling, and seamlessly blend into the crowd.

The difficulty of these intensive counterinsurgency operations had led to even more concerning changes in the TF51 command structure. Task Force 51, reportedly led by a three-star Vice Admiral of the UNSC Navy, has been issued new orders several months ago to "find, fix, and finish the opposing forces on Midgard with all due speed", and reportedly, TF51 has even been detached from the UNSC command structure. TF51 special forces, such as elite Army Rangers and Marine commando forces, no longer require the authorization of commanders to open fire. Over and over, UNSC Navy special forces, who operate on ground instead of in space or in the sea as their name suggests, have randomly fired on civilian cars on the Midgard freeway. The "black box" status given to Task Force 51, which no longer needs TF51 soldiers to consult commanders to shoot, allows these Navy commandos to indiscriminately shoot up cars or buildings that they have the slightest feeling of harboring terrorists. This has led to numerous inquiries of Task Force 51's operational autonomy on Midgard, which have all been summarily closed by UNSC Central Command.

UNSC special forces on Midgard have been repeatedly deployed on "capture or kill" missions, where they must end an insurgent threat "by any means necessary", regardless if their target is unarmed or armed, sleeping or awake, in the bathroom or with a rifle in hand. The fact that the specialists of Task Force 51 includes an abnormally high number of explosives experts and chemical warfare specialists leaves little doubt to how TF51 conducts these "independent rendition" special operations.

Regardless of Task Force 51's shortcomings, TF51 operators have sustained heavy casualties on Midgard. One year ago, when the UNSC embassy was bombed, leading to the deaths of several thousand UNSC personnel and politicians, reportedly, nearly a hundred UNSC Ranger special forces protecting the sleeping embassy personnel were killed in the ensuing blast. UNSC commanders have called Task Force 51 as "magical" for conducting such a high and exhaustive operations tempo on Midgard, which refers to the frequency and intensity of TF51's operations, which are said to be able to overwhelm any other UNSC special forces team. Task Force 51 truly is at the tip of the UNSC spear, and as such, has taken some of the heaviest casualties in the UNSC counterinsurgency campaign on Midgard.

"Many of the UNSC special warfare operators on Midgard are senior non-commissioned officers, expert soldiers and technical specialists", reports a highly-placed source in the UNSC Special Operations Command. "They've racked up dozens of years in service with the UNSC armed forces, and have exceptional pensions and retirement bonuses waiting for them", he continues. It is clear that Task Force 51 troopers put their lives on the line in Midgard despite their ability to simply walk away, standing in the thick of the fighting despite their ability to leave.

It was only recently that Task Force 51 casualties are believed to have resulted in the deployment of the secretive Delta Squadron to Task Force 51 and Midgard, where almost immediately, Delta scored dozens of quick, efficient, and bloodless significant victories for the UNSC. In the recently-publicized commando operation aired by the UNSC, UNSC special forces, presumably those of Task Force 51, attacked a rebel convoy in the equatorial desert regions, seizing massive stockpiles of chemical warfare reagents. UNSC specialists that later examined the warheads said that "...there was enough nerve gas in those 'torps to kill over fifteen million adult human beings". Delta soldiers are rumored to have led the operation, executing it front to finish. The Ranger troopers of the 6th Ranger Battalion, which were officially credited by the UNSC for the seizure, are said to only have arrived as post-mission assessment, tallying the mess left by the Deltas.

As the UNSC special forces campaign on Midgard drags into its fourth bloody year this coming September, it is up to the secret elites of Delta to prove themselves and to end the endless waves of terror and rebel attacks on Midgard. Although in their first few weeks, Delta has been able to accomplish what the entire Task Force 51 and Section 15 has been unable to achieve in months, we will wait to see whether or not the UNSC can truly protect its citizens and bring peace once again to a warn-torn Midgard.

Kam Nadiah reporting from Midgard, out.

28
The Lieutenant Commander was off doing some officer stuff, leaving Redmond alone to go over his gear for the coming mission. Such separations outside of sleeping hours were unusual, and Redmond always felt aimless without Simon to direct him to their next assignment. He handled such periods of boredom by either reading, writing- a hobby he had picked up from his commander-, or cleaning his weapon.

It was this latter activity that he was performing now. His Battle Rifle lay in pieces on the workbench in front of Redmond as he examined each piece as carefully as possible and removing any specks of dirt or grime before gently settling it back down with its brethren. Redmond found that the monotony of such a task allowed him time to clear his mind, which was why he always did it right before a mission.

He had chosen to use the BR because Simon had told him that he was "infinitely better" than himself when it came to aiming and that it was a skill he should cling to. Since Redmond always made a point of following every scrap of advice that flowed from Simon's mouth (be it meant as a critique or not), he had immediately begun refusing to use any other rifle as his primary mission during training. He had deployed on Midgard with the weapon before him and it had been the weapon with which he had made his first kill.

He and Simon had been on a routine patrol in a mostly deserted urban area when a contact had appeared along their path, seemingly unaware of the danger he was in. The enemy had spotted them and begun to drop into a firing position when Redmond fixed his own weapon on the man's chest-because Simon said that to aim for the head was stupid in most situations-and fired three bursts into his chest. The blood had been rather copious, but other than that the rebel hadn't seemed to die any differently than the practice dummies in training. Simon had praised Redmond's reflexes and accuracy and the rest of the patrol had gone off without further incident. It was only when Simon took them back to where the man's corpse still lay that Redmond had begun to worry.

"Did I do something wrong sir?"

"No, you were perfect. But this is your first actual kill, isn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"Then I want you to look at this guy's face very carefully. Does he remind you of anyone?"

The rebel had, aside from the pale sheen now apparent on his face, looked like any other man Redmond might see around Hotel California and Redmond had said so.

"So tell me," Simon had said. "Why did he deserve to die?"

"Because he would have shot us if I hadn't shot him."

"Other than that though. Was he a bad man?"

"He could have killed civilians. Rebels do that all the time here."

"But do you know that he had done that? He might just have been an ordinary guy who got drawn into the fighting. Or maybe he has a legitimate reason to hate the UNSC. Maybe he believed as firmly in his cause as you did in yours."

"So I shouldn't have shot him?" Redmond had been starting to get confused.

"No, because if you hadn't we might be dead now. And you can't let this make you hesitate in the future, because if you do you will die. The rebels find it just as easy to shoot at us and they won't stop shooting because you're trying to pick the truly evil ones out from the normal ones. But what you do need to do is understand what you do when you pull that trigger and end a life. You put an end to someone's dreams and hopes for the future. An entire lifetime leading up to the point where the bullets enter the body and stop the life forever. You can't get so used to killing that you forget about what you're doing. It's the problem with having people like us who are trained to kill as large a number of enemies as possible."

Simon had waited for a few moments before finishing. "That was the last lesson I'll teach you. Everything from here on in is just basic info."

They had gone back to base then, and Simon had said very little for the next few days, complaining of a sore throat and drinking more water than usual. But Redmond had never forgotten the lesson, just like he never forgot any of Simon's other lectures.

29
TASK FORCE 51 FOB "HOTEL CALIFORNIA" JOINT TASK FORCE (OFFCMDRJTF) MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM

"Alright Marines, in the Dropship!!" said Dawson. "Go!Go!Go!" said Jackson. As FORCE RECON Operators entered the Dropship, Daniel Jackson stuffed his Battle Rifle in the ship and orfered the last 2 Marines to hurry in. As FORCE RECON operators geared up nad prepared themselves, Jackson's Bad Feeling continued to worry Jackson more than ever. Dawson, knowing he was worried, gave Jackson a look of assurance and thumbs up. However this didn't help what so ever. As Jackson retrieved his Battle Rifle, the thoughts of Death raced through his thoughts, not for him... but for his men.

30
FORCE RECON FOB “HOTEL CALIFORNIA”, FORCE RECON BARRACKS (FRBAR) MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM

The operation seemed simple enough, hopefully a quick in and out mission that wouldn’t take a single life. However, during his time on Midgard, this wasn’t often the case. ONI missed some light tank sitting a few hundred yards away from the operation area, or an entire city went up with widespread anti-UN activities. This campaign was hell; they had been here for four years and still were not much further towards achieving their objective to root out rebel forces.

Standing up, Freeman started towards the door, going over mission specifics in his head as he pushed the door open to the outside of the military base known as Hotel California by the resident special forces operators. The layout of the FOB and the surrounding area was engrained in his memory, allowing the Colonel to think over what was going to happen.

Cosette retracted the rod from the barrel, satisfied with the job that she had done cleaning her BR55HB SR, proceeding to pack away the kit the rod was from and stow it in her footlocker. In the background played some old 20th century rock and roll, For Those About to Rock was the name of the song; she forgot what band had played it. The Barracks was unusually empty today; most of the soldiers of FORCE RECON were busy around the surrounding area carrying out smaller operations that didn’t need the full force of Tango Foxtrot Five One behind it.

The other members of her squad were here however, getting their gear up to snuff as they prepared for the rumor that was a large scale operation happening sometime during the day. Freeman walked past the empty bunks, watching as her fellow squad mates go about their work Clarke was busy tweaking the scope of her M55 using the targeting computer and attachment she had received with it, the Davenport Electronics logo clearly stamped on the corner of the case. Continuing, she found the guys sitting in a circle watching the latest new feeds on one of their laptops, making comments about every little thing on screen amongst their selves.

She was interrupted as the doors of the FORCE RECON barracks were swung open, her father appearing. Cosette was expecting it, the rumors of combat operations were usually correct here, and since her dad was the CO of the special operations company, he was the one that would give them their orders.

“Officer on deck!” she yelled, the ten or so Marines snapping to attention.

“At ease” responded the elder Freeman.

Cosette watched as he looked around at her squad, most likely inspecting them like he normally did.

“Combat Team Sierra will be participating in ALBANY COBRA. It’s a simple drop followed by a strike on a lightly armed convoy with a quick extraction time. FORCE RECON is operating under call sign PANDA, Rangers are QUAIL, SPECWAR is under OCEAN, and SOAR is TREBEL. Clarke will be attached to SIDEWINDER, a reconnaissance detachment currently observing the LZ to provide line of sight sniper support.

You will be loaded aboard SOAR aircraft upon deployment order ASHCROFT, and land at LZ at 0820 hours upon receiving BROOKLINE, and upon the issue GUITAR will open fire on the convoy. However, due to Clarke’s involvement with SIDEWINDER, her and her fire team will be heading out ASAP to take up positions at the recon elements location.” announced the Colonel.

A few of the FORCECON operators smiled, while Clarke sighed as she realized that she probably wouldn’t get much action while working with an recon element.

“Understood?”

“Sir, Yes, Sir!” retorted the squad in unison, the officer snapping off a salute and exiting the room.

FIRETEAM ALPHA 1/1/1 OPAREA, MIDGARD MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM

The Knight pulled up to the hotel in just under an hour after leaving Hotel California, pretty good time considering the Knight was not a high speed vehicle the highway was used to. In order to meet the needs of the operators it was used by, the Knight was set up as a technical, currently the GPMG was detached and sitting in a case in the bed, with lightweight armor installed and several racks for carrying equipment, upping its weight and slowing it even more than a factory standard model.

Upon stopping the two FORCE RECON troopers scrambled out of the back, Clarke grabbing the duffel bag and case containing her prized M55A2 SRS, her secondary M7S clipped to her side via magnetic holder at the moment. Cosette and Remington pushed open their doors, walking over with Battle Rifles toted as their comrade retrieved her gear. Together they started towards the door, their guard up, but not expecting much as they arrived in a somewhat civilian looking vehicle.

Passing through the main doors, the attendant gave them a sharp glance, looking as if he was mad that the UNSC was showing up at the establishment. Cosette wondered if walking into a civilian establishment was the best thing to be doing in full combat gear, and if they could have just blown SIDEWINDER’s cover. Taking the elevator to the floor they were supposed to be had taken less than two minutes, the hall empty as they knocked on the door.

“FORCE RECON, open up SIDEWINDER!” called Cosette.

31
AZURE TEAM (SIDEWINDER) OPAREA, MIDGARD MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM

"I got it, I got it." exclaimed Jamal, half surprised by the unannounced arrival of the FORCE RECON operators. Opening up the door, he saw a full fire team, armed with even more weapons and equipment.

"Come on in... I don't know why you guys have a sniper rifle, though." said Jamal, eying the case and duffel bag that obviously held the weapon. "We already have one..."

"Well, two is better than one, is it not?" said the female operator, with a wink.

Jamal looked over at another free window that overlooked the target zone, and decided that he should at least brief them on the operational area.

"Alright, gather 'round. We are here." said Jamal, pointing to a section in the lower left hand corner of the map. "The target zone, as you can see outside, is a narrow road. Off to the right is a cliff, and off to the left is wood line, which is where we are, in this lodge. This road, here, goes all the way down this mountain range in a hook, moving out into the flat lands below. With this, we can see the convoy approaching long before they even get here. The Myrmidon's and the support elements will be setting up in the tree line, waiting. Gabe, I want you to take out the lead vehicle in the convoy. Single shot through the Engine block, alright?" The distance was half-a-mile, a short distance for the sniper. "Helen, I want you set up with the Myr's and the operators in the treeline with the Spanker. I'll be down there with you. Everyone clear?"

