Halo: Sanctuary

The Man
The walls of the building shook, rousing the cell’s single occupant into consciousness. He groaned and sat upright, ignoring the various twinges of pain from his chest and legs. The man heaved himself out of bed and staggered over to the sink; running water was the only luxury allowed in the prison. He ran it for a few seconds before cupping the liquid in his hands and splashing it over his lined face. It was almost certainly dirty and contaminated, but the icy coldness hit and made him shiver before straightening up.

''Still alive. Still here. How long have I been here now?''

Ignoring the distant rumbling, the man checked himself over in the mirror. He hadn’t been able to shave for well over a month now, and as a result had developed a straggly beard to go with his unkempt hair. The only remotely fresh thing about him was the bandage wrapped round his head and right eye; something he’d been given after his last and only escape attempt. The jailors had promised to take his other eye if he tried again, so he’d remained in his cell and kept quiet for the last few weeks.

''There is no escape. Your lives belong to us. We are your Gods now. Evil bastards.''

That was what the wardens told the prisoners here. There were barely a hundred inmates, all here for various supposed crimes. He’d never spoken to the others. Any communication resulted in a beating, as he’d quickly learned. They were like he had been though, in some ways; military men fit and strong, now wasting away in this hole. As the man went to sit back on his rickety bed, the walls shook violently and dust drifted from the ceiling. That got his attention.

“Okay, everybody up! Cell inspection, now!”

The prisoner pulled a grubby shirt over his bruised chest before shuffling towards his cell door. Moments later, the guards thundered past in full combat gear. That was odd. Usually they wore simple olive fatigues, and carried pistols or shock sticks. Something was definitely up. As the last of them ran past towards the other cells, the head warden strode up to his cell.

“Morning Mitchell, you fucking wreck.”

Mitchell nodded. You never spoke back unless given permission to, and never gave them any sort of backchat. The head warden was a native Mamorian named Keller, a thirty-something meathead with a booming voice and a real love for beating prisoners. He’d personally taken Mitchell’s eye out with that knife of his not long ago. He rattled his keychain, and unlocked the cell door.

“Right then, one-eye. You’re out first, General’s orders. You will walk with your hands on your head in front of me. You will not run, you will not look back or I will shoot you. Move.”

Keller never asked questions, only gave orders. Mitchell proceeded as ordered and walked slowly out of the cell block. As he exited, the sounds of gunfire filled the room behind him. He bowed his head as the Warden nudged him sharply in the back with his rifle. The pair walked in silence for several minutes, ascending two staircases until they were on the ground level. It suddenly occurred to Mitchell that the base was probably being hit hard if even the deep cells were shaking. Asking what was going on would only earn him a punch, so he kept going until Keller ordered him to stop.

“Don’t move,” he said in a low voice. “Amenwae ordered us to keep you alive at all costs, but I’m not dying for meat like you. When we get outside you’re going to move with the others. Anything happens and you’ll be the one catching bullets, clear?”

That was a question. Keller was worried; a first for him.

“Yeah,” Mitchell replied. He instantly realised his mistake as the bigger man stamped into the back of his knee, forcing him down.

“Excuse me?” he hissed, taking his boot off for a moment. “I didn’t hear that, you fucking-“

Just behind them, the wall burst inwards with a deafening noise. Keller was thrown sideways into the wall, struggling to grip onto some piping as plaster and masonry scattered into the hallway.

Mitchell had already turned.

It was easy. It was just too easy. Mitchell pushed Keller’s rifle down with one hand while he balled the other into a fist and brought it up onto his chin. The big man fell back, his grip loosening just long enough for the prisoner to snatch the rifle. Mitchell could have shot him in the head there and then, but it would have been far too slow. He brought he butt of the rifle down on Keller’s nose as hard as he could. There was a satisfying snap as blood began to leak out onto his face. Though shoeless and filthy, Mitchell then kicked his jailor in the groin and again in the stomach before he could ball up. With the pain coursing through him, he didn’t have the time to draw the knife that hung at his belt, something that Mitchell took full advantage of.

Payback.

He didn’t bother with taunts or one-liners. Mitchell simply snatched Keller’s knife and stabbed twice, once into each eye. The man screamed in agony, blood and tears mixing as his sight was taken from him. The other man merely took a few steps back and watched him writing around on the floor, wailing and cursing blindly. He briefly entertained the idea of taking the knife to other reasons of his tormentor’s body, but time wasn’t something he had. Still, Mitchell felt slightly sickened rather than overjoyed at this sight. He raised the rifle.

“Hey, Keller.”

He took aim as the blind man’s face snapped up towards the noise. Even with his sight taken from him, Keller knew full well what came next.

“Ple-“

Mitchell fired once, drilling a hole through the man’s forehead. He fell back and was still. The sound of gunfire was getting much closer to his location, as were the explosions that struck the compound outside. A chilly wind was blowing in, accompanied by a few snowflakes. He shivered; back on Earth he’d heard the phrase ‘Colder than a Mamorian Winter’. Whoever said that was certainly right. Mitchell ran through the base’s corridors, ducking past windows as flares lit up the night sky around the base’s perimeter. Eventually he burst through a side door into what he assumed were the barracks. Two half-dressed guards scrambled for their weapons, only to be gunned down by his rifle. One died instantly, while the other was caught in the gut and fell with a scream. Mitchell raised the rifle for a headshot, only to have the weapon jam. He sighed in annoyance and checked the side of his gun.

''MA3A. Older weapon, almost certainly black market-bought. Typical, Keller never took proper care of the damn thing.''

That left him with the knife. He knelt down and slashed the man’s throat, drowning the screams with blood. He died after a few seconds. Mitchell rummaged through the lockers until he found one with fresh fatigues inside. They were dark green, and thankfully lacking any logo that might identify him with his group. He’d seen some uniforms adorned with the silver stars and red stripes of The Legion; most of the soldiers here were probably just mercenaries, though. Mitchell spent several minutes getting dressed from what he could find, stealing a pair of combat boots and other clothes to keep wrapped up outside. As he went to leave, he grabbed a pistol from one of the dead men and a better cared-for MA5B from the other.

''I’m out. I’m out and I’m getting the fuck off this planet.''

Mitchell stepped outside, rifle ready. He’d barely seen the base since he was brought in, and weeks underground had screwed with his senses somewhat; he was glad that it was before sunrise. Several buildings were on fire, and he had to duck towards the wall as a trio of Hornets swooped overhead. A siren was blaring in the distance. Mitchell took his chance and sprinted forward, panting a little from the sudden exertion on his battered body. It seemed that most of the soldiers were heading towards the vehicle bay. Perfect.

“C’mon, mount up!” roared a uniformed man from nearby: A Legion man for certain. “We’ve got tangos hitting us from the west, and marksmen to the north. Take them the fuck out!”