"Yes, Senior Chief." came the reply from every operator in the room.

"Alright. Those sierra hotel boys should be up here in a few, so sit tight. Don't go out there yet. It's nice, warm, and comfy in here, and I don't want to go out into the cold." -- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 03:17, 14 January 2009 (UTC)

32
OPAREA, MIDGARD MIDGARD, ALPHA CORVI SYSTEM

As Jackson's Dropship, which was depicted as the Demons riding out of the sky, landed, FORCE REON Operators recognized Jackson and his Squad and avoided the LZ because of Jackson's Reputation of Brutal Executions of Rebels and his Squad in supporting the executions. As Jackson grabbed his BR and poured out of the Dropship. Most FORCE RECON Operators looked at him and his squad with disgust and fear. As the SPARTAN-IIs looked and waved at him, Jackson and his Marines flipped them off and procedded to make thier section of camp and meet with an FORCE RECON officer. This was just an fraction Jackson's Cold Personality and the Squad's Animalistic and Cold Behavior.

ShockTrooper

33 (Alice in Wonderland)
<span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 40px; line-height: 100px; font-weight: normal; font-family: courier, times;"> Alice in Wonderland  <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; font-weight: normal; font-family: courier;"> UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; font-weight: normal; font-family: courier;"> UNSC DEPARTMENT OF STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; font-weight: normal; font-family: courier;">AUGUST 2573 - MAY 2594 <span style="float: center; width: 66px; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px; font-weight: normal; font-family: courier;"> TOP SECRET PATRIOT DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE WHEN THE RABBIT ACTUALLY TOOK A WATCH FROM ITS WAISTCOAT POCKET, AND LOOKED AT IT, AND THEN HURRIED ON, ALICE STARTED TO HER FEET, FOR IT FLASHED ACROSS HER MIND THAT SHE HAD NEVER BEFORE SEEN A RABBIT WITH EITHER A WAISTCOAT-POCKET, OR A WATCH TO TAKE OUT OF IT, AND BURNING WITH CURIOSITY, SHE RAN ACROSS THE FIELD AFTER IT, AND FORTUNATELY WAS JUST IN TIME TO SEE IT POP DOWN A LARGE RABBIT-HOLE UNDER THE HEDGE. IN ANOTHER MOMENT DOWN WENT ALICE AFTER IT, NEVER ONCE CONSIDERING HOW IN THE WORLD SHE WAS TO GET OUT AGAIN. THE RABBIT-HOLE WENT STRAIGHT ON LIKE A TUNNEL FOR SOME WAY, AND THEN DIPPED SUDDENLY DOWN, SO SUDDENLY THAT ALICE HAD NOT A MOMENT TO THINK ABOUT STOPPING HERSELF BEFORE SHE FOUND HERSELF FALLING DOWN A VERY DEEP WELL.


 * Excerpt from Chapter One of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll (1865)

<BR> TABLE OF CONTENTS

i. UNSC ATLANTIS / Operation: BLUE DIVER (2573, UNSC Navy)

ii. "The Good Shepherd" and Pandora's Box

iii. MH ULTRA (UNSCDEPTBIOWAR)

iv. Subproject 77 (UNSCDEPTSTRATINTEL)

v. "The Good Shepherd" and Blue Chip ("The Program")

vi. THIS HEADER INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK (SEE SECTION FIVE-KAPPA BELOW)

THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK YOU ARE RECEIVING A COPY OF THIS DOCUMENT BECAUSE YOU ARE: (a) A MEMBER OF THE UNSC DEFENSE FORCE OF X-RAY DELTA FIVE STATUS or (b) THE UNSC CITIZEN DESIGNATED WITH X-RAY DELTA NINE STATUS. IF YOU ARE NOT OF STATUS X-RAY DELTA, RETURN THIS DOCUMENT IMMEDIATELY IN ITS ENTIRETY TO THE UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE (ADDRESSED TO: COMMANDER, UNSC ASPHODEL MEADOWS NAVAL SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER). COUNT ALL YOUR PAGES IMMEDIATELY AND ENSURE THAT YOU HAVE ACCOUNTED FOR EVERY PAGE IN THIS DOCUMENT. ANY RECIPIENT OF THIS DOCUMENT IS PRINCIPALLY LIABLE FOR THE MAINTENANCE OF TOP SECRET PATRIOT STATUS OF THIS DOCUMENT. PRIOR TO READING PAGE 3, IT IS MANDATORY THAT YOU, THE READER, READ AND UNDERSTAND SECTION FIVE-KAPPA (below) AND COMPLETE FORM 918.41C, SIGNIFYING THAT YOU CONSCIENTIOUSLY UNDERSTAND THAT YOUR X-RAY DELTA STATUS IS CONTINGENT UPON "ZERO-NINE" and [classified]. REFUSAL TO COMPLETE AND SUBMIT FORM 918.41C WILL LEAD TO YOUR IMMEDIATE REMOVAL FROM X-RAY DELTA PRIORITY STATUS AND WILL BE FORMALLY LOGGED IN THE REGISTRARS OF THE UNSC JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF.


 * FIVE KAPPA : Please read and understand the following passage and complete and submit Form 918.41C. This section of this document, FIVE-KAPPA, is formally designated as a "special needs" section whose understanding is pursuant to the continuation of the ALICE IN WONDERLAND. THE ONE (1) UNSC CITIZEN DESIGNATED WITH X-RAY DELTA NINE STATUS IS THEREBY LISTED AS FORMALLY COMMITTED TO ALICE IN WONDERLAND. THE ONE (1) CITIZEN IS PRINCIPALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR PANDORA'S BOX AND ITS SECURE SAFEKEEPING. HOWEVER, SHOULD THE RAGNAROK CIRCUMSTANCE ARISE, UPON THE ADVISORY STATUS OF THE ARCTURUS COMMITTEE, FIVE KAPPA THEREBY FORMALLY REQUIRES THAT THE ONE (1) CITIZEN BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE EXECUTION OF DIRECTIVE 0-9 AND THE CONTINUANCE OF SUBPROJECT 77. THE CITIZEN OF X-RAY DELTA NINE STATUS THEREBY UNDERSTANDS HIS/HER RESPONSIBILITY WITH THE "GOOD SHEPHERD" AND THE VAULT TO BE FORMALLY ENROLLED IN MH ULTRA AS BLUE CHIP. Immediately complete and submit Form 918.41C that you understand the requirements of Directive 0-9 and Subproject 77 and that you assume all personal liability in your participation in MH ULTRA under Blue Chip.

34
(what follows is private conversation between users H3 and Sgt.johnson about their theories on the Alice in Wonderland plotline ... this "transmission" is not 'official' and nothing below is endorsed by RR and is accepted as official BVA/AIW plotline. feel free to post more theories =P)

PLNB Priority Transmission XX931R-XX Encryption Code: OMEGA Public Key: N/A From: CODENAME: ODIN To: CODENAME: FREYR Subject: WTF?!! Classification: EYES ONLY TOP SECRET (SECTION III X-RAY DIRECTIVE)

So, I was sneaking around one day, and guess what I came across? Two JCS staffers talking about something called "AIW". After examining all the possible acronyms, as well as some freakin' excerpt, it means Alice in Wonderland. After asking around, here are the portions of Alice in Wonderland:


 * 1) Blue Chip
 * 2) Directive 0-9
 * 3) Good Shepherd
 * 4) MH ULTRA
 * 5) Men in Black
 * 6) Pandora's Box
 * 7) Ragnarok Contingency
 * 8) Subproject 77
 * 9) The Vault

All of what I'm about to say is judged off of this one paragraph:

"THE ONE (1) UNSC CITIZEN DESIGNATED WITH X-RAY DELTA NINE STATUS IS THEREBY LISTED AS FORMALLY COMMITTED TO ALICE IN WONDERLAND. THE ONE (1) CITIZEN IS PRINCIPALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR PANDORA'S BOX AND ITS SECURE SAFEKEEPING. HOWEVER, SHOULD THE RAGNAROK CIRCUMSTANCE ARISE, UPON THE ADVISORY STATUS OF THE ARCTURUS COMMITTEE, FIVE KAPPA THEREBY FORMALLY REQUIRES THAT THE ONE (1) CITIZEN BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE EXECUTION OF DIRECTIVE 0-9 AND THE CONTINUANCE OF SUBPROJECT 77. THE CITIZEN OF X-RAY DELTA NINE STATUS THEREBY UNDERSTANDS HIS/HER RESPONSIBILITY WITH THE "GOOD SHEPHERD" AND THE VAULT TO BE FORMALLY ENROLLED IN MH ULTRA AS BLUE CHIP. Immediately complete and submit Form 918.41C that you understand the requirements of Directive 0-9 and Subproject 77 and that you assume all personal liability in your participation in MH ULTRA under Blue Chip."

Alright, so, apparently, BLUE CHIP is some computer. Don't know the specifics, but its all rumor and myth, really. 0-9 is the successor to Directive 0-5, which has something to do with BIOWAR. Apparently, if some contagion got out, they could use nukes. But, that's something else. Good Shepherd is some high ranking officer, rumor has it that it's Talon, but after the discovery of two more things, I don't think it is.

In addition, ONI came across some freakin submarine that was searching for artifacts! Artifacts! From some alien civilization! But, after the Covenant went to the Ark, it got pulled from service, and now is in the hands of those guys.

So, piecing all of this together:


 * 1) There is only one UNSC citizen with this Delta X-Ray 9 Status. I previously thought it would be Title 9, but there's only one person with that, and she's out of the biz.
 * 2) This Delta X-Ray 9 person holds Pandora's Box. After recalling some mythology, Pandora's Box was a box, given as a present to Pandora on one condition - that she never opened it - but, she did. From that, all of the plagues and curses in this world came, but there was something left - hope. Whatever that has to do with this, I will never know. I personally think Pandora's Box is a weapon, judging off of its strange connection to BIOWAR, which has been known to be in love with the Flood.
 * 3) This Delta X-Ray 9 person, in the event of the "Ragnarok Circumstance" (which is doomsday in Norse mythology, really), has to commence Directive 0-9, and continue Subproject 77.
 * 4) Directive 0-9 is a directive to allow the activation of this "Pandora's Box" and wipe out any and all of whatever contagion arises. For some reason, I think its halo. Yeah, that gigantic ring that everyone knew about in October 2552? Yeah. They found a second one. Then, they found this Ark thing. There's more, I know it.
 * 5) Subproject 77 deals with that friggin' submarine. I think that Submarine found this "Pandora's Box"... or something to activate it, and it was pierced together with Subproject 77, which could be the umbrella name for all ONI - Non-existent Alien Civilization operations.
 * 6) MH ULTRA appears to have the same name as ULTRA, a code breaking operation in World War II. It has something to deal with that BLUE CHIP computer, and I think ONI is restarting its surveillance program. Who they would have to spy on? Who else, Acumen Science Laboratories and Jennings & Rall. Both of 'em hate each other, and they both make stuff.
 * 7) Men in Black is just a mystery, screw it. (Ironic, huh?)
 * 8) The Vault is where something is held. Could be this "contagion" (flood), this "Pandora's box" (deadly weapon), or something more sinister.

I'm starting to get scared of ONI... I think I should retire.

/end file/ /scramble-destruction process enabled/

Press ENTER to continue. </tt> -- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 04:50, 15 January 2009 (UTC)

35 (Mag Mell Incident)
The Mag Mell Incident

Fifteen years earlier

Outskirt 19, Nazareth Metropolis Beryl, Carinae-2179 System 0319 Zulu Hours, August 8, 2579

The night was quiet.

It was an expanse of darkness, of still silence; Beryl’s crust laid dormant as overhead, the infinitude of the stars of the Milky Way’s splendor cartwheeled above, engaged in their eternal lockstep dance through the arc of the Universe.

And it was beautiful.

Underneath the celestial tapestry of vivid fire and brilliant midnight light rested safely the fifty thousand humans of Nazareth. It was only twenty-four years ago that Nazareth had been razed—sacked, attacked, incinerated, its inhabitants found in the ruins of Jericho, slain by the sword or, some even dared to postulate—kidnapped.

Two dozen years later, things were different. Nazareth had been painstakingly rebuilt by human hands in memory of the ten thousand killed on the tragic night in the year 2555; Nazareth now stood as a monument to one of the worst tragedies that the UNSC had suffered in the post-War epoch.

Many cities visited by the Human-Covenant War were tales of tragedy; of human loss, of spilled blood, of defeat that was resounding, final. Those cities had been obliterated, blighted, disintegrated.

Nazareth had been destroyed once.

Tragedy would visit a second time.

The diminutive outcropping known as “Outskirt 19” was distanced from the urban center of Nazareth. Within Outskirt 19 was less industrialized mobilization. Agriculture, astronomy, and meteorology were familiar practices within Outskirt 19, all practices that exploited the lack of industrial pollution at Nazareth’s fringes.

One of the most yonder households on even the distant Outskirt 19 was the Sherwood residence, a small two-story household with five inhabitants; Mr. Austin Sherwood, Mrs. Courtney Sherwood, and their three children, Michael, Luis, and Allen.

It was 0319 hours in the early morning.

Austin Sherwood didn’t remember the precise incident that awoke him, roused him from the midnight slumber, and broke the hold of nocturnal unconsciousness.

He remembers a high-pitched whine, a high-frequency cry like the baby’s shrill plead or the banshee’s corybantic screech, like nails against crushed glass.

He remembers distantly that what was unusual was that when he was awoken, his wife wasn’t beside him. When he felt her side of the bed, it was as cold as the temperature of the surrounding air. She had left bed a long time ago.

Austin was curious about this, but had no chance to ruminate on this oddity, for this was only the first of many curious occurrences that night.

He didn’t know what was wrong, but state it bluntly, he felt unwell. Perhaps ill. He doesn’t remember the exact physiological symptomology, but there was a keening ache ricocheting in his cerebral vault, and most of all, he felt suffocated. That some brilliant invisible light had affixed in his crosshairs, that he felt so diminutive, so unworthy. That someone of a far higher order of him was in his immediate presence; he felt so belittled, so pitiful, so undeserving of this honor.

And he felt asphyxiated. Every breath was difficult, as if the air was filled with nickel. Arcing spasms of inflicting agony ran down his spine, and his musculature was almost rigid, refusing to obey the commands from his mind. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch, nearly morbid.

He did not think it unusual at all when someone uttered this single word; Walk.

And so he walked.

He walked awhile, unsure of where to go, but at once, when he took a step, even in the unlit darkness, there was a brilliant, piercing radiance, a scorching aura of incendiary light, as if heaven’s doors had been opened and its golden glory was spilled through the gates.

Follow the light.

And so he followed the light.

Despite the fact it was 3:19 am, his house was brilliantly lit, completely illuminated despite the fact that no lights were on. There was some golden aurora that had settled throughout his house, and each item his eye met glittered like auroral lustrous gold.

He also did not think this was particularly unusual.

The light grew brighter as he wandered towards his back yard, so he went there.

What he saw now was concerning to him.

His wife and his three children were outside on the patio.

Their skin had a deathly grey sheen, their eyes wide and dilated, but there was no awareness behind them. Their bodies were rigid, as if locked in rigor mortis, their faces staring perfectly forward, arms raised to shoulder level and pointed directly before them, as if they were corpses.

The wind was so still.

In the distance, in the pleated cot of tens acres of textured wheat that was the Sherwood farm stood a massive starship.

Its bulk was so awesome, its size so magnificent, Austin can’t even recall its dimensions.

What he does recall were the three men.

They were there on the patio, and Austin can remember them even today as if they were standing before them. Each of them were the exactingly same height; 5’6”, each with a face so white it was bleached, with brilliant red veins running underneath each eye, each face so unnaturally still and exact it was almost chiseled by an artist, carved from a human template with all the humanity left out.

All of them had thin, brittle cheekbones, and dark brown eyes, almost the darkness of light; they were ponds of midnight in a face the color of snow, chiaroscuro black beads against plain white.

They all had black suits.

And there his family stood, erect before the three men, standing outside at 3:19 am with their faces staring forward, arms pointed before them.

Austin didn’t think to say hello to them or to ask them why they were standing outside at 3:19 am with their faces staring forward, arms pointed before them before three Men in Black and a gargantuan starship. Instead, he obediently assumed a position next to them, his arms also extended prone before him and his eyes staring levelly at the three Men.

Austin remembers their exact words. The exact intonation and inflection.

They spoke unnaturally, their accent exotic, unplaceable, as if the words spewing from their mouths were unfamiliar. Their voices were harsh, harsher than the solar wind, each syllable a serrated razor, so sharp it could draw blood.

WHERE IS PANDORA’S BOX

WHERE IS ATLANTIS

WHERE IS TÍR NANÓG

WHERE IS THE VAULT

WHERE IS IT TELL US NOW

WHEN IS RAGNAROK

WHEN DO THEY COME

Austin awoke a short while later.

His family was sprawled around him, collapsed on his patio.

The Men and their Ship had gone.

There was a massive crop circle in the wheat.

A small while later, some other men came. They asked many questions.

* *  * UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE UNSC DEPARTMENT OF STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE

PREPARED BY: NAVAL INTELLIGENCE OFFICE OF SPECIAL INVESTIGATION

Running Title: CONCLUSIONS OF THE VECTOR THIRTEEN COMMITTEE INVESTIGATION INTO THE MAG MELL INCIDENT (“BERYL-SHERWOOD ENCOUNTER”)

TOP SECRET PATRIOT Alice in Wonderland

ABSTRACT

The Vector Thirteen committee was established on August 13, 2579 as an independent special task force of the UNSC Naval Intelligence Office of Special Investigation to conduct a complete and independent study of the MAG MELL INCIDENT, a special first encounter scenario that occurred in the early morning of August 8, 2579 on the planet Beryl (Carinae-2179f), a UNSC colony in the NGC 2739 Nebula in the Carinae-2179 planetary single-star system.

Our classified findings, filed under TOP SECRET PATRIOT and ALICE IN WONDERLAND, are enclosed in the following document. Disclosure of any contents is punishable by the UNSC Judge Advocate and the UNSC Joint Chiefs of Staff under the Title 13 Clause of 2573, a judiciary statute that governs the disclosure of Alice in Wonderland classified documents and media.

Based on the below findings that we have thoroughly investigated, we issue the strongest possible advisory to the ARCTURUS COMMITTEE to execute the following with all due speed:


 * (1)	The relocation of PANDORA’S BOX from the BERYL NAVAL SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER to a secure location under ONI control and to entrust a sizable military force with its safekeeping.
 * (2)	The creation of DELTA X-RAY NINE PRIORITY STATUS to the Alice in Wonderland task force member entrusted with Pandora’s Box.
 * (3)	The assignment of a permanent battlegroup-strength UNSC Navy combat detachment to Carinae-2179f at FULL DEPLOYMENT STRENGTH to preclude further First Encounter interactions without explicit ONI control.
 * (4)	The assignment of UNSC Strategic Intelligence special assets to Carinae-2179f to remove all evidence of the First Encounter incident at Outskirt 19 and to permanently redact all public records of the SHERWOOD FAMILY, the SHERWOOD RESIDENCE, and the SHERWOOD CROP CIRCLE.
 * (5)	The relocation and prosecution of the Sherwood Family to a secure ONI facility for further study of the primary and secondary physiological, psychological, and neurological effects of first-order exposure to paranormal circumstances.
 * (6)	The initiation of SUBPROJECT 77 to control the usage of PANDORA’S BOX and to ensure that Pandora’s Box is under the direct jurisdiction of a senior Alice in Wonderland commanding officer (CO) and that its usage is highly controlled and that its classification remains at TOP SECRET PATRIOT.

While a first-order exposure of UNSC citizens to paranormal / supernatural circumstances was calculated as improbable based on projections from BLUE CHIP, it is imperative that we and Alice in Wonderland move with all best speed to ensure that the Mag Mell Incident remains highly classified and that we must take further action to ensure the security of paranormal relics under UNSC control.

Signed: THE VECTOR THIRTEEN COMMITTEE UNSC Naval Intelligence Office of Special Investigation UNSC Department of Strategic Intelligence UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence, UNSC Defense Force

36
Apollo stepped up and into the Pelican's troop bay, making sure to watch his head as he settled into a seat. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he was actually looking forward to this mission. No population centers turned battlefields, no civilians to get caught in the fighting, and nowhere for the rebels to hide. It was just the sort of thing he'd been missing.

Beside him, Master Chief Artemis had already sat down and was busy checking that her sniper rifle was spotless. Apollo could tell that she was getting antsy by the faster than normal movements of her hands as they raced to brush invisible specks of dust from the weapon's casing. Artemis was not a woman who enjoyed having time on her hands. It was the thick of battle that she lived for, not the quiet moments of peace in between.

He opened a private link between their MJOLNIR armors' helmet radios. "That thing will work just the same with or without a few specks of dirt Number 2995. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride." He might have a name now, but years of referring to others by the numbers assigned them had formed a habit that was hard to forget.

"I have a real name and so do you, so cut out the robot shit," she growled back. "You're the one who should be worried about weapon screw-ups, not me. Maybe if you worried about that a little more you might have a chance of keeping up with me."

"That's why I carry a sidearm." Yes, she was definitely in a temper today. Of course Artemis never sulked. She dealt with bad feelings by displacing them onto others, preferably with some form of lethality. Apollo smiled into his helmet. "You always were impatient. What's bothering you today? Besides the flight delay, I mean."

"This mission... it's being led by some guy half the task force hates. And I hear he spends most of his combat time avoiding the fighting and skulking in cover with that pet Myrmidon of his. I don't like having a coward as an officer."

"From what I heard he's not too thrilled about it either. You know he doesn't like any UNSC authority figures, right?"

Artemis paused before responding. "Why? What's his reason for being that way?"

Apollo allowed himself a private grin. Artemis had always been too engrossed in the next mission to keep in touch with company scuttlebutt. "You mean you haven't heard? I'd have thought half the planet would know by now."

"Know what?" Artemis's voice was taking on the edge that she used to warn others that pain was a very short distance away if they didn't stop playing with her and cut to the chase.

"Well, back at the end of the War, things were a little more covert then they are now. The UNSC was full of secret programs such as ourselves... and the SPARTAN-IIIs. So when the controls were about to be handed back over to the UNSC, you might say that the sky above most intel bases was filled with the smoke of burning documents. And one of these documents that seemed to merit burning was the S-III program."

"Get on with it." Artemis would never be one who appreciated the art of dramatic storytelling.

"So one particular SPARTAN-III, this Simon we're talking about, gets a crazy idea in his head. He figures that ONI sent a bunch of commandos to do away with him and his friends. So he vanishes for a month or so and then reappears. He's still harboring that nutty idea of his and he takes matters into his own hands. He goes off and kills the leader of these imagined commandos before pulling some other S-III who's slated to be taken off life support and gets blown out an airlock. Since no one ever recovered a body, he and his friend stayed near the top of the Public Enemy list. They were bumped from the top a few times by some really big bad guys, but people like us always took care of those."

"Wait. You're telling me ONI tried to kill the S-III's? That doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

"No. That didn't happen."

"So this Simon guy's crazy as well as a coward?"

"The other kind of didn't happen, Artemis. The ONI kind. Anyway I hear that SOCOM found him around the same time you dragged me kicking and screaming back into the glorious military life. Admiral Son offered him and the other one a job training the myrms and for reasons of their own they took it. And now we're here and he's about to lead a minor mission against the rebels. Don't blow things out of proportion."

Artemis snorted. "Still doesn't make me feel any more comfortable. Now is this flight leaving or not?"

Grinning to himself, Apollo leaned back in his seat (no mean feat given the vertical orientation of Pelican seats) and waited for the mission to begin.

37 (White Rabbit Memorandum)
Fifteen years prior to the present time

December 2579

ALL UNSC SPECIAL WARFARE-CAPABLE UNITS ALL UNSC SPECIAL WARFARE-CAPABLE UNITS CAN YOU READ THIS CAN YOU READ THIS

THIS IS AN ALPHA-PRIORITY DISPATCH FROM THE UNSC OFFICE OF SPECIAL INVESTIGATION, UNSC DEPARTMENT OF STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE, UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE

YOU ARE THEREBY ORDERED TO PERUSE, INTEGRATE, AND UNDERSTAND THE WHITE RABBIT MEMORANDUM AND INDICATE TO NIOSI/STRATINTEL THAT ALL OPERATORS OF YOUR SPECIAL FORCES-CAPABLE UNIT HAVE RECEIVED AND UNDERSTOOD THE COMPLETE UNEDITED MEMORANDUM (BELOW).

MEMORANDUM FOLLOWS MEMORANDUM FOLLOWS

THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK

UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE UNSC DEPARTMENT OF STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE White Rabbit Memorandum Special warfare advisory, introduction, and recommendations regarding the resolution of hostile paranormal and supernatural circumstances Limited Distribution: UNSC SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND, UNSC PROGRESSIVE WARFARE DIVISION Special warfare operators of the United Nations Space Command Defense Force (UNSCDF) are highly technically-capable and experienced personnel that undergo discriminative selection and rigorous training to impart physical vigor and endurance, psychological resilience, and creative active thinking to ensure that SF-capable units are capable of responding to a broad number of battlefield conditions across the battlespace continuum and are trained to operate in a number of hostile environments that would preclude conventional UNSC forces.

However, it has been recently suggested by the UNSC Progressive Warfare Division (PROGWARDIV) that modern UNSC SF-capable units may be maladjusted to operate in supernatural and paranormal conditions, especially where paranormal circumstances may be antagonizing the special forces mission. Thus, we of the UNSC Department of Strategic Intelligence have prepared a brief memorandum containing our advisory for the rules of engagement (ROE) and strategic options in paranormal and supernatural theaters of operation.