Darting between two parked vehicles, Mitchell sighted a mechanic attempting to fix a broken-down ATV. The man had his back to the escapee, and couldn’t hear him coming on account of his thick balaclava. Mitchell pulled it off as he slit the mechanic’s throat, clasping a hand over his mouth and letting him down gently into the dirt. As the officer nearby began shouting once more, he slipped the balaclava over his head, straightening it up as he joined the group of soldiers.

“Right, Echo troop’s engaged the enemy to the north, unknown size. That’ll stop the bastards mortaring us for a while. The rest of you are to hunt down whoever’s sniping our boys. Take captives if you can but otherwise it’s seek and destroy.”

There was a chorus of acknowledgements as a line of vehicles drove up towards the soldiers. From what Mitchell could see, they were mostly retrofitted civilian trucks with machine guns or grenade launchers, though there were several military-grade warthogs. The rear vehicle was even possessed a missile launcher. As they mounted up, the officer glanced towards the building, and back to the group.

“Where the fuck is Sergeant Keller? Bastard’s supposed to have the HVI here by now, the fat sack of shit.” He pointed towards the two men closest to Mitchell. “Both of you, see what’s taking him so long. I gave that moron a simple fucking task.”

As the pair ran off, Mitchell sighed inwardly. He wasn’t sure how he would’ve reacted to being ordered to find himself back there. All he had to do now was act like he was just part of the group and escape into the nearby city at the first opportunity. After that he’d get off Mamore and run for his life, just like he’d been doing for the past couple of years. Mitchell clambered into the cab of a nearby truck, sitting alongside two others. One wore a balaclava like his, while the other had a scarf and woolly hat. He was glad to be sitting on the right side; his bandaged eye was out of sight in the darkened truck as it began to move with the rest of the convoy.

“Who do you think’s out there?” asked the man in the middle. He looked to be in his early twenties, and sounded all too cheerful for someone on their way to a firefight.

“Oonskies, prob’ly,” the driver muttered. He sounded older, probably around Mitchell’s age. The young man seemed a little nervous at that remark.

“You sure?”

“Must be.”

Mitchell couldn’t help but comment. “UNSC would’ve flattened this place if they were attacking. It’s probably mercs or a PMC doing this.”

“How would you know?”

“Used to be a Marine back during the war. Usual strategy would be to send in ODST’s from orbit, backed up by Shortsword bombings to incapacitate potential targets and Marine landings via Pelican. The base defences would’ve fallen within an hour.”

The other two remained silent for a few seconds as they continued along the dirt path leading into the foothills. To their right, Mitchell could make out the lights of the nearest city, Agadir. ''Just have to make it there. Have to escape.'' The young man gave him a good look before speaking.

“What made you turn?”

“What?”

“I mean, what led you to the Legion?”

“Oh, right.” Mitchell swallowed, having barely spoken for over a month. “Sick of their bullshit, mostly. I signed up to fight Covenant, not beat down farmers. Left after the war and drifted for a while. Signed up with the Legion not long ago.”

“Ah, right.” Mitchell had told some of the truth there, at least. “I was born on Terceira after the war, myself. Parents grew corn for the colonies. I was gonna be a farmer until the Legion showed up, told us what they were doing for folk like us. I wanted to make a difference. Y’know?”

Mitchell nodded. This kid is gonna die in his first fucking firefight. “What about you?” he asked the drver.

“Mind yer own fuckin’ business,” came the reply.

“Fair enough.”

The truck kept going for a little while, stopping for a little while to wait for one of the lead vehicles to pull itself from a ditch. It seemed like an awful lot of troops to go after a few snipers, but Mitchell wasn’t about to question the Legion’s tactical decisions. The cab’s radio crackled to life as the officer who’d sent them out began to shout.

“All units be advised, we have an escaped prisoner. The HVI is loose, I repeat, Ash Mitchell has escaped the facility. He is to be taken alive if possible, and is likely armed and dangerous. A reward will be given from Legion HIGHCOM to whoever captures him. Escapee is fifty-one years of age with brown hair, a medium build and is missing an eye. Find him and bring him in, over and out.”

As the truck started to move again, the driver snorted. “Hope they kill that fucker, I heard what he did years ago.”

“Yeah,” the young man agreed. “The fucking Butcher of Kuiper, they called him. Should’ve shot that murderer on sight, agreed?”

The driver nodded. As he turned to hear Mitchell’s opinion he froze as the cold steel of a knife pressed against his throat. The older man was quick on the ball and was already reaching for his sidearm when Mitchell shot him in the head. Blood and chunks of bone sprayed against the truck’s windows.

“You drive.”

“I-“

“Do it or I’ll cut your fucking throat. Push him out.”

The young man complied. As the trucks behind them blared their horns, he opened the door and pushed the bloody corpse out onto the side of the road. The driver’s body rolled into the snow and out of sight. Mitchell slowly moved the knife back, but kept the pistol trained on the man’s head. His eyes were wide with fear, but he was evidently smart enough to simply comply.

“You’re-“

“Yes. Keep following the convoy for now. Turn right at the next opportunity.”

“They told us to stay with the-“

“I know. We’re heading to Agadir.”

“Why?”

“Say another word and I’ll shoot you in the head.”

Thankfully, the kid kept quiet and continued to drive. For a few moments Mitchell thought he’d gotten away with it when a loud rapping from behind him caught his attention. There was a sliding panel between the cab and the back, where an entire squad of Legion soldiers sat. Mitchell kept his pistol low and opened it.

“Yeah, what is it?”

A helmeted man peered through. Is everything okay up there, we heard-“

Mitchell shot the man in the face. With his free hand, he grabbed his driver’s utility belt and unhooked an M9 frag grenade. As the men in the back struggled to raise their weapons in the confined space, he pulled the pin and tossed it back there before sliding back the hatch. “Go right!”

“But-“

“Go right, now!”

As the truck veered off the road and onto a slope, Mitchell opened the cab door and dived out. The dirt was hard, though the snow cushioned his fall somewhat as he rolled down the hill. Ahead of him the back of the truck exploded, sending pieces of scorched metal and human remains flying before the flaming vehicle overturned and came to a halt. Mitchell gritted his teeth to ignore the pain and made his way down the snow-covered slope as quickly as he could. Behind him, two of the trucks had stopped to investigate.

''Fuck, gotta make this fast. Arm up, run for my life.''

The back of the truck was blown to pieces, but the cab seemed mostly intact after the blast. As he approached, he could hear a voice shouting from inside.

“-Mitchell. He blew up the truck and is on foot, gonna need reinforcements here ASAP.”

This fucking piece of shit had to play hero, didn’t he?

One of the doors slid open and the young soldier crawled out, only to see Mitchell striding towards him. He didn’t seem to be armed with anything but a flashlight from what he could see, and backed up towards the truck at the sight of him.

“Look man, fuck you! I’m doing my duty, and if that means dying for the cause to get a motherfucker like you, then it’s worth it!”