While it is highly unlikely that UNSC SF-capable units will encounter paranormal or supernatural theaters of operation where UNSC forces must actively operate for prolonged periods of time, after extensive research we have prepared the following advisory statements for all UNSC SF-capable units for paranormal contingencies;


 * (1) It is highly likely that a paranormal or supernatural theater of operation will be unlike any physical environment that UNSC forces have ever been trained to operate in or have been exposed to in the course of prior duties. Thus, all fundamental assumptions about the rules of special warfare must be rethought in a paranormal or supernatural context.
 * (2) It is imperative that a critical core set of intelligences and declarative findings are established before UNSC forces begin to operate in a paranormal or supernatural context. Conventional UNSC intelligence and information operations, such as electronic surveillance and satellite reconnaissance, are likely to be ineffective in the course of a paranormal circumstance. UNSC special forces must gather intelligence on the paranormal environment, especially regarding the disposition of any hostile supernatural entities that are antagonizing the UNSC mission, and also about the physical, metaphysical, and/or superdimensional characteristics of the physical environment that may preclude standard tactics of engagement and maneuvering in a physical environment.
 * (3) It is of paramount importance that UNSC forces attempt to investigate non-lethal resolutions to any paranormal or supernatural situation. All due effort should be first made regarding how the supernatural environment came about, and if there is any possibility of retreating from the theater to the normal physical world. If escape is impossible, all efforts should be made to seek alternate routes of escape from the supernatural or paranormal environment. It is believed that UNSC SF-capable units will suffer extreme limitations in aggressive and defensive capabilities in a paranormal circumstance where other elements may be able to exploit key UNSC weaknesses. Every effort must be made to escape.
 * (4) If all strategies of escape have been explored and are deemed impractical or no retreat option is available, UNSC SF-capable units must gather detailed intelligence by any means regarding the nature of the hostile paranormal force, if any. Non-lethal resolutions should be sought, including the initiation of communications with supernatural entities and all negotiation options should be explored to initiate a ceasefire with hostile supernatural elements or to immediately escape the supernatural theater.
 * (5) If all non-aggressive strategies such as retrograde maneuvering or communication is impossible, aggressive resolutions may be explored at that time.

38: The Son
UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) FOB Hotel California, Ranger Compound Midgard, 11 Draconis System

Captain Tyrone Jackson, O-3, UNSC Army Ranger Corps, boarded his chalk's Heron Gunship, jumping rather than climbing in. They had just got a new mission, which involved the take-down of an enemy convoy. He climbed into one of the craft's jump seats, holding his BR55 Designated Marksman Rifle in between his legs, his head down, bobbing to the music that was playing over the Helicopter's built-in speakers. It was his favorite branch of music, known as "Flip", and he loved it because it always pumped him up for a battle. However, as rumor had it, his dad hated Flip Music, choosing instead to listen to more instrumental tracks. As a Captain, he controlled four chalks, however, he directly commanded this chalk, as the other chalks were commanded by First Lieutenant James Holmes, First Lieutenant Xavier Morales, and Sergeant First Class Francisco Jamison, respectively. Those four chalks made up the reformed Ranger 38/6 C, the smallest company in the entire battalion, but probably the most elite, being driven hard by Jackson himself.

Lifting his head up, he glimpsed through the visor of his advanced "ODST Body Suit", and saw his chalk, eight men total. Hernandez and Wilson were his riflemen, and in addition, Hernandez was his "Chalk Sergeant", acting as second in command. Jacobson, the biggest guy, was his heavy-gunner, Wiles was the team's medic, Smith held the communications equipment, Polaski was a grenadier, Calabrese was the assistant-gunner, supplying Jacobson with ammunition, and the newest man, Valentino, was the pointman, given that perilous position because of his skill with a shotgun.

He turned his head down, again, thinking of the Ranger Pillar at Cambridge, where he finally received a glimpse of his father, holding a sniper rifle, limping. The After-Action Report said that he, although already wounded, volunteered to stave off the Covenant advance, killing one of the Chieftains with his SRS, in addition to several others, before being ripped apart. He had cried after hearing what his father had done, and whenever his mother talked about him, Tyrone was filled with admiration. That's why he joined the Rangers - to honor his father, Lionel Jackson. He didn't think it was coincidence that he had been specifically assigned to Ranger 38/6 C, and he had appeared in numerous press releases beforehand, standing with high-ranking Generals at Asphodel Meadows Naval Special Warfare Center and at the Ranger Pillar. He didn't like the attention, and so, he had volunteered for the Rangers, and made it in, going into the black world that made up Special Forces.

After thinking back, he felt the Heron gunship lift off the ground, and he looked at his chalk.

"Time to kick some ass, boys."

-- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 00:41, 16 January 2009 (UTC)

39
UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE TOP SECRET ULTRA

Staff Memorandum Re: “Progressive Cross-Questioning”

ADDRESSED TO: RADM Garnet Rowntree (J2 Staff Intelligence, TF51/UNSCSOCOM) CC: VADM Kawika Son (Commander, TF51/UNSCSOCOM)

TASK FORCE 51 DO YOU READ THIS TASK FORCE 51 DO YOU READ THIS MESSAGE FOLLOWS MESSAGES FOLLOWS


 * line break

GARNET ROWNTREE, Commodore, UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence [SN: redacted] Re: “Progressive Cross-Questioning” (Case Index MDGRD_5829)

Upon consultation with the UNSC JUDICIARY COMMITTEE and the UNSC PROGRESSIVE WARFARE DIVISION, the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence has formally reviewed your submitted case, entitled “Progressive Cross-Questioning” and submitted under Top Secret ULTRA.

We thereby recognize the presence of special circumstances in the Midgard Theater of Operations and thereby recognize the theater requirement of unconventional warfare to adequately suppress the opposing force objective.

We thereby recognize the fundamental necessity for the approval of special activities in the Midgard Theater in order to further accelerate the UNSC mission on the planet.

Thereby, Commodore Rowntree, you are thereby accorded BRAVO NOVEMBER SEVEN priority status and are granted unrestricted freedom of operations in the Midgard Theater of Operations. Under BRAVO NOVEMBER SEVEN you are not required to document all ONI operations in the Midgard Theater, nor are you required to consult ONI or UNSC commanding officers in regards to your operations. All UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence interests and missions on Midgard are thereby assigned to your jurisdiction.

You are thereby granted full provisional status to prosecute all ONI objectives on Midgard.


 * Case MDGRD_5829.1: EXPERIMENTAL INTERROGATION assets approved for attachment to TASK FORCE 51.
 * Case MDGRD_5289.2: STRATEGIC THERMONUCLEAR CAPABILITIES approved for attachment to TASK FORCE 51.
 * Case MDGRD_5289.3: STRATEGIC CHEM-BIOL CAPABILITIES approved for attachment to TASK FORCE 51.

BRAVO NOVEMBER SEVEN PRIORITY STATUS ACCORDED TO ROWNTREE, GARNET, COMMODORE OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE [confirmed]

repeat repeat


 * line break

RETURN THIS MESSAGE IN ITS ENTIRETY TO INDICATE THAT YOU HAVE RECEIVED THIS AND UNDERSTAND THIS MESSAGE IN ITS ENTIRETY.

~H3 & RR =]

40
(what follows is private conversation between users H3 and Sgt.johnson about their theories on the Alice in Wonderland plotline ... this "transmission" is not 'official' and nothing below is endorsed by RR and is accepted as official BVA/AIW plotline. feel free to post more theories =P)

PLNB Priority Transmission XX931R-XX Encryption Code: OMEGA Public Key: N/A From: CODENAME: FREYR To: CODENAME: ODIN Subject: You think ONI is fucked up now… Classification: EYES ONLY TOP SECRET (SECTION III X-RAY DIRECTIVE)

I’ve seen some weird shit going on; ONI is getting ready to do something… I am just waiting for the day when they just take over all together. You sure this is secure? I don’t want to lose my pension. But really though, with ONI you can never know what their up to. I have a feeling that Pandora’s box is in said vault, and that the Ragnarok Contingency is just a protocol if the Vault is breached. Though Directive 0-9 sounds like what happens when Pandora’s box is opened. No matter how you look at it, I don’t want to be anywhere near when anything happens when all this goes down.

And now, paranormal crap, what the hell, is ONI dabbling in the black arts now?

But if you really want to know how fucked up ONI is, listen to this, TF51 just got the OK to use “experimental interrogation” I swear, they can get away with anything.

See what kinda shit I have to do all day? It will fuck with you man, it will fuck you up. /end file/ /scramble-destruction process enabled/

Press ENTER to continue. </tt>

41
(what follows is private conversation between users H3 and Sgt.johnson about their theories on the Alice in Wonderland plotline ... this "transmission" is not 'official' and nothing below is endorsed by RR and is accepted as official BVA/AIW plotline. feel free to post more theories =P)

PLNB Priority Transmission XX935R-XX Encryption Code: OMEGA Public Key: N/A From: CODENAME: ODIN To: CODENAME: FREYR Subject: Re. You think ONI is fucked up now… Classification: EYES ONLY TOP SECRET (SECTION III X-RAY DIRECTIVE)

I saw the clearance for "Experimental Interrogation". Makes me sick, how ONI can authorize torture! I mean, even after their best agents were brutally tortured, they would get the idea to allow it.

I also saw that paranormal stuff. This incident scares the shit out of me, honestly. It reminds me of those wacko cases that happened in the 20th and 21st centuries... people claiming anal probing and stuff...

Oh, and did you see this? ONI authorized SPARTAN detachments to fight in supernatural battle zones! SUPER NATURAL! I've never known ONI to be religious, much less spiritual... I'd love to know what's going on.

Anyway, I concur with your conclusion. I've been studying Atlantis, but I've come up with nothing on the connection between that sub and its namesake... other than this Zone 77 thing. Reminds me of Zone 67, on Onyx (Yes, I was cleared for those files). After reading the reports from GREY APEX, I think this whole mess may have something to do with them.

PS - I don't want to be around either in the case of this Ragnarok Circumstance... whatever it is, it's big.

Oh, and Experimental Interrogation wasn't the only thing they authorized... nuclear, biological and chemical weapons as well.

Midgard is going to become a bloodbath.

/end file/ /scramble-destruction process enabled/

Press ENTER to continue. </tt>

-- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 03:23, 16 January 2009 (UTC)

42
“God, this is boring,” said Tobias with a sigh.

Conall looks up from his sniper rifle’s sight, “Would you stop whining? You got a Spanker, you even got to take it apart, We have a simple mission ahead, why can’t you just enjoy it?”

“Like I said, I need to see the persons face,” Tobias breaks apart the spanker one more time, “I like to make it quick, just let them die, with one of these things, you could just blow off a leg and then they have to suffer all the way as they crawl to safety just to die with false hope.”

“I don’t care what happens to these fuckers, I almost like it when they suffer, they made their choices, now they need to pay for them, though I just don't like knowing that I killed them, that's why I prefer a sniper rifle.” Tobias goes back to his scope. “Now come on, sight that thing in and get ready.”

"They have words for people like you, hypocritical comes to mind."

"Oh come on, I just punish for their crimes, I just like to see them as the rebel, not the family man with four kids at home."

Through the radio they hear “Heads up! The Convoy is coming, T-minus 5 minutes”

“Time for some fun, I think I might even kneecap a few if I have the chance” Conall says as he readies some extra clips.

“And people think that I am the fucked up one…” Tobias says under his breath as he braces himself against a tree for a steadier shot.

Blake TalkWork

43
"Mount up! 8th Rangers! Let's go!" Joshua Stevenson ordered as he ran towards the dropbay of the Pelican, 3 Pelican's glistened in the sunlight of the midday son. It was oddly Beautiful. Joshua waited for all the men of his team to embark the Pelican. The Pelican lifted off and Joshua then sat on the edge of the troop bay door so his legs dangled out of the pelican, silently smiling to himself.

"Hey, Sir what's the go word?" a young Ranger asked

"GUITAR, Dammit man, I told you to learn it!"

"Sorry sir..."

"It's ok this time but one more stunt like that and your out. You here me Ranger?"

"10-4 Sir!"

"Good Boy." Joshua said and then he looked at the Ocean below him Wow that's beautiful... he thought.

"Juliet Lead, this is Echo lead, over." Josh's com buzzed

"Juliet lead here, over" Joshua responded.

"We're 10 minutes out, Lock and Load!Over"

"You got it! You heard him Rangers! Lock and Load!" Joshua ordered with a smirk, he checked his 'Chute making sure it was ready and cocked his Rifle; He was ready for war.

SPARTAN-G024 walked up to the Ramp of the Pelican and noticed Simon with a Myrmidon. Joshua walked over to Simon and squared up to him.

"Listen, if it was up to me I would have killed you. So you mess with me I will you hear?" Joshua said Simon just pushed him away and mumbled something.

"Your pathetic." Joshua said and walked off into the back of the Pelican put on his Helmet and cocked his rifle and was silent.

Lieutenant   Mc  Callan  20:29, 16 January 2009 (UTC)

44
0818 Hours Zulu ALBANY COBRA Deployment Clock: H+00:48:00

UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) Combat Information Center (CIC) FOB HOTEL CALIFORNIA, Midgard, 11 Draconis System

The Combat Information Center (CIC) of FOB Hotel California was perhaps one of its most heavily invested assets—if the Task Force 51 operators were the fist of UNSC military supremacy on Midgard, the Hotel California CIC was the brain, the nervous plexus from which myriad fibers ran out, controlled the disparate and myriad UNSC elements on Midgard.

Every hour, the CIC’s sensory fibers—not myelinated large-diameter neuronal axonal tracks but rather shielded superconducting cables—fed TF51’s commanders a constellation of data from across Midgard. Weather conditions. UNSC troop deployments. The number of children at school. Status on UNSC thermonuclear weapons. The numbers of car that had showed up to work.