Mitchell pitied the kid. Poor bastard was going to let himself die just to rat out a man who’d taken out a dozen men in the last half an hour. He raised his pistol, then lowered it slightly. Mitchell glanced towards the top of the slope and sighted several men with rifles and flashlights making their way down. They’d be on him in minutes. ''Maybe I’ll let this one go. Just this once, I’ll let-''

His thoughts were interrupted by a faint noise, then a piercing pain as something struck him in the leg. Mitchell shot thrice, hitting his attacker in the neck and chest before turning to run away. ''I almost let him live. Almost. He’d have fucking lived if he’d just sat there.'' Glancing down, he saw a silver object sticking out of his upper leg. The kid had stowed a ballistic knife on him – ancient technology by any count, but effective. The injury seriously hampered his movement, and the knife was stuck too deeply to pull out for the time being. A voice rang out through loudspeakers over the icy plains.

“Mitchell, throw down your weapons and give up, there’s nowhere for you to run!”

It was that officer again. Mitchell wasn’t going back. He’d die first. With city lights in the distance and the sun beginning to rise on the horizon, he kept on limping past bare trees and the frozen grass towards freedom. A quick glance back showed dozens of armed men heading forward, hampered slightly by the snow and pre-dawn darkness as they hunted down their quarry. In the hills, gunfire rang out, accompanied by several explosions towards the base as the attackers began their bombardment once more.

“Mitchell, don’t make this harder for yourself. Surrender now and we’ll ensure that you are taken offplanet safely!”

Bullshit. They’d take his other eye and lock him up in another cell for what he’d done. Two Hornets swooped over the fields with searchlights, searching for the fugitive. It would only be a matter of time before they switched to thermals and picked him out, miles from the city and sanctuary. Mitchell was having a hard enough time seeing through the snowfall, though several structures soon came into sight ahead. At first glance he thought it might have been a farm of sorts, but as he drew closer it became clear by the broken windows and ruined walls that this had been one of the many towns destroyed in one of the many rebel conflicts that blighted Mamore. He panted, and entered a rundown house to catch his breath before the officer’s voice rang out once more.

“We’re closing in, Mitchell. You can’t run forever.”

“Fuck you,” he muttered, breathing slowly and shaking his head. The pain from his bleeding wound was certainly keeping his adrenaline pumping, but Mitchell knew from experience that eventually a man’s legs would simply give way as his body was exhausted. He wasn’t exactly young any more, either. The momentary glimpse of a flashlight snapped him to attention, Mitchell crouching by a window as more soldiers entered the abandoned town.

“-footprints end around here. Spread out and find him, now!”

“What about the-“

“Never mind that, our flyboys will take care of it. Just find him!”

Mitchell wondered what was keeping the Hornets off him. A distant explosion may have answered that for him. It certainly spooked the soldiers, several of whom turned to watch something else before searching the houses. That gave Mitchell time to dart out of the back door and move around an alleyway, narrowly avoiding two of the men as they ran past. He slipped into the next building behind them, and shot the pair in the back of the head at close range. They dropped instantly, though by the time Mitchell looted a rifle off one several more began to enter. He barely managed to take one down before another hit him in the chest with a pistol. The low calibre round didn’t penetrate thanks to his combat vest, though it winded Mitchell as he shot the others. “He’s in here, take him out!”

“No, they want him alive!”

“Bravo One-Six is down! One-Five, One-Three, move in to intercept!”

He didn’t have much time to listen to his foes barking at one another. Mitchell scrambled out of the house and spent the rest of his rifle’s magazine hosing down three more before dropping the weapon and sprinting for the edge of town. Bullets whizzed past him, a couple barely grazing the man as he weaved left and right on his mad sprint. Eventually one caught him in the lower back, hitting Mitchell solidly and causing him to fall by another wall. The man cried out for a moment in pain, but rolled into a sitting position as he hit the ground. The next three to run round after him were shot dead, with many more on the way.

''Last round. Fuck, fuck, fuck.''

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was going to escape. He was going to get out alive. Ash Mitchell wasn’t going to top himself in the ass-end of nowhere on fucking Mamore of all places. He had to survive. He had to keep going on. Still, he only had one bullet. It was that or back to being tortured by the Legion.

“Shit.”

There seemed to be a lot of gunfire from nearby. Either they were trying to wound him and missing spectacularly or they’d started killing each other over who got the award for taking him in. Mitchell didn’t want to give any of them that pleasure. Four of the soldiers edged around the wall and were greeted with the sight of a bloody and beaten Mitchell with a gun to his head. “Don’t do it, Mitchell!”

“Why not?”

“You don’t wanna do this.”

“Maybe I do.”

The men glanced round at one another. Clearly some of them were totally fine with Mitchell blowing his brains out in the snow, but they got behind their leader on this one.

“Just drop the gun, we can sort this out.”

Mitchell sighed. “Fuck you and your Legion, I’ll die on my own goddamn terms.”

The leader opened his mouth to speak once more, but was silenced as a hail of bullets tore his squad to shreds. They dropped and bled out in the snow, and silence filled the cold air of dawn. Mitchell wasn’t sure whether or not to point the gun at his head or towards whoever fired those shots. Then, a figure strode into view, carrying two assault rifles.

Well, I certainly didn’t see this coming.

A massive armoured figure peered down at the wounded man from behind an opaque visor. This one clearly didn’t mean him any harm, and wasn’t particularly bothered by the fact he had a gun to his head, or by the incoming rebel troops. Then he spoke.

“Ash Mitchell, I presume. I’ve been looking for you.”

The Machine
The target would be gone by sunrise. That’s what the intel said, at least. From his position fifteen floors above ground, the Spartan had a perfect view of both the rally and the base. The main event had ended hours ago, so its organisers weren’t going to be around for long. He checked his datapad one more time for the man he was after: Roger Maxon.

An image flashed up of a male Caucasian with greying hair and a serious look in his dark eyes. There were a few older pictures of him in the grey uniform of the UNSC Navy, though recent ones pictures him in the dark green dress uniform that identified him as part of The Legion.

This is the bastard that started another pointless war.

Of course, the United Earth Government didn’t take kindly to people starting up their own governments out in the colonies, and had publicly denounced the Legion’s claim as a legitimate power. To many the UEG seemed to be in denial, with nine colonies having cut ties with Earth in the past five years. It wasn’t long before the fighting started, followed by the millions of refugees, widespread propaganda and hunting down of rebel sympathisers across multiple worlds. The Spartan had taken part in more than a fair share of these missions in the last few years, though this one was supposed to end the War.

Probably won’t. They’d make a martyr of him and keep fighting.

Standing at nearly seven feet tall, the Spartan would have a hard time working as an infiltrator, especially with the Legion’s spy network and the various other signs that made it clear what he was to any onlooker. Besides, he didn’t feel comfortable outside of half a ton of MJOLNIR armour. The tan-coloured suit had been refurbished with a new helmet and paint job before the mission to replace his older one, and was probably the single most expensive thing on Mamore right now. A nearby computer flashed a red warning sign as a number of vehicles began to move down the street. He crouched by it and brought up the display on a camera he’d set up earlier.

Two trucks, seven cars.