The UNSC had constructed an extensive civilian surveillance program through Midgard, some engorged arachnid which extended a process into every aspect of civilian life. Monitoring families at home. Capturing long-lens camera photos of civilians entering and exiting mass transport. Full-rig audiovisual recording protocols.

This entire massive continuum of raw intelligence was fed into the ultimate singularity of the UNSC intelligence apparatus—something known only as “The Program”—

And whatever came out from the anonymous “Program” was in fact what directed UNSC special forces operations on Midgard.

It was almost laughable. But no one else beyond TF51’s command staff knew.

The UNSC had not a single eye into the enemy command structure. The UNSC didn’t know who the rebels were, where they were, why they fought. Even after four years of blood-doused skirmish, the most powerful galactic intelligence agency; the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence, didn’t even know if the terrorists and the insurgents were in a single organization or if they were separate.

War had come to Midgard.

And with War came Chaos—War’s shroud. And underneath that shroud, war was the inferno incarnate. Lives lost. Blood. Random deaths. Necessary killings. There was no more reason. No more logic.

No more humanity.

Only killing.

And TF51 gladly killed.

That was what made Midgard such a convenient cover. Not by choice, true, not by necessity, but simply because of convenience.

Soldiers like the Rangers. Like the Force Recon Marines. They didn’t know what they were doing, why they were on Midgard. They had a rifle and a pair of hands.

And every day, someone would hand them a new rifle and tell them to shoot someone new.

And so they did.

And it continued.

Hour after hour of deaths. Day after day.

Month after month. Year after year.

And after four years, nothing had changed.

Someone would hand the TF51 commandos weapons, give them marching and shooting orders.

And more people died.

And no one won.

The funny thing was that TF51 didn’t even understand what it was doing. That had been a deliberate move on the behalf of the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence.

The premise had been; Task Force 51 shooters guided by ONI intelligence.

And when people blindly followed orders, that was a dangerous place to be.

In the secluded dark of the Combat Information Center (CIC), enshrouded by flickering diode lights and officers and controllers, Commodore Rowntree rose a wrist communicator to her lips.

“0-9 to Weatherman, report.”

“Weatherman to 0-9. Final meteorological check confirmed.”

“0-9 to Prophet, report.”

“Prophet to 0-9. Final intelligence check confirmed.”

Rowntree firmly nodded in the darkness, her flowing neck muscles glimmering in the pinpoint illumination of mission control LEDs.

“Comm, let me talk to the entire force.”

“On your number one, Commodore. You’re on the C2 broadcast.”

“This is 0-9 to all elements. I confirm ALBANY COBRA as platform certified, with intelligence and meteorological support confirming that the operation is online. All mission support elements, call off.”

“Communications go.” “Battle Management go.” “Operations go.” “Orbital Intelligence go.” “Technical Intelligence go.” “Surface Intelligence go.” “Casualty Management go.” “Logistics go.” “Personnel Management go.” “Post-Mission Support go.” “Information Operations go.”

“This is 0-9 to all elements. I read the check board as all green-lit. Air mission commander, talk to me.”

“Aviation is a go”, came Ackerby’s voice.

“Ground tactical commander, report.”

There was a mute pause, a lull.

Rowntree inquired, “Ground tactical commander, this is 0-9. Report on status.”

There was another pause, and then; “Ground mission is green”.

“Reconnaissance mission commander, report.”

“Recon is deployed.”

“Platform confirmed. Element command confirmed. Active aviation assets, call off.”

“Outlaw One holding at Sector Kilo Alpha.” “Outlaw Two holding at Sector Kilo Bravo.” “Outlaw Three holding at Sector Kilo Charlie.” “Outlaw Four holding at Sector Kilo Delta.” “Outlaw Five holding at Sector Kilo Echo.” “Outlaw Six holding at Sector Kilo Foxtrot.” “Outlaw Seven holding at Sector Kilo Golf.” “Outlaw Eight holding at Sector Kilo Hotel.” “Outlaw Nine holding at Sector Kilo India.” “Outlaw Ten holding at Sector Kilo Juliet.” “Outlaw Eleven holding at Sector Kilo Lima.” “Outlaw Twelve holding at Sector Kilo Mike.”

Rowntree canted her head, eying the tactical plot. Viridian lights burned in every sector.

“All right, as the air assault task force commander, I read penetration phase as complete, and all aviation assets taxied and holding at holding sector.”

“Zero-Nine to Treble. Redeploy from holding sector to inbound vector. Insertion is green-lit.”

“Air mission commander copies. Treble redeployed to landing vectors.”

“Ground tactical commander copies. Ground mission is ready for deployment.”

There was another long pause in the darkness of the CIC.

“Zero-Saber to Zero-Nine, send.”

“Zero-Nine to Zero-Saber, send, over. Ground tactical commander, what’s the call?”

“Saber is deployed. Maneuvering to OPAREA.”

“Copy, Zero-Saber. Support elements, vector for final insertion.”

“Medevac confirms CHOCOLATE. We’re in.”

“Extraction commander confirms DUKE. Medevac and pull-out vehicles are on the ground, awaiting further orders.”

“Extraction force, hold at Rally Delta and maintain your position, send, over.”

The cards had been laid, the lines of battle drawn. They awaited a single report.

And then the house of cards would collapse.

RelentlessRecusant

45
0823 HOURS

Gabriel-019 remained in his window perch, watching the road that led to the mountain pass. Through the computerized sight, he saw a small dust cloud, and after zooming in, made out several vehicles, some civilian, some military, moving at high speed.

Convoy's here.

Gabriel changed the COM channel, then spoke loud and clear.

"ELEGANT."

After waiting several seconds, a reply came.

"Uh... Sidewinder, can you repeat?"

"ELEGANT. Convoy is confirmed, repeat, convoy is confirmed."

"Can we have that imagery?"

Gabriel-019 turned to his laptop, and deployed the APOLLO drone closer to the convoy, but not so close that they saw it. After taking several pictures and beaming them to command, the reply came through the speakers in his helmet.

"Convoy confirmed. Can you confirm the target, over?"

"FINLAND, repeat, FINLAND"

It was time to get tactical.

-- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 22:13, 16 January 2009 (UTC)

46
"I don't like heights... but you can't let anything stop you when you're about to slide down. If you freeze up the rebels will rip you apart before you can move again."

- From SPARTAN-G294's private diary

Simon heard both code words over his radio and felt the bay door of the Pelican open up. For once he was first to the rope, eager to hit the ground before any of Wolf did. He could feel Redmond right behind him as he closed his eyes and grabbed the rope. He felt the friction between it and his gauntlets as he slid to the ground and began to run for the cover of a nearby rock. He tightened his grip on the Battle Rifle he carried as he crouched low behind the rock, his SPI's camouflage system blending him in with the surrounding terrain. He felt for the comforting weight of his rucksack as he trained the BR's scope on the convoy's distant dust cloud. Around him the other S-IIIs and Myrmidons were doing the same. Redmond had already joined him behind the rock.

Letting his gaze drift down towards the road, Simon opened up a link to all of Sabre Squadron. "No one fires until the admiral gives the order."

Allowing the BR to rest on the rock, Simon waited.

47
After hearing confirmation, Daniel Jackson and the FORCE RECON Operators prepared themselves for the Convoy Ambush."Alright Boys, Confirmation has been given, hold your fire until the first shot is fired" said Jackson. Jackson, who was aiming and resting his BR at an boulder, felt that usual feeling that death was near him. However, there was something distinct, different from this feeling. As the Rebel Convoy approached the strike zone, Jackson's finger slightly moved the trigger in tension.

ShockTrooper

48
Jackson's four Ranger Chalks had set themselves up in very good overlapping fields of fire. The killzone essentially was a 100 yard x 20 yard rectangle, and due to their excellent positioning, they weren't moving. Orders were that one of the SPARTANs would take the first shot slightly after the first vehicle passed, drawing the rest of the vehicles into the zone, not allowing them to escape by either going in reverse or blowing through. In addition, further up the road were several mines, so even if they did slip the killzone, they would run into their worst nightmare - a self healing mine field - that would only be deactivated by a computerized signal.

Jackson turned his head to the right, and saw the convoy coming up the rise.

"Fingers on the triggers. No one fires until they take the first shot, over?" said Jackson, speaking rather softly over the TEAMCOM.

-- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 15:41, 17 January 2009 (UTC)

49
Joshua's Pelican stopped and he stood up, hooked his line to the harness and looked down. He was going to the right of the treeline, the 6th Rangers were to the left. Josh was about to jump, he took three steps forward then. "Jackhammer!" a Sniper said. "Hold your fire!" Joshua shouted to the sniper, "You'll give us away!". The Pelican's pilot quickly moved out of the way,as he thought the rocket was coming. "Line up Rangers!" He ordered. "Juliet Lead, Echo Lead; Preparing Aerial support, call us if you need us. Over." Joshua's mic buzzed "Rodger That." And with that, Joshua jumped from the Pelican's troop bay and freefell for 5 seconds and pulled his rip cord. The Chute pulled at his back he was relived. He touched down and quickly looked up: His Rangers were coming down in perfect formation, all 30 of them, he also saw the 3 Pelican's speed off and begin there overhead pattern, they would be needed if thing went FUBAR.

"Ok, Guys hold here untill GUITAR is said." Joshua said as the last man came down, he readied his rifle... and waited.

Lieutenant   Mc  Callan  16:41, 17 January 2009 (UTC)

50
The engines of the King Pelican whined as its armor-clad wings pivoted downwards, swinging seamlessly from vertical to the horizontal in moment scarcely noticeable by the Human eye. Tons of raw thrust cascaded into the gently pebbled plain, the distinctive sound of Mankind’s monsters clashing with the once-prevailing tranquility of nature, as white-hot exhausts searing a thin glazing the scattered dust.

Within seconds the roar was gone, the Pelicans departed, the only token of their existence the gentle flurries of dust spinning above the now empty LZ and the clusters of armed men sheltering in a nearby hollow, their sandy uniforms and subtle movements rendering them nigh invisible to all save the most wary eye.

NAVSPECWAR’s LZ was large enough for the operators to simply disembark from the rear doors of their King Pelicans without the need to hazard life and limb by parachuting or fast roping from a hovering, and vulnerable dropship. A lone operator quickly sprang to his feet, followed by the remainder of the team as they broke into double-time, fanning into a rippling line of sandy brown as they trotted towards their objective with a professionalism and an ease born by long practice. Mere meters behind the SPECWAR SIX leader, Santiago Nordmann checked his HUD the gently flickering position indicators of his section, greeting his concerned gaze.

Nordmann, although possessed of an outward attitude much like any aggressive, motivated SPECWAR operator, was internally at conflict with the orders he had been given, for now his conscience was burdened by FO Vermillion.

He had operated under Vermillion dozens of times, and he had heard the cries of mothers and infants as their homes were torn apart by volleys of gunfire simply because their home “looked suspicious,” as SPECWAR SIX operators exercised the privilege of “weapons free.” Even if Vermilion was a necessary evil in the face of terrorists and rebels, evil was never a choice Nordmann liked making.

And then the call…

‘’“OCEAN, convoy inbound.”’’

The cacophony of low-inertia rotors snapped at the whirling air above Kevin Red Songbird’s head as he vaulted from the hovering Heron. Ailing and aged, the pair of helicopters had barely managed to clear the ground on takeoff, and the flight leader’s bird had been forced to turn back, leaving a deputy in command of the remaining chalk.

The Herons were assigned to the Army Forward Recon operators more out of oversight than of snub, since the combined strike forces, as the “main show,” were vastly more important to ALBANY COBRA’s success than a small, easily forgotten recon detachment whose work would be done after the fact, for while the other Special Forces men would have the chance to insert, do their dirty work, and quickly pull back, the Forward Recon operators would conduct the unglamorous duty of trying to conduct the tiring duty of ground post-strike, poking through the blackened wreckage of corpses and trucks the maelstrom of the ambush would bring.

And so, with weapons at the ready, the Forward Recon team prepared to scale the lofty, yet concealed vantage point they would occupy during ALBANY COBRA.

‘’’’’FightWithHonor’’’’’

51: 17 MAR 2954 Alice in Wonderland Tactical Memorandum
Alice in Wonderland TOP SECRET PATRIOT

UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence UNSC Department of Strategic Intelligence Running Title: Alice in Wonderland Summary Report, 17 MAR 2954 A Memorandum from the UNSC Naval Intelligence Office of Special Investigation to the Arcturus Committee and the Vector Thirteen DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE DO NOT DISTRIBUTE COUNT YOUR PAGES COUNT YOUR PAGES COUNT YOUR PAGES COUNT YOUR PAGES

You are on Page 1 of 1. Count your pages. Report any missing pages immediately to NIOSI.

THIS IS THE DAILY TACTICAL MEMORANDUM FROM THE UNSC NAVAL INTELLIGENCE OFFICE OF SPECIAL INVESTIGATION TO ALL MEMBERS OF THE UNSC DEFENSE FORCE WITH DELTA X-RAY FIVE STATUS, INCLUDING BUT NO LIMITED TO MEMBERS OF THE ARCTURUS COMMITTEE AND VECTOR THIRTEEN. YOU ARE ON THE DISTRIBUTION LIST FOR THIS DOCUMENT BECAUSE OF YOUR DELTA X-RAY FIVE STATUS.

It is the conclusion of the UNSC Naval Intelligence Office of Special Investigation that as of March 17, 2954 that Alice in Wonderland is reaching the end of its useful operational capacity.

Galactic peace is on the verge of disintegration.

Strategic long-range predictions by Blue Chip indicate with a 0.999993 probability, within ONE MONTH OF RECEIVING THIS REPORT, ONE OR MORE EVENTS OF APOCALYPTIC SCALE WILL OCCUR with non-UNSC and non-Covenant origin. Integrity calculations of Blue Chip indicate that its reality-recursive hardware and wetware has not been compromised. High-order probability calculations support Blue Chip's initial calculations.

Apocalypse is inevitable. It is without doubt that within one month, the RAGNAROK CIRCUMSTANCE will be triggered.

Immediate action must be taken to find alternative solutions.

Subproject 77 and MH ULTRA still remain as last-resort options. We must endeavor with all due speed to find alternative solutions, with the weight of mankind resting on us.

Pandora's Box, as previously agreed, has been relocated to Midgard under the safekeeping of [censored]. A substantial UNSC Special Operations Command battle group, code-named TASK FORCE 51, has been stationed on Midgard. The security of Pandora's Box rests upon [censored] and Task Force 51. We have no other choice; there is no other UNSC military force that can be trusted more than Task Force 51 to ensure the temporary safety of Pandora's Box.

We report that the UNSC Ether A Go Go has been detached from UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence reconnaissance duties, and that the Ether A Go Go is standing by above Midgard to take the citizen with DELTA X-RAY NINE status to Atlantis (read: Security Zone 77).

With mankind prepared to collapse, we have no other choice to ensure that the bearer of Pandora's Box has immediate access to Atlantis. While Subproject 77 and MH ULTRA are last-resort options, Alice in Wonderland is prepared to take any option that will avert mankind's inevitable fate, no matter the cost.

Counterintelligence sweeps have located one system security breach: this is believed to be an offensive information operations (IO) intrusion by Agent 2042, a former PROGWARDIV/HPA operator. With the instigator(s) of the RAGNAROK CIRCUMSTANCE currently unknown, we will not take any chances. A sizable UNSCSOCOM task force with over one thousand direct-action operators has been sent to apprehend or neutralize 2042.

We have been entrusted with mankind's last defense. It is a task that we will not fail until the very end.

If we have one hope, it is this. Our ability to trigger mutual assured destruction is still active. We still have Directive 0-9 and Pandora's Box. If we die, we can at least ensure that our mysterious foe dies with us as well.

Signed,

UNSC Naval Intelligence Office of Special Investigation Alice in Wonderland, UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence

52
(what follows is private conversation between users H3 and Sgt.johnson about their theories on the Alice in Wonderland plotline ... this "transmission" is not 'official' and nothing below is endorsed by RR and is accepted as official BVA/AIW plotline. feel free to post more theories =P)

PLNB Priority Transmission XX931R-XX Encryption Code: OMEGA Public Key: N/A From: CODENAME: FREYR To: CODENAME: ODIN Subject: Apocalypse, how much fun. Attachemt:  17 MAR 2954 Alice in Wonderland Tactical Memorandum Classification: EYES ONLY TOP SECRET (SECTION III X-RAY DIRECTIVE)

O.K. I just found this file when helping my CO with his computer. I sent this to myself to take a better look at it. And holy shit am I glad that I did. It looks like we have ONE FUCKING MONTH before something HUGE happens, well according to some computer. I hate this kind of waiting game, something on an “Apocalyptic Scale” will happen. Great, what else is ONI not telling us? And, some citizen has Pandora’s Box, on Midgrad, the ONE planet that is about to fuck itself. At least they are taking that citizen to “Atlantis” wherever the hell that is.

P.S.- If we are ever on the same station or planet, let me know, I have a 30 year old bottle of scotch hidden away, considering it looks like we are gonna die in a month, I would hate to see it go to waste.

/end file/ /scramble-destruction process enabled/

Press ENTER to continue. </tt>

Blake TalkWork

53
(what follows is private conversation between users H3 and Sgt.johnson about their theories on the Alice in Wonderland plotline ... this "transmission" is not 'official' and nothing below is endorsed by RR and is accepted as official BVA/AIW plotline. feel free to post more theories =P)

PLNB Priority Transmission XX931R-XX Encryption Code: OMEGA Public Key: N/A From: CODENAME: ODIN To: CODENAME: FREYR Subject:Re. Apocalypse, how much fun. Attachment:  17 MAR 2954 Alice in Wonderland Tactical Memorandum Classification: EYES ONLY TOP SECRET (SECTION III X-RAY DIRECTIVE)

I have a month of paid vacation saved up. Takin' the family on vacation before they well, die. Bring yours, and we could have a nice get together.

I just have one thing: how does a computer tell the future?

Well, I did hear something like this... the Weatherman...

/end file/ /scramble-destruction process enabled/

Press ENTER to continue. </tt>

54: "BAD intel as in Broken, Awful, and Deficient"
UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) Operations Area (OPAREA), Operation: Albany Cobra Equatorial Sector, Midgard, 11 Draconis System

Reconnaissance Team Azure

The overwhelming preponderance of Azure Team’s attention was focused on the telescopic sights of their rifles; elongated, sleek swords with diminished yet angular outlines; the killer’s practicality and utility, modularity and efficiency.

Perhaps if a stray photon of light hadn’t diffracted into SPARTAN-130’s vitreous humor, that vagrant orphan of illumination hadn’t made its way into the dedicated photoreceptors situated on her retina, Operation: ALBANY COBRA would have been a concise textbook operation, another freshly-minted decisive UNSC victory of Task Force 51 against the enigmatic rebels.

Sometimes, being too good at something is worse.

Some people say that knowing ignorance is bliss.

That a lie is more comforting than the truth.

Chief Helen-130 consciously perceived the anomalous lighting in her right eye, muted flashes of light from the reconnaissance drone’s reports, streamed on a live-feed to a small monitor with a controller joystick perched nearby.

Then the cortical neurons of her primary visual cortex (V1) recognized a highly-complex non-linear portmanteau of edges, textures, shapes, and colors.

A familiar pattern.

A very familiar pattern.

The surprise resonated through her, and she was sufficiently shocked to even remove her gaze from her sniper scope for a moment, affix the monitor more fully in her verdant eyes.

She stared at it for a second, and it was unmistakable.

She urgently called, “Leader? Check out the recce probe’s images. You want to see this.”

Jamal-002 stared at it momentarily, then seized to place the long-range call to the Joint Air Assault Task Force Commander (JAATFC), situated in FOB Hotel California’s Combat Information Center.

The intelligence had been bad.

Task Force 51 had been misled. Deceived.

For a second time within seconds, efficiency was an abominable thing. But this time, it wasn’t visual acuity.

It was the UNSC killing efficiency that was the problem. It was too good.

TF51 had been baited. Someone had tricked them, this time, with fatal consequences.

UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) Combat Information Center (CIC) Midgard, 11 Draconis System

1-4 Sidewinder’s voice was on C2; the interservice C&C frequency.

Unmistakable urgency shone through his virulized tones.

“Mission abort, repeat, mission abort!”

Everything preceding this unexpected company-wide call had been procedural, methodical, as the independent TF51 ground and aviation units had reeled off the codewords that successively confirmed operational readiness.

It had been elementary. Unmistakably perfect.

Until now.

The transmission aroused Rowntree from her partially-unfocused slack gaze at the tactical plot.

With lightning impulse, she was on the comm freq.

Her voice was hard.

“0-9 to 1-4 Sidewinder, send. Observe communications protocols. This is not a brothel on Asphodel Meadows.”

In the darkened mausoleum of the Combat Information Center (CIC), controllers and operators turned and stared in synchrony at their commander.

The reprimand was unmistakable.

The reconnaissance commander seemed to gloss over the gaping acerbic insult hanging in the airwaves that had been broadcast to the entire assault force.

“We’ve got the wrong target! Abort mission, repeat, abort! Those are friendlies!—”

“Davenport PMCs—in M12 Warthogs!”

There was not even a chance to reel before the commodore pounced on the SPARTAN.

“1-4 Sidewinder, come again? Your intelligence is bad.”

The exclamation was immediate.

“Come again, Command?”

“0-9 to 1-4; bad. ‘B’ as in broken, ‘A’ as in awful, ‘D’ as in defective. What’s the source of your intel?”

“The APOLLO reconnaissance drone—”

There was a long, brittle pause. It simmered with volcanic fury.

“0-9 to 1-4, I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong channel” said the commodore, almost apologetically. “We’re looking at the APOLLO drone live-feed from CIC and we don’t see any PMCs, nor do we see UNSC vehicles.”

A beat.

“You must have the wrong optics”, finished Rowntree.

“Ma’am! Our intelligence is not—” A beat—

“Commodore, you don’t understand—”

Her brittle cordiality turned to glacial rawness in a heartbeat.

“I understand the situation perfectly, Senior Chief; you are treasonably incompetent, and are jeopardizing the UNSCSOCOM mission on Midgard. 1-4 Sidewinder, this is the Commodore; under ONI Directive Bravo November Nine, you are thereby relieved of your command for this mission. Corporal Freeman, resume the Senior Chief’s command.”

“All elements, this is 0-9. Reconnaissance has been misled.”

“GUITAR. I repeat; GUITAR.”

“Execute Fire Order Vermillion.”

And now, it was up to the troop commander and the UNSC commandos on the ground.

Editor's Note: Hey, what's up; hope you enjoyed a very small change in pace - would like to put out the disclaimer that this is not as simply as white as Rowntree sees it nor as black as Jamal and the SPARTANs see it, and I hope to use this as an entrance into a very small moral subplot where not everything is characteristic simple commando mission nor the "ONI is bad" stereotype - well, keep up Albany Cobra! Make your decisions!

55
"THAT BITCH!" yelled Jamal, clearly in anger of being called "treasonably incompetent". He attempted to contact the troop commander, only to find that his communications had been jammed.

The taught rope had been cut. All of those operators out there now were God to whoever was on that convoy.

Jamal still had one trick up his sleeves.

"Helen, deactivate those mines!"

She typed in the confirmation code, only to find that it had been overriden.

"Shit." -- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 06:59, 19 January 2009 (UTC)

56
Having heard the entire exchange over the radio, Simon tried to pick out the profiles of the closing vehicles but found his vision obscured by their dust cloud. Who should he believe? A battle-hardened SPARTAN who claimed to have seen the convoy with his own two eyes or a rear echelon commander relying on intel and satellite footage?

"Hold fire!" he shouted into radio. "Do not engage until directly ordered to do so!"

Turning to a nearby operator in MJOLNIR armor-one of those HPA psychos- who was gazing down the scope of her sniper rifle, he opened a private link to her helmet com.

"Give me your sniper rifle," he ordered, his heart beginning to race. ''If the SPARTAN is right, then we're about to butcher men who don't have to die today. Or we're about to launch into a costly firefight in which people from both our sides die.''

The operative sounded annoyed. "What? Why?"

"Goddamnit, this is an order! I need to see that convoy!"

The operative grudgingly surrendered the rifle and Simon looked down it scope at the convoy, which had just come within complete visual range.

The SPARTAN had been right. Those were Warthogs.

Simon fumbled to turn on his radio as a cold sweat broke down his body. ''Oh God. We're about to kill the wrong people.''

"Everyone hold fire! Do not engage the convoy! I repeat, do not engage the convoy! Don't execute Vermillion, those are the wrong people down there!"

Oh please, just this once, don't let your personal feelings about me get in the way of your reason.

57
PFC Alexa Clarke Operations Area (OPAREA) Midgard, 11 Draconic System

The vehicles that were supposed to be those of an anti-UN rebel group were not the ones that Clarke was staring at now, at least not to her knowledge. A group of military grade M12 LRVs had arrived, a stark contrast to what the FORCE RECON marksman believed she would be shooting at when setting up her sniper perch. Her radio was all but silent, only some light radio traffic from command that seemed to be the normal background noise on the COM channels. No shots had been fired yet, what the hell was going on?

“All elements, this is 0-9. Reconnaissance has been misled.”

“GUITAR. I repeat; GUITAR.” came over the channel “Execute Fire Order Vermillion.”

Clarke waited for the first shot to be fired, the vehicles another thirty feet within seconds as it seemed the ground forces were stalling. She couldn’t hold her fire, she had orders, the mission was at jeopardy, she placed her finger on the trigger, her targeting computer spitting out a trajectory to deal with current conditions.

A single 14.5 millimeter round exploded from the M55A2 SRS, being sent down range at velocities that outmatched any caliber round being used by Task Force 51 ground operators participating in ALBANY COBRA, excluding the gauss rifle sitting in the lodge still unused. The massive round struck the first vehicles engine, making an almost perfect hole in the armor plate guarding the Hydrogen ICE, the M12 immediately slowing and smoke pouring from the pierced Titanium-A.

Picking her rifle up slightly, Clarke maneuvered the nose an inch up, several feet on the ground to where her crosshairs fell over the trailing LRV.