One of the cars possessed tinted windows and was clearly reinforced to withstand bullets, bomb blasts and ramming. Definitely Maxon’s. The Spartan placed his helmet on, allowing the blue HUD to flash up before he flipped a switch nearby. The street below lit up as his explosives detonated, collapsing much of the road in an instant. His camera went down, but the armoured soldier paid it little heed as he sprinted out of the room and down the abandoned hotel’s corridor. By his reckoning he had a little over three hours to make it to his RV point, where a Pelican dropship would be waiting. Any later and he’d have to make it off Mamore on his own.

“Signal came from in here! Search every room, find whoever did this!”

''That was fast. Too fast.''

Even by the Legion’s fairly good standards, they shouldn’t have been able to track this back to him so quickly. The voices coming up the stairs indicated that he had a platoon-sized group rushing up to intercept him, though he hadn’t planned on getting down that way. A nearby window had been left open, with a thick steel cable tied round it. The Spartan had no need for rappelling equipment here; he’d just have to worry about the cable snapping thanks to his half a ton of armour. By the time the soldiers reached the top floor, he’d hit the street and was running to check the damage. As he moved to exit the alleyway, he activated his COM.

“Hotel Seven-One, this is BULLDOZER. Target has been hit, I’m moving to identify now.”

A female voice quickly replied. “Copy that, BULLDOZER. Idenfity and Exifl. Out.”

Talkative as ever. ONI agents weren’t great conversationalists, but they were good at their job. In orbit, the Prowler UNSC Morning Grace was maintaining contact with the Spartan, and would be responsible for getting him back to Earth in one piece. Marco-025 was used to this kind of operation; he’d been doing this sort of thing since the age of fourteen. At the chronological age of seventy-four, he was still as active as he’d been back then.

The street was a mess; blazing cars littered the sunken street. Oddly, there weren’t Legion soldiers swarming over what he’d assumed was Maxon’s vehicle. Marco would’ve thought that their leader, or ‘Marshall’ as he liked to call himself, would’ve meant more to them. The two trucks in the rear were mostly unharmed, and were pushing on through the wreckage. From his concealed position, Marco stared for a few seconds until it hit him.

He’s in the goddamn trucks.

Possessing little more than an assault rifle and a pistol, the Spartan sprinted out into the snowy street after his quarry, darting between cars and avoiding the patrolling soldiers. The weather severely hampered the trucks’ speed, allowing him to gain some ground before opening fire. Marco doubted that he’d be able to take out Maxon himself at this range, but after a flurry of rounds hit the tyres the vehicle span out and came to a halt in the middle of the road. Then the rear section’s roof was flung off, clattering to the ground. What was inside there definitely wasn’t Roger Maxon.

Oh, fuck.

He didn’t know where the Legion had procured them from, but two Mantis mechs emerged from the broken down truck, raising up on their long legs and swivelling to get a look at the Spartan pursuing them. Then they opened fire.

Even with his MJOLNIR suit and energy shields, the Spartan would’ve been torn to pieces in seconds had he not moved. Marco’s enhanced speed and reflexes kicked in as he sprinted to the side of the road, dodging a hail of machine gun fire as he leapt off the road. One of the mechs lumbered after him, raising a foot to crush the Spartan. Marco leapt as it slammed down onto the frozen dirt and clambered onto the Mantis. The other ceased firing for a moment, unwilling to risk destroying its ally. As the machine tried to shake him off, Marco punched an armoured fist into the bipedal mech, ripping off armour plating before unhooking a grenade from his belt and punching it in.

He managed to leap off as it exploded, hitting the ground hard and rolling over as it staggered around for a moment, fire and scorched metal falling to the ground before the mech collapsed in a burning heap. By the time Marco turned his attention back to the second Mantis, it had already locked its missiles onto him.

“Get down!”

The Spartan dived to the side as several missiles streaked across the road, lighting up the darkened area as they impacted the Mantis. It tried to turn to face its unseen attackers, only for another missile to hit it dead centre. As it fell back, the pilot’s canopy began to open, only for the machine to explode before anyone emerged. Watching from the roadside, even the battle-hardened Spartan winced at the thought of such a fate. He retrieved his rifle from the floor and turned as a trio of figures approached.

“Hey, don’t shoot!”

It was a familiar voice. Marco would’ve gunned down these newcomers and kept going otherwise. It was a brown-haired woman, carrying a smoking Jackhammer missile launcher and wearing heavily camouflaged gear. The two men behind her dressed similarly, eyeing the tan-armoured Spartan with suspicion as their leader approached. He lowered his rifle slightly as she stowed the bulky weapon in her pack.

“I know you,” he muttered, peering towards her.

“Yeah, and I know who you are, even in your tin suit.” Marco smirked, and placed two fingers to the camera on his helmet before switching the device off. “Amanda, you do know that you’re still on ONI’s shitlist for what you idiots did in ’68. Technically, I’m supposed to shoot you on sight.”

“Then why haven’t you?” came the quick reply. Their last meeting had been over twenty years ago, yet she hadn’t changed much. “The only reason we didn’t kill you was because I need your help.”

The Spartan looked between her and her comrades and doubted that the trio could’ve done much more than scratch his armour’s paintwork, though he didn’t tell them that. Besides, even if ONI wanted Amanda and her crew dead, it didn’t mean that he had to dirty his hands with it. That would be official business, and officially Marco was on Earth taking part in training exercises.

“What do you need?”

This seemed to surprise Amanda, but rather than ask questions she continued speaking. “We’re assaulting a Legion-held compound to break out a very important person. We’ve already set up mortars in the hills to one side and have a sniper on the other. We’re going to attack the camp and free him.”

“Interesting. Who’s this prisoner? Friend of yours?”

“No, but he’s got skills and information that I want. What about you, Marco? What were you doing here?”

“Trying to kill Roger Maxon,” the Spartan replied casually, breaking about twelve different secrecy laws. “Though by now he’s probably reached the base and is getting to his shuttle. Shame, really.”

“So, they sent you in to end the war?”

“They sent me to kill some old bloke who thinks he’s any better than the UNSC. They’d make a martyr of him anyway, but orders are orders.”

“Doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m just glad that you’re helping.”

She held out a hand to Marco, which he shook after a moment’s hesitation. “Where do you want me?”

Amanda pointed in a far-off direction. “Up in those hills. I’ll warn the sniper that you’re heading up. He’ll patch you into our frequency when you reach him and we’ll launch the attack. Got it?”

“Yeah. You’re just lucky I’ve got an hour or two to spare. I’ll keep in touch.” With that, Marco turned and walked off on his own. With the snow starting to fall a little heavier, Amanda and her comrades moved in the opposite direction; their hour-long recon of the main road had turned out to be much more fruitful than she’d initially hoped. It wouldn’t be long before they reached the others, and the attack could begin.

The Miscreant
“Third volley fired, they’re mobilising troops already boss.”

“Copy that, keep ‘em pinned down there.”

From her position in the hills, Amanda’s group had the compound in their sights. There were nearly two hundred Legion troops down there against fourteen of them. Some had considered it a suicide mission, but that hadn’t deterred Amanda much. She’d planned things out and only taken people she knew were loyal enough to fight to the end. Just like Remi would’ve done. Even now she felt the spectre of her old leader looming over the little group as it rained down explosives on the edges of the compound, being careful to not hit any structures that might contain their target.

''We’re not rebels any more, at least. Smugglers, Criminals, Murderers. That’s what they call us now. Doesn’t seem so noble now that we’re not following some political agenda. Still, at least we’ve got a realistic vision now. Not some vague bullshit that isn’t gonna happen. Things are going to be straightforward now. Get Mitchell, steal what we can, go home.''

A shout from the left brought her attention towards the dirt road leading up to the hills they’d taken cover in. Damn, they mobilised quicker than we thought. Amanda dropped her binoculars and dashed to the other side of their encampment to grab a Jackhammer. The group handling the mortars also reached for their weapons as the familiar sound of Warthogs roared towards them. One of the vehicles crested the hill a little too fast and skidded out of control. That one was swiftly hit by two missiles and rolled back down as a burning mess. The rest of the vehicles – a motley assortment of converted civilian trucks and older military jeeps – came to a stop nearby to eject their passengers. With a limited supply of missiles, the little group was able to incinerate two more before they came under fire from the Legion troops.

“Fuck, Benson’s hit!”

“Never mind, keep fucking shooting!”

Amanda had only wasted a moment’s glance aside to see one of her crew take a bullet to the neck and topple. She’d help her out once these guys were dead, though chances were that she’d be beyond help by then. After gunning down a pair of rebels running for cover, she calmly tossed a flash grenade over the tip of the hill and waited for it to detonate before resuming fire on the disoriented rebels. Even with their superior cover and elevated position, it would only be a matter of time before numbers overcame their little group. She flicked on her communicator.

“Winston, you there?”

“Yes.”

“We’re taking a lot of fire here. Think you could lend a hand?”

“Yes.”

A few seconds later, one of the advancing rebels collapsed as a plume of blood fountained from the back of his head. The rest soon came under fire, though it was too far-off to respond to. Amanda knew she’d made the right decision in hiring Winston Zhou to help out here. He was an expert marksman well worth the money she’d spent; half-price as he counted her as a friend. Something always seemed a little off about the young man, though. Still, he was a professional. The sight of Legion soldiers dropping like flies from her far-off sniper was good enough for Amanda.

“They’re down,” Zhou spoke quickly over the COM channel. “Found the Spartan, we’re attacking an incoming group.”

The firefight on Amanda’s side was over in minutes. They’d lost four people. She watched her comrades dragging the bodies back for a moment before turning her attention back to the task at hand.

“Right, we’re moving in. Crawford, Longman, stay here and signal the Dynasty. The rest of us will secure the base. Go!”

They followed her orders without question or hesitation. Some of them might have been older or more combat-experienced than Amanda, but she was the boss. One of the warthogs was still intact, and thankfully hadn’t fired anything from its fearsome-looking rocket launcher on the back. She clambered onto it as the others clambered in and began to drive back down the hill. As they did so, a Hornet VTOL swooped towards them, its spotlights illuminating the hijacked vehicles.

“Shit, open fire!”

The light aircraft would’ve torn them to pieces on the ground. Amanda let loose a barrage of rockets from the back of the ‘Hog, depleting all six as they blew the bird out of the sky. They thundered through the deserted gates almost unopposed, gunning down the scattered rebels as they ran for cover. The main landing pad was already empty, though it had clearly been in use recently. ''Maxon’s gone. Don’t think Marco would mind too much.'' All she cared about was extracting the prisoner.

“Boss, in here!”

Amanda leapt from her vehicle and ran into the nearby building, which had clearly taken a few hits from their mortars. Inside, one of her men stood by the body of one of their foes. While he’d died close to a large hole in the wall, it was abundantly clear that he’d been in a fight of some kind before taking a bullet to the head.

“Infighting?” she suggested, crouching to peer at the big man’s grievous wounds. “Or has our man already escaped?”

Her comrade shrugged. She stood up, looking back and forth between the corridor and her vehicle. Eventually she stepped outside through the hole and turned back to the rest of her group.

“Search the prison block. I want a positive ID on Ash Mitchell, alive or dead!”

As they ran off, she and a few others worked their way through the burning base. If Mitchell had escaped then he couldn’t have gotten too far. With a snowstorm brewing and the nearest city in the Legion’s hands, he might have tried to disguise himself. In that case, he might have ran into her group, or Zhou. After a few minutes of searching, the others made contact from the cell block.

“Negative on Mitchell here, Amanda. They killed all the other prisoners in their cells, though. They might have taken him offworld already.”

Fuck. She could feel her temper rising. She didn’t want to have to explain to the folks back home that they’d lost people on a worthless mission. Some of them had already expressed their thoughts on Mitchell’s capture, even before she decided to break him out. I’ll just find him again. I’ve got to.

“Amanda, you there? Think I’ve found him!”

That was Marco. “What’s your location?!”

“In the snowfields halfway between here and the city. Bastards are chasing a guy who just blew up one of their trucks. I’m following and taking out as many as I can, but he might need our help.

“Got it. On my way.”

She leapt into the driver’s seat of her Warthog and took off out the other side of the base at some speed. Amanda quickly took the vehicle offroad, holding on as the sturdy jeep bounced and buffeted its way down the slope and into the fields below. The snow-covered plains didn’t slow the car down much as it sped towards a ruined town, the sounds of gunfire echoing around it. She braked suddenly, skidding in the snow before coming to a stop by Marco’s armoured form. The Spartan barely gave her a second glance before turning his attention back to the wounded man in front of him.

“Oh, there you are. Have a word with Mitchell, would you?”

Amanda climbed out of the car, checking her sidearm before taking a look at her quarry. This wasn’t the Ash Mitchell whose face plastered every news network for months a few years back; the feared mercenary that even Remi didn’t want to hire back in the day. What she saw was a wounded, angry-looking shell of a man with a stained bandage over one eye and a gun to his head.

“Mitchell, please put the gun down.”

He looked from Amanda to Marco, his one eye twitching slightly. “Who the hell are you people?” “We’re friends.”

“I don’t have any goddamn friends.”

Oh great, he’s gonna go for the ‘I’m a lone wolf loser who doesn’t need anybody' routine. She frowned, and looked to Marco.

“You do realise that my friend here just saved your life?” “Yeah.”

“So the least you could do is come with us.”

Mitchell snorted. “You’re with ONI. Fuck that.”

Even Marco seemed slightly annoyed at this. Amanda drew back her hood a little and crouched so he could see her face a little clearer.

“Do I look like I work for ONI?”

“Do you think I know who the fuck you are?”

''Have I really been out of the picture for that long? I suppose with guys like Mitchell around I’m not much of a threat.''

“Amanda Wade. NOVA Incident, Remi Marshall. All that crap.”