FORCE RECON Operations Area (OPAREA) Midgard, 11 Draconic System

There always seems to be a minor detail overlooked during a military operation, one that in most cases would not make a difference in the result of a mission, yet under the right conditions could turn a operation on its head. In this case, it was that minutes before, the FORCE RECON operators had just switched their radios over to TEAMCOM, relying on Colonel Freeman at CIC to keep them updated about squadron wide movements and updates.

However, the good colonel was not at his radio, instead staring at the outlines of the vehicles the APOLLO drone was feeding them and not paying attention to the current status of his ground operators. Now the two combat teams participating in ALBANY COBRA were left to inaccurate data, the former conversation between SIDEWINDER and CIC not even reaching them. What did reach them was out of context, and only another order in the minds of FORCE RECON.

“All elements, this is 0-9. Reconnaissance has been misled.”

“GUITAR. I repeat; GUITAR.”

“Execute Fire Order Vermillion.”

“What the hell does it mean Recon is misled?” asked one of the Sergeant of Combat Team Alpha

“Probably means they didn’t expect the LRVs, you heard the lady, open fire” replied Staff Sergeant Khomeini.

With that simple directive, the 24 Marines of FORCE RECON began to execute ALBANY COBRA, oblivious to the fact that they may be killing allied forces, all just red dots in their minds and another anti-UN son of a bitch that ONI Intel had ordered them to gun down.

As if to confirm this, two sniper rifle rounds streaked through the air, striking the first and second vehicles and stopping the entire convoy. Cosette lowered her finger over the trigger of her BR55HB SR, shifting her body weight and bracing for the recoil of the rifle as she was in the crouched position, lining up to take out the driver of the third vehicle. The poor bastard didn’t even realize what had happened.

“Open fire!” yelled the corporal to her squad.

 <font color="#CACACA">Jennings & Rall  <font color="#CACACA"> [SLIPCOM]

58
FORCE RECON Operations Area (OPAREA) Midgard, 11 Draconic System

As the Convoy approached them, Sgt. Daniel Jackson realized that the Convoy was filled with M12 Warthogs and Davenport PMC Soldiers.

"Sgt. Jackson, Did you hear me?, Open Fire!!" said Cpl. Cossete Freeman. But, Jackson didn't respond, he was deciding on who to trust, UNSC SPARTAN or Freeman.

Then, Jackson's FORCE RECON Team opened fire on the Convoy and killed 2 Men and wounded another Man, this forced Jackson to make his decision.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE, HOLD YOUR FIRE" yelled Daniel Jackson. "FRIENDLY FIRE, FRIENDLY FIRE" said Jackson. The UNSC Marine FORCE RECON Team seized fire and watched the UNSC Commandos attack the Convoy.

"Dawson, be an Runner and tell the FORCE RECON Operators to seize fire" said Jackson. So, Dawson ran across the Treeline to make contact with the UNSC Commandos.

"SERGEANT JACKSON, DID YOU HEAR ME?!, OPE-" said Cossete Freeman before Jackson cut off Communications with her.

Daniel Jackson and the FORCE RECON Operators saw the UNSC Commandos rip apart the Convoy in half.

"Oh God, What have I done?!" thought Jackson.

SHOCKTROOPER

59
OPERA, Midgard

The order was given. The operators immediately sprung into action. Triggers were depressed. Lead flew. Blood, gore, the screams of the dying.

The Warthogs were riddled with over two-thousand bullets that day, according to ONI after-action reports. Those who had attempted to escape were destroyed in the minefield.

The Rangers had done what they were trained to do. Shoot on command. And so, they did. Very effectively.

The smell of gunpowder lingered, clogging Jackson's lungs. He coughed, and wiped the smoke away from his visor.

There was nothing left of that convoy, save for broken axles, blown out tires, and blackened hulls.

Jackson safed his weapon, and walked out into the smoke.

It was a dirty job. Someone had to do it.

Later, there was only one picture taken of the aftermath.

-- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 18:02, 19 January 2009 (UTC)

60
FORCE RECON Operations Area (OPAREA) Midgard, 11 Draconic System

The line of vehicles never stood a chance, with the amount of lead being poured down on the occupants combined with the lethal precision drilled into every Special Forces operator, whoever was aboard never stood a chance to mount a defensive. Now the dozen or so M12 Light Reconnaissance Vehicles were either a mangled, charred hulk or riddled with bullet holes and dripping with crimson. Cosette signaled to cease fire, scanning the carnage for any movement, ordering her squad to secure the site.

“Move forward, secure any survivors” called Freeman over the COM channels, holding her hand up and signaling anyone that may not hear her.

The FORCE RECON operators began to emerge from the treeline, moving in small formations and scanning the wreckage with their rifles, ready to fire on anything that moved. Opposite them, the Rangers followed suite, their soldier beginning to make a sweep of the remains of the convoy.

To a civilian it would seem as if the UNSC had just massacred a non-hostile force, bodies were strewn on the ground as well as still seated in the LRVs, as if they had just leaned back to catch some shuteye before reaching whatever objective they had intended to reach. Without any warning, gunfire broke out; a wounded contractor was propped up against the driver’s seat, a BR55 grasped in his extended arm as he depressed the trigger of the under slung shotgun, releasing a fury of lead upon the approaching operators.

Cosette took the three round burst to the chest, falling backwards to the ground and writhing on the dirt as her comrades responded. A burst from an MA8 in the clutches of a Ranger rang out, the man slouching and then falling from the ruined Warthog. Instantly her fireteam came to Freemans aid, the corporal gritting her teeth as she started to remove the armor plates from her body armor.

“Freeman!” shouted a concerned Merrill, going for his MedKit strapped to his hip.

“Shit!” Cosette yelled, pulling armor plate out of her vest. “I can’t believe I didn’t see the bastard!”

“She’s fine” called Clarke over the COM channel, most likely watching the scene through her optical scope or listening to the transmission.

“Don’t stay here, secure any survivors!” Cosette ordered, pulling herself to her feet.

Rangers were already busy, two soldiers pulling a wounded Davenport contractor from a burning Hog, the man muttering something as they dragged him across the dirt. Freeman wondered if ONI had intended there to be survivors.

 <font color="#CACACA">Jennings & Rall  <font color="#CACACA"> [SLIPCOM]

61
"What the hell did we just do?" Tobias said as he dropped the SPANKR.

"I... I don't know," Conall said as he looked up from his scope, "I, I think those were friendlies."

Tobias grabbed a pair of binoculars from his duffel bag sitting beside him, and looked towards the crarnage. "I don't see any movement, you think there are any survivors?"

Conall went back to his scope, slowly scanning though the fire and the destruction, quickly looking away as a fireball erupted from where he was looking.

"If anything is left alive, they won't be for long," Conall checked his radio again, just hearing some static and a few muffeled voices. Tobias slumped against a tree not believing what he has just done. His mind was awash with mixed feelings, he couldn't think straight, he pulled out his sidearm and started to disassemble it.

"What the hell are you doing?" Conall shouted, throwing his helmet on the ground, "We just killed a convoy of friendlies! We just murdered innocent people!"

"We, we don't know that," Tobais said as he already had his gun broken apart, "for all we know the terrorists just got a hold of some Warthogs."

"How the hell would they have gotten their hands of some 'hogs?" Conall yelled while pacing back and fourth, "We just killed innocent people, innocent fucking people."

Tobias, now having his sidearm reassembled, stood up, and hit Conall square in the jaw. Conall dropped where he stood, with his jaw obviously dislocated. The other Myrmidons just stared at him, not knowing what to think of what just happened.

"We don't fucking know..." Tobias murmured as he walked away, towards the wreckage to search for survivors.

Blake TalkWork 19:07, 19 January 2009 (UTC)

62
UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) Combat Information Center (CIC) FOB Hotel California, Midgard, 11 Draconis System

There was an infinite noiselessness in Hotel California's command center, quietude suspended in abeyance for an eternity.

Finally, Rowntree stirred.

The drone live-feed was on the central engorged panoramic screen.

From the eye of God, it was so serene, so silent.

Some muted crimson and tangerine lights that were probably small fires. Inky black rose and blotted out the scene; some smoke. Perhaps some twisted, indistinguishable metallic frames that had once been chassises.

Not too much else.

Some diminutive figures tentatively emerged from the treeline, intermingling with the fire and the smoke.

It was very insouciant, very soothing, peering upon a macabre scene of colossal massacre from the sky. It was almost action / reaction — Rowntree had uttered the deplorable word, and then the vista had erupted, ruptured in a bruise of sooty smoke and shattered vehicles.

It was done.

El fin.

There was no further comment.

It was concluded.

With almost a childlike disposition, the commodore observed the feed vacantly for a moment, and then casually shrugged.

One of her subordinate officers, an attaché with the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence, indicated a point on the main screen. Almost academically, the staff officer noted, “One of the Rangers has a prisoner.”

Rowntree didn’t care. It was a non-issue. “We’ll kill two birds with stone.”

She raised the microphone to her lips. “This is 0-9 to Saber. Bravo zulu. We read HOCKEY; objective has been prosecuted, repeat, objective has been prosecuted.”

“All combat elements, disengage from the target zone. It is a forensic area that ONI and post-mission reconnaissance needs to examine for intelligence. Do not touch any of the vehicles or the bodies. Their positions need to be preserved as much as possible.”

“Make your way to the PZ for extraction; medevac is standing by with mobile field surgery to load casualties. Sergeant Lovejoy, you're clear for post-op.”

On the far right of the tactical plot, an unfamiliar fast-moving blip streaked in.

RelentlessRecusant

63
Simon slumped against the rock he had planned to use for cover, oblivious to the movements and words that were picked up by his involuntary senses.

He'd tried, hadn't he? He'd given the troops under his command the order to hold fire, to stay their trigger fingers, to spare the lives of the men who had just died. He'd done the only thing possible, or so it had seemed at the time. But the men in the convoy were still dead, and what he had done had been meaningless. The only thing that had come of it was a possible court-martial for attempting to overrule the orders of a superior officer.

All of your hopes that we could cling to some shreds of decency in this war... whispered the voice that talked to him when he was vulnerable, that hissed his evil thoughts, his hopeless thoughts, his weak thoughts. You fool.

We're worse then the rebels, he thought to himself. ''The rebels aren't arrogant and powerful like us. They kill the innocent, but they aren't hypocrites about it. Not like us.''

All his talk to Redmond about sparing lives when possible. Arrogance. The words of a fool.

He could have done something more, Simon knew this. But he couldn't decide what that something was. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished the thoughts and noises would go away.

64
UNSCSOCOM Task Force 51 (TF51) OPAREA, Operation: ALBANY COBRA Midgard, 11 Draconis System


 * Operational Perimeter

A kilometer from the operations area, an estranged, exotic craft emerges from the crystal skies, nestles upon ground like a pregnant wasp.

Three humanoid shadows disperse from its swollen abdomen.

A moment later, they all disappear into the midday sky.


 * PZ "Rally Delta"

The TF51 operators moved briskly, with vigilance and with muted urgency. The extraction phase of an operation was paramount; for long, vulnerable minutes the extraction dropships and medevac had been alighted on the ground of the PZ (pickup zone) — tempting, vulnerable targets; undefended targets that a single anti-materiel round could lance and cause the mission to degenerate into a disastrous rescue mission.

Time to consider the operation and the dead would come later.

First, they needed to secure themselves on their ships; once they were on outbound vectors and clear from the range of any enemy surface-to-air installations, they could contemplate.

For Corporal Cosette Freeman of UNSC Marine Force Reconnaissance, she had memorized the exact tail number and callsign of the D72-TC King Penguin jet-powered dropship that would ferrying her and her team, along with a Ranger squad, out of the danger zone.

There was an unfamiliar stranger awaiting her at the foot of her craft.

“Corporal Cosette Freeman-Moskvina?”

She quirked her eyebrows curiously. Her mother’s maiden name was typically redacted from her name.

“Yes?”

The figure said nothing.

Behind her was a Ranger corpsman with a blood-stained stretcher on the ground that contained the one surviving hostile from the ALBANY COBRA operation—he’d sustained a grievous chest wound, and crimson the striking color of seething arterial blood was copiously seeping from his chest, and his militaristic fatigues were already nigrous with copious blood.

The Ranger medic, although assigned to her pickup King Penguin, was moving the pickup stretcher to the medevac craft, where there waited a team of field surgeons and pararescuemen that would stabilize the patient for the long nearly hour-long flight back to Hotel California, where a Class Two field hospital existed.

The figure held up a hand to the Ranger.

“I’m sorry, sir. The medevac is full. Please board this dropship with your patient.”

Cosette looked peculiarly at the interloper, then at the Ranger medic.

She said on impulse, not checking her words; “What? There were no friendly casualties. The medevac is empty. It can take on patients.”

The figure stared at her, and subconsciously, she flinched from that caustic, acrid stare. The battle of wills had already been lost.

She could not help but feel that there was an inexorable power in the air, gripping her like a vice.

Something was horridly awry that she could not even fathom. Some escalating darkness.

She couldn’t even into his eyes.

And within her heart, she felt an unfamiliar emotion – fear. She felt a sickening aura pervade her stomach, and she didn’t even know why she was terrified, terrified when surrounded by hundreds of her fellow soldiers and comrades.

What she knew was one thing.

That man, the man that been waiting for her at the King Penguin, was darkness. Darkness incarnate.

When she and her team and the Ranger chalk had boarded the King Penguin, there were three unaccustomed people with them—the foreign soldier that had appeared out of nowhere, and the Ranger paramedic, huddled over his dying patient.

But as Cosette looked at the distant medevac, she could not help but feel that something was wrong.

There was no one on the medevac.

Why had the medic been ordered to bring the patient onto this dropship?

Who was that soldier? Why was he giving orders?

Why was she so fearful?


 * Reconnaissance Phase Line

Jamal-002 lagged a small amount of time after the other members of Azure Team; he’d dispatched Gabriel and Helen ahead to the PZ.

He’d told them that he just wanted to check the cabin, ensure that they’d left no gear behind, and obediently, his two SPARTAN teammates had gone ahead towards the extraction point.

That was a lie.

For minutes now, he vacantly stared at the ruins of the convoy in the pass below, gazing at their gentle flames, as if trying to discern a cosmic truth from the carnage.

He was.

He’d knew that there’d been Davenport PMCs on that convoy. He knew that there’d been UNSC M12 Warthog LRVs in there.

Now, after Task Force 51 opened fire, conveniently, all traces of that had been erased. Permanently redacted.

The UNSC investigators that picked through the wreckage would be fortuitous if they could find a single unbroken seat, much less find evidence of the Warthogs and that there’d once been Davenport PMCs before they were vaporized in scalding fire.

And there he was, gargantuan imposing UNSC SPARTAN, helmet doffed, sitting by the window, distantly staring at the yonder mountains.

Riveted at the mountains.

He couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t un-remember. He knew what they’d done. What the Commodore had done, what Task Force 51 had done.

She’d removed his command because he’d told the assault squadron that those were friendlies.

Clearly, there was something askew about this. Someone didn’t want something getting out.

And now, he was taking the fall for it.

He knew it with an absolute certainty.

Gazing at the subdued inferno of intertwined limbs and disintegrated metal below, he knew that wreckage held secrets that someone would kill to protect.

Operation: ALBANY COBRA hadn’t been the elementary procedural mission that Rowntree had advertised.

There was something more; he’d taken a peek at what laid behind the operation, and someone now knew he knew too much.

The stray light from his chronometer caught his eyes, and he was internally stirred by the electronic digits.

0834 hours zulu.

One minute until extraction phase is complete.

If he didn’t run like hell for the PZ, he’d be left behind forever in this hellish wasteland, left behind.

His fingers snapped like a gunshot’s report for his helmet, to doff it and so that he could make the fastest sprint to the extraction point that he’d ever run—

Once his helmet fit securely onto his neck seal with a reassuring sursurrating pneumatic rustle, his HUD flickered back to life again as it was re-powered.

He hit the Azure TEAMCOM. “Gabriel? Helen? This is Jamal—I’ve been held up, en route to PZ now. Hold off the extraction take-off—”

Something insistently flashed across his visor, in heavy bold text.

'''ECM FAULT. NO CARRIER DETECTED. CAN NOT TRANSMIT.'''

His chestnut irises stared glassily at the internal error message for a moment before he parsed the message for what it meant.

''Electromagnetic countermeasure fault. No carrier wave detected. Can’t transmit communiqué.''

The message’s contents were so out-of-context that his synapses paused momentarily, giving pause.

Electromagnetic countermeasures.

Electromagnetic countermeasures, commonly abbreviated as “ECM” in UNSCSOCOM rhetoric, was the military parlance for electronic warfare (EW) operations that utilized electromagnetic processes to disrupt enemy communications or sensor systems.

For his MJOLNIR armor’s internal communications system, “ECM” meant only one thing.

Someone was jamming him.

The adrenaline spiked, and convulsively, his hands seized his rifle.

There was a high-pitched whine nearby, and as Jamal reflexively threw himself to the floor to steel himself against the inevitable explosion, his eyes caught motion beyond the window—

There, flying in the mountain pass, was the most exotic aircraft he’d ever seen.

It was so idiosyncratic and outlandish that his eyes fixated upon it. The teardrop fuselage, the way that the vessel’s outlines blurred with the midday air, almost seamlessly melding into the sky.

His rifle’s snubbed nose leapt up, began tracing the aircraft’s angle of attack as his trigger finger tensed against the trigger—

There were electronic whines behind him, and on combat instinct, he turned, rifle leveled—

Two humanoid figures peeled from the air, as if emerging from some netherworld and calmly stepping into this plane of existence.

When they became visible, Jamal-002 found himself staring at the most exotic creatures he’d ever seen.

Their lissome physiques, so slender as to impoverished, were clad in skintight jumpsuits, taut garments that followed every line of their bodies. They were faceless—their faces were glad in oversized goggles that burned with unnatural sapphire light, their dark forms illuminated only by the copious beryl light flowing from their faces.

His picosecond of shocked hesitation surrendered to combat instinct. He had no clue out of what hell these assassins called home, but he knew one thing for certain;

They weren’t human.

His index finger snapped down on the rifle’s trigger.

Nothing happened.

For a long second, Jamal stared, expecting the rifle to shudder with recoil in his grip, for his two visitors to wither under an artificial storming zephyr of iron projectiles.

Nothing happened.

In abject horror, he stared at his rifle’s internal ammunition indicator.

36

Not a single shot had been fired.

The fuck?

His finger slammed down hard on the receiver again, triggering a long volley of automatic fire.

Nothing.

Did it jam?

He couldn’t even comprehend, begin to understand, for his mind was enshrouded with such horror—

It was so surreal. So unnatural that he knew he must be in the midst of some midnight psychedelic hallucination.

He even lifted the rifle to check that his index finger was pressing down on the trigger.

Still, he wasn’t shooting.

He closed his eyes, willing that when he opened his eyes, he would emerge from his abysmal delusion, this hellish daydream.

When he opened his eyes, he was still in the cabin, flanked by the two otherworldly visitors, the alien craft still hovering in the air nearby. A stenciled, flickering crimson ray of light shone from one of the ship’s apertures, fixated him in its sights.

A targeting laser.

There was something so inviolable. Something so wrong that some fundamental quantum law of the universe was being violated.

Something was so pervasively insidious that Jamal felt sickened.

This was impossible.

Rifles didn’t not fire when you pressed their triggers.

There were no faceless paranormal visitors.

There were no alien spaceships flying beyond the window.

He had never felt this before, but—

Fear flooded his system. An almost childlike innocence, a plea welled within him.

The two figures raised their bulky rifles—futuristic rifles gleaming with cobalt fire running down their lengths.

Jamal was affixed in the crosshairs of a storm of laser sights.

When one of the soldiers spoke, it was the most satanic sound his ears had ever heard; with each utterance, the skies were blinded, the stars died.

“You disobeyed orders, soldier.”

Jamal stared in abject horror, unable to fire, unable to fight.

“''You are a traitor. If the weapons had escaped, the blood of billions would be on your hands''.”

''The convoy. It’s talking about the convoy'', he realized.

The SPARTAN recognized what the other being was trying to do.

“No. You’re a liar. There were no weapons. Those were friendlies, and we just slaughtered them.”

“Speak to me that way again, you will suffer the consequences.”

He knew that. It was a threat.

SPARTANs didn’t take threats.

He lunged at the alien, and almost insouciantly, it raised a five-fingered hand, raised a long, serpentine finger.

The eruption was incredible. Jamal was wrested from his feet and by invisible powers so colossal he couldn’t fathom, half a ton of armor and flesh were picked up by the hand of God and carelessly flung against the far wall.

The blow had been unimaginable.

No force in the universe could fling a fully-armored SPARTAN into the air.

The wall of the cabin dented, and he almost elastically bounced off from the wall, collapsing onto the barren floor. He felt the sickening, nauseous crunches—bones were broken. A horribly familiar wetness seeped into his abdomen and he knew he was internally bleeding.

The archangel hadn’t even touched him and he’d been thrown into the air.

He looked into the figure’s eyes, and saw no eyes.

From those dark recesses in his face, only two pinpoint azure lights shone out.

He was staring into blue light.

It had no eyes.

Horribly, with desperate pleading, he weakly raised a broken hand to forestall the inevitable as the visitor calmly stalked closer—

“You will never allow that to happen again.”

The figure pinched together two fingers, and Jamal rose into the air in the clasp of an unseen hand, and he felt the inexorable, crushing force against his delicate cartilaginous trachea as he was gripped by some invisible hand and levitated into the air, and his body contorted and writhed hideously in plea—

He forced himself to stare into the being’s eyes.

He only saw two scintillating stars of chilling azure light.

“You have failed for the last time.”

The last thing he remembered was seeing streaming sapphire light. It was a horrible way to die.

His last thoughts were for his team mates. He hoped they never experienced such fear when they died.

*  *   *

He awoke to a concerned and familiar sight.

Someone was shining a brilliant light into his unvisored eyes, checking for the pupillary light reflexes.

In shock, he recognized that face.

“Helen?”

“Fuck, sir. What’ve you been doing? We sent you so many calls over the COM that we thought you were dead—”

The two beings were gone.

Their ship was gone.

He was lying on the floor, his limbs eagle-spread.

His team mates and a team of Ranger medics were crouching over him.

He awoke with a thought, a terrible urgency pulsating through his veins.

“Where are they? We need to—”

Gabriel turned to face him. “What? Who’s they?”

He stared.

No one would ever believe him. They wouldn’t believe the alien ship. The two phantasmal visitors with the burning eyes of beryl light.

They would never believe him. Ever again.

He lied, “Nothing.”

“What the fuck have you been up to? Your armor’s so banged up it looks like you tried to run through a plasma storm.”

“Nothing”, said Jamal.

But when his fingers felt his throat, he felt the raw blisters, the blood where some paranormal force had seized him by the throat, lifted him into the air—

They were real.

“Nothing at all.”

*  *   *


 * D72-TC King Penguin “Bravo 713”

“Thirty thousand feet”, announced the pilot. “Out of short-range SAM umbrella coverage.”

The tension slightly eased from the Ranger and FORCE RECON operators assembled in the King Penguin’s cavernous womb, including Cosette.

The faceless soldier in the corner said nothing.

He was some chthonic creature. Corporal Freeman couldn’t even look at him.

What she knew was that something was wrong.

And that very soon, there was something horrible that was about to happen.

Her fears were fulfilled when the faceless soldier stood suddenly, palmed the release for the troop bay. The clamshell cargo doors opened, and the SOF troopers turned with some concerned surprise to see that behind their dropship was a world of desert mountains, a barren waste. Ripping atmospheric currents slammed into the troop bay, threatening to tear all the troopers from their seats into the raging sky.

Cosette screamed furiously, “What are you doing?”

Wordlessly, the soldier turned towards the stretcher, grabbing it in his hands.

The medic said with surprise, “Sir, please put down the stretcher. The patient’s still critical. We need to stabilize him.”

The soldier didn’t listen, continued raising the stretcher higher. The patient, anesthesized, began the moan slightly, entering the hellish realm of consciousness again.

The Ranger continued, more urgently now, “Sir! I need to stabilize him! Put down the patient!”

The visitor dragged the stretcher towards the open troop bay door, and Cosette had a vision of what was to come—

She stood up, but it was too late.

With a single motion, the visitor threw the bloodied stretcher out of the King Penguin’s troop bay, and the howling Davenport PMC screamed with demonic caterwauls as he vanished.

The last part of him that Cosette remembered was his screaming face.

The visitor had murdered the prisoner.

And then, a moment later, the faceless killer vanished as well.

~RelentlessRecusant

65
Jamal, now awake, and inside of a hospital, rested his back on a pillow, and began to type out a message to the Office of Naval Intelligence, Section III.

"Dear Section Three,

It is my regret that I must say, one of your finest suits of armor, over sixty years old, has been damaged by two Sith Lords using the force, throwing me against a wall, then attempting to choke me. And so, with that said, I can haz Mk. VI?"

He quickly highlighted the text, then pressed "delete".

''What am I supposed to say? That Darth Vader and the Chancellor showed up, used their force magic on me, wrecked my entire suit of armor, and now, I need a new variant?''

He shook his head, then typed up a quick message to some officer in Section Three, who he only knew as "The Blacksmith", who was apparently the new guy in charge of MJOLNIR.

PLNB Priority Transmission XX953R-XX Encryption Code: OMEGA Public Key: N/A From: SPARTAN-002 (Jamal) To: CODENAME: BLACKSMITH Subject: MJOLNIR Mk. VI Classification: EYES ONLY TOP SECRET (SECTION III X-RAY DIRECTIVE)

Following Operation: ALBANY COBRA, I encountered two hostiles, origin unknown. After a brief confrontation, where I suffered broken bones and my MJOLNIR Mk. IV armor was severely damaged, the hostiles left in this futuristic looking craft (forward to all parties necessary).

To cut to the chase - Myself and my team AZURE are in dire need of MJOLNIR Mk. VI, as the six-decades old Mk. IV is ineffective against new found threats.

Why is it that your HPA agents get the best in the business while one of the last remaining SPARTAN-II teams is neglected?

/end file/ /scramble-destruction process enabled/

Press ENTER to continue. </tt>

After pressing "SEND", he went to sleep, and immediately, he relived what had happened earlier.

-- <font color="White">SPARTAN <font color="White">-002 <font color="White">[The Hero] <font color="White">[The Team] <font color="White">[A New Chronicle] 03:56, 20 January 2009 (UTC)