Realisation seemed to dawn on Mitchell. “Oh, I heard about that. Thought you all died.” “Nope, still around.”

“So, what the hell do you want with me?”

“Information, mostly. That said, we can provide shelter, good friends and somewhere for you to stay put. How’s that sound?”

“Like a fucking advertisement.”

“So, you’ll join us?”

Mitchell tossed the gun aside. “Fuck, I don’t know. Could someone pull me up,” he said with an oddly happy tone. “ I’ve been here a while and I’m pretty sure I’ve lost a lot of blood.”

He indicated the redness seeping into the snow around him, and the knife buried in his leg, Marco leant forward and effortlessly pulled him to his feet. Mitchell took two steps and collapsed. The Spartan sighed, and heaved him onto his shoulders.

“Right, where do you want him?”

“I need him aboard my ship. We’ve got medical supplies.”

“-and this ship is?”

Before Amanda could answer, a craft swiftly descended from the clouds and began to lower itself onto the base’s landing platform. In the light of dawn on Mamore, It was the best thing she’d seen all day.

“It’s right there.”

Marco nodded. “I’ve got to go, come to think of it. Missions and deadlines. Spartan stuff.”

“ONI stuff, you mean.”

“If I were that loyal to ONI, I’d have killed you and Mitchell right away. We’re not all bad, you know.”

The Spartan heaved Mitchell’s unconscious form into the warthog before turning to walk away into the snowfields. Amanda climbed into the driver’s seat and watched him walk a few steps before sounding the vehicle’s horn. Marco turned his head to face her.

“Thank you” she shouted. Marco simply nodded again and kept walking. Amanda smiled and turned the warthog away, driving as fast as she could towards the small freighter sitting in the ashes of the base. It had been a very strange night.

Awakening
Ash Mitchell woke with a start. He sat up, wincing as the pain hit him from a dozen places on his scarred body. Most of his torso was wrapped in fresh bandages, as was half of his face. He sat up, blinking under the bright ceiling lights as he attempted to heave himself out of the bed.

''I’m on a ship. I know that much.''

The last thing he could recall was passing out in the snow on Mamore. Mitchell wasn’t sure what had been said, but since he hadn’t been murdered he had to assume that someone rescued him. He hobbled over to a nearby window. Outside there was nothing but the black void of slipspace, indicating that the ship was in transit to another system. Looking around, he wasn’t sure who this place belonged to. Had it been a UNSC or ONI-run ship, he’d have probably been guarded day and night. While he hadn’t actually been aboard a military-run vessel in over fifteen years, the look of the place indicated that it might be privately owned.

''Pirates or smugglers, then. At least it’s not controlled by the Legion.''

Dressed in nothing but bandages and underpants, Mitchell knew he was vulnerable. The old training and instincts came flooding back as he looked around warily for some kind of weapon. This was a med-bay if he’d ever seen one, and it didn’t take too long before he found a scalpel in a nearby cupboard. It was hardly a combat knife, but it would have to suffice for now.

The nearby door was unlocked, allowing Mitchell to step out into a corridor. The ship seemed surprisingly clean for a smuggling vessel, though signs of constant repairs and maintenance indicated that it wasn’t exactly top of the line. The man dropped into a crouch and crept along the hallway towards a large door.

''Right, subdue the crew, find weapons and hijack the ship. Shouldn’t be too hard.''

The door slid open as Mitchell touched a panel, revealing the room he’d been looking for: the Bridge. It was smaller than he’d expected, lined with consoles and empty chairs; chances were that this was just a small frigate operated by a skeleton crew. A chair by the front of the ship swivelled to face Mitchell, revealing a middle-aged man in a grey jumpsuit.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he remarked, sounding more bored than concerned at Mitchell’s presence. “How are you feeling?”

That certainly took Mitchell by surprise. He hesitated for a moment before advancing a few steps. “Look buddy, I’m getting the fuck out of here, so do as I say and I’ll let you live.”

The man raised an eyebrow, running a hand through his greying black hair. Mitchell noticed that he wasn’t carrying anything remotely threatening, not even a sidearm of any kind. The ex-ODST could have gone forward and killed the guy in a dozen ways by now, though the pilot didn’t seem fazed at all by the danger he was in.

“So, that’s how you’re going to treat the people who rescued you? By stealing their ship?”

“I don’t know who the hell you people are.” He could vaguely recall a conversation with someone before he’d passed out, but his memory was a little fuzzy at the moment. He took another step towards the pilot, then froze as something cold touched the back of his head.

“Move an inch and you’re dead.”

The voice was cold and to the point. Much like the pistol pressing into his skull. Mitchell had been sure the door had closed behind him; how had someone managed to sneak up on him like this? To his right, a side door slid open and several figures emerged. All of them were armed, reducing the chances of success for his little hijacking plan to zero.

“Winston, you can stand down.”

Mitchell felt the gun move away from his head as the other man stepped back. He dropped the scalpel; the sound of it clattering to the floor was the loudest thing on the silent bridge at the moment. He turned to see a familiar woman standing a few feet away, her arms crossed.

“So, what happens now?” he asked.

“You’ll put some damn clothes on first.”

Half an hour later, Mitchell was fully dressed and deep in conversation with the ship’s captain, Amanda. She’d led the operation to rescue him back on Mamore, so he decided to give her a chance. “So, what do you think?”

“Not sure,” Mitchell responded, scratching his unshaven chin. “I guess I wouldn’t mind joining your crew, but why you’d want a washed up, one-eyed killer like me is anyone’s guess.”

Amanda nodded at this. “You managed to escape from the prison on Mamore. I’d hardly say you were that washed up.”

“I got lucky. Besides, I’d have died if your Spartan hadn’t found me. Where is he, anyway?”

“Not here,” came the quick reply. Amanda didn’t seem to want to talk about it. “He just sort of showed up and helped out when I asked.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Okay. Thank him for me next time you see him, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” She folded her arms and glanced towards the window before looking back towards Mitchell. “Look, if you want out, we’ll leave you on Cascade or Iskandar. I’m just asking you to consider my offer, Mitchell. We’re building up something outside of the UNSC. You can start again.”

“You keep saying ‘we’. Does that just mean you and your crew?”

“No. There are just under a thousand of us right now, but we’re a growing settlement. We take all sorts in; old soldiers, former Covenant, and even so-called ‘butchers’ like yourself.”

That was an enticing offer. In any UEG-controlled settlement, Mitchell would likely be identified and hunted down within a few weeks. On frontier colonies or Legion worlds, people would come after him to claim the bounty on his head. ''If she wants me dead or captured, she’s certainly putting a lot of effort into making this shit seem real. Fuck it, might as well go for it.''

Mitchell sighed. “Fine. I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Amanda gave a tired smile and pointed towards the viewscreen. “Looks like we’re already home.”

He hadn’t noticed the ship leaving slipspace. Mitchell stood up and walked over as the impenetrable black void was replaced by far off stars and the slight glare of a nearby sun. The ship began to accelerate towards a nearby planet. Amanda stood by him at the window, looking with pride at the green planet as they approached.

“Just trust me, Mitchell. We’re doing a lot of good out here.”

Yeah, that's probably bullshit.

Home
The Dynasty’s bay doors slid open, and Mitchell covered his remaining eye as the sunlight shone through. Most of the crew were gathered here, barring Amanda’s pilot. Several of them were overseeing a large trolley. When he glanced over to see what it was, ''Mitchell was surprised to see several black body bags on top. They lost some buddies trying to bust me out. I’m sure that’ll make me popular around here.''

“Amanda, you’re back!”

A bearded man approached the cargo bay, a submachine gun slung over one arm. Several other armed guards followed him, looking over the Dynasty’s crew before helping to unload cargo. Mitchell kept close to Amanda, following her off the ship towards the speaker.

“Rizhan,” she shook his hand. “You guys miss me?”

“It was pretty quiet without you, boss. Mike managed to fix up those M95’s like you asked, and we settled in the new habitation area in the valley.”

“Good to hear it.” It was strange to see her sounding so cheery after their chat aboard the ship. Amanda stepped aside to let Mitchell shake Rizhan’s hand.

“Heard a lot about you, Ash Mitchell. More bad than good, I’m afraid.” Amanda shot him a dark look and he shrugged before continuing. “”Still, if the boss trusts you, then I will too. Good to have you with us.”

“Likewise.”

With that, he walked into the ship to give the others a hand with the crates. Amanda beckoned for Mitchell to follow her. They walked in silence for some time, passing through a gate that sectioned off the landing pad from the rest of the complex. Most of the place seemed to have been built through old prefabricated buildings not unlike those seen on outer colony worlds. Mitchell had lived in one for a short time before his fateful trip to Mamore.

“So uh, how many people did you say lived here?”

“Just under a thousand. We’re expanding our living spaces at the moment to accommodate more, though within a few years we’ll probably have to start making restrictions regarding immigration. Food’s all grown here and we’ve got a working water purifying plant nearby. As you might have heard from my friend back there, we’re installing military-grade defense systems in case we’re attacked. We’re currently heading to the command room.”

Mitchell expected her to keep going. “Nice advertisement,” he remarked. “You gonna build a theme park next?”

“We’re building a settlement here, Mitchell,” came the cold reply. “Say what you want, but Avalon is probably the only fully self-sufficient colony that isn’t controlled by The Legion or UEG.”

“Sorry.”

They didn’t say anything for a few minutes after that. Eventually Amanda led Mitchell into a large, dome-shaped structure built into the side of a hill. She typed a password into a nearby keypad and the great steel doors slowly opened. Mitchell knew a bunker when he saw one, and by the looks of it this thing was expected to survive an attack. After walking down a flight of stairs, they came to a wide, circular room lined with monitors and chairs. A large holotank sat in the middle, showing a detailed map of the entire colony. The place was much bigger than Mitchell had anticipated, stretching out over several miles and even extending over the nearby ocean via a group of large platforms.

“Impressed?” Amanda asked.

“Yep,” came his reply. “How long did it take you to build this?”

“About seven years, give or take. The URF used this as a place to store goods back in the day, and we had a small crew running the place for years before I arrived.”

“I see,” he muttered, looking around at the people working in the command room. He wasn’t sure if this place was supposed to be a small town or a military base. A door to his right opened and an old woman walked in, carrying a large box. Amanda ran over immediately.

“Mary, what did I say about carrying heavy objects? You’ll hurt yourself!”

Amanda took the box from the woman, who scowled. “I’m not made of paper, Miss Wade. Besides, if the lazy bastards around here aren’t going to carry things then someone has to do it.”

Mitchell smirked as the workers nearby looked away in shame. Amanda sighed, and reluctantly passed the box back to Mary, who took it with ease. He couldn’t quite determine her age, but she didn’t seem the type to do heavy lifting. She glanced over towards Mitchell.

“Is this the man you went to get?” she asked. “Yes Mary. This is Ash Mitchell.”

He stepped forward. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Mary replied with a curt nod before walking away. Mitchell and Amanda watched her disappear into another corridor before looking at each other.

“Who the hell was that?” he asked.

“That was Mary. No idea what her last name is or where she’s from; she just sort of showed up one day and asked if she could stay. I think she used to be a soldier or something from back in the day; she’s a better shot than half my men here.”

Mitchell laughed. “I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side, then.”

“No, you wouldn’t. C’mon, I’ll take you to see Mike.”

The pair walked along to another room just off the command center. The door slid open at their approach, revealing a blonde-haired man sitting at a desk. He looked up for a moment before returning to his computer. Amanda and Mitchell stood there in silence before he looked up again and sighed.

“Hello, Amanda.”

“Hello, Mike. You don’t seem too pleased to see me.”

“Long night,” he replied, taking a sip from a styrofoam cup and grimacing. “Ech, cold. Been helping to calibrate our defensive systems and upgrade our cyberwarfare systems, just in case.”

“C’mon, Mike. I thought you were a genius.”

“Hey, I don’t doubt my own intelligence, but an AI would help. Do me a favour and steal one next time, when you’re not breaking your boyfriend there out of prison.”

“Very funny. Want to come with us the next time we assault a fortified Legion base?”

Mike laughed, and moved out from behind the desk. Mitchell hadn’t realised that the man had been sitting in a motorized wheelchair when they’d walked in. Amanda folded her arms as he approached.

“Unless you’re willing to fit this chair with armour plating, rockets and a jetpack, I’ll have to decline your offer. Either that or you pay the billion or so credits needed to have me walking again. I’m not in any particular rush for either.”

“Okay,” she conceded “You’ve made your point. I came here to see if you’d made any progress in finding the guy we’re after.”

“Ah, yes. Mister Hadvir Erikkson. Turns out he’s been the one cutting deals with both sides for the last few months. ONI and Legion are both paying the guy for info and he’s raking it in. Not that he wasn’t a sleazy bastard before the war, though. Now we’ve just got a good reason to grab him.”

Mitchell glanced between the pair before speaking. “So you’re kidnapping this guy because…?”

“Because he’s a rich bastard who’s sold out people to fill his own pockets. In any case, he’s got information on somebody I’ve been looking for, and I’m close to tracking him down.”

“Why, what this guy do to you?”

“Set up the biggest terrorist attack of the 2560s, killed my best friend and framed him, murdered thousands of innocent people and made me an outlaw.”

Mitchell was genuinely surprised. “Who the hell is he?”

“I don’t know his real name, but everyone calls him Magnus. That ring any bells?”

Amanda had evidently been waiting for Mitchell’s response to that name. He scowled, and clenched his fists at the mere mention of the bastard who’d ruined his life.

“Yeah, I know him. I want to find him, and I want to fucking murder him.”

“Thought that’d get you motivated. How long until you’re combat-ready?”

His ribs and shoulder still ached like hell, but Amanda was right: Mitchell was motivated now. All this time he’d spent running from the galaxy, trying to stay alive while eluding his hunters, was time he hadn’t spent tracking down and killing the man responsible. Evidently, Magnus had pissed off a lot more people than he’d thought.

“Give me a day or so.” His old mercenary habits kicked back in. “Is this a paying job, or do I pay you for the pleasure?”

“This isn’t about money,” came the determined response. “This is about revenge, plain and simple. I broke you out because I heard that you’d worked with Magnus back in the day; since you’re still alive I bet that you wanted him dead more than anyone else.”

Mitchell nodded in agreement. “Revenge I can do. Let’s get him.”

Reclamation
Mitchell had to hand it to Amanda; she certainly knew how to go about undetected.

The moment the Dynasty touched down on the colony world it should have been swarmed by customs officers and security forces checking the freighter for illegal cargo, weapons or wanted people. Instead, they had simply touched down in a spaceport after sending over some codes and left the ship in it’s cargo truck. As it turned out, she always prepared codes that identified air traffic control that they were delivering agricultural supplies. That was at least partially true; much of their cargo was farming equipment they’d bought cheaply on another colony world.

“Okay, keep your head down and your eyes open. Eye, I mean.”

Mitchel sighed. While he wasn’t totally healed and still hopped up on half a dozen stims, the mercenary felt better than he had in a while. He’d had his injuries mostly tended to, been supplied with clothing and weapons, and had even found a place in Avalon to get a decent shave and haircut.

“Heard this place got through the war unscathed. Is it dangerous?”

“Only if you go to the wrong places. Scared?”

“No, just curious.”

“Just try not to draw attention to yourself.”

“I’m wearing an eyepatch, Amanda. People are gonna stare.”

“Well, at least you don’t look like the Mitchell the news vids show every now and then.”

He nodded. The last thing he wanted was the UNSC finding him here. There were five of them in the truck; two in the cab and three in the back. Mitchell sat up front with Amanda driving, while Rizhan, Zhou and a woman named Carol sat in full gear with the supplies. He hadn’t gotten much time to speak to them, but it was clear that none of them were to be messed with.

“Okay, we’re coming up to the target building. COM check.”

The group activated their earpieces, linking all of them to the same frequency. The city streets were mostly deserted at this hour, especially with the new year coming up in just a few hours. That was a good thing; Mitchell didn’t want civilians getting in the way while they grabbed Erikkson. The truck ground to a halt by a pair of iron gates leading up to a luxurious mansion. Lights could be seen in the front windows, accompanied by the distant sounds of music.

“Everyone out!”

Mitchell clambered out of the truck’s cab and dropped to the sidewalk, wincing slightly as his injured leg took the impact. Everyone moved wordlessly, getting into position around the gate and pulling on their facemasks. Amanda tied her hair back into a ponytail and made sure everyone was ready before putting hers on.

“Carol, get the gate open.”

“On it.”

The other woman took out a small device and attached it to the gate’s keypad. After a few seconds, a green light shone from it and the gates slowly shuddered open. The team was in within seconds, moving briskly up the front lawn and readying their weapons. Mitchell brought up the rear, knowing that he was just muscle for this mission. Rizhan stepped forward, and began to unpack what looked like a miniature missile launcher from a metal case.

“You sure this’ll work?” Amanda asked, looking over the weapon.

“We’ll be fine as long as our masks hold. This’ll keep things clean.”

“Fair enough. Do it.”

Rizhan raised the missile launcher and angled it upwards before firing both barrels. Instead of the usual explosive rockets, it fired two long, cylindrical tubes which smashed through the upper windows of the mansion before breaking open. As screams broke out above, Amanda’s group ran for the front door. Mitchell fired his shotgun twice into the left side before kicking it off it’s hinges.

“Move!” Amanda shouted, moving into the foyer as well-dressed civilians screamed and scattered. “Find Erikkson; we’ve got ten minutes, tops!”

Ten minutes was generous considering this colony’s reputation for having excellent and supposedly incorruptible law enforcement. Still, the device Carol had planted on the main gate’s keypad was supposedly a sophisticated jammer that would delay or stop outright any alarm systems within the house. That said, Mitchell had learned never to rely fully on technology, and moved swiftly into the lavishly-decorated mansion.

“Get down! Don’t play the hero and you won’t get hurt!”

Erikkson had probably been holding some kind of fancy new-year’s party, judging by the look of the guests here. From what he’d read about him during the journey here, the man was an avid collector of artefacts from the war, both Human and Covenant in origin. All it took were some unscrupulous salvage teams willing to brave the glasslands of burnt-out colony worlds and a few lucky finds over the years to elevate the information broker to millionaire status.

Mitchell sneered at the sight of the expensive paintings and decorations as he and Zhou moved together towards the upper floors. A few gunshots rang out from across the mansion, though it was nothing to be worried about. The two men kicked open another door and marched into a large, circular room filled with bodies.

“Got anything?”

“No,” Zhou responded. Something about him really unnerved Mitchell, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“We’ve got to check everyone here; we might’ve got Erikkson with the gas.”

Waving away the dissipating knockout gas Rizhan had fired through the window, Mitchell and Zhou began to check the unconscious people scattered around the room. Glancing over towards his partner, he was surprised that the quiet merc wasn’t bothering to check their pockets for change; he was fairly tempted to do so himself. After several minutes of fruitless searching, he came across the body of a large man in a black suit. Turning him over, Mitchell grinned at the sight of their unconscious target. He called over to Zhou as he lifted Erikkson up.

“I’ve got him, let’s go!”

As Zhou turned to face him, the door behind Mitchell burst open. Burdened by the weight of his quarry, the one-eyed mercenary barely had time to turn as four armed guards levelled their pistols at him. Several shots rang out from across the room, and they fell lifelessly to the floor.

“Come on,” Zhou intoned, slowly lowering his pistol. “I’ll take him.”

Mitchell grunted with effort and lifted Erikkson’s body up before passing it to Zhou. The younger man lifted him without much effort and strode out over the dead guards. Mitchell scowled in annoyance before following him through the door; each man had been taken out with a clean shot to the head.

“Nice shot,” he remarked. Zhou didn’t respond. Amanda’s voice rang out through the COM.

“Any word on Erikkson?” “We’ve got him,” Mitchell replied. “We’ll regroup in the foyer.”

The pair of them emerged into a long hall, lined with glass cases. Zhou didn’t give any of the assembled artefacts so much as a second glance, though one exhibit in particular caught Mitchell’s attention. He froze.

“Motherfucker.”

Zhou turned and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“That prick’s got my suit.”

In the case before him stood a set of old, battered and scorched battle armour. Mitchell recognised the familiar skull-painted helmet immediately, his eyes looking over every familiar scratch and mark on the suit he’d worn into battle for more than twenty years. He’d just assumed that it had been thrown away when the Legion caught him, not sold to some collector as a curiosity.

It's not theft, I'm just taking back what's mine.

Snarling, Mitchell brought his weapon down on the glass case, shattering it instantly. As he did so, an alarm in the corner of the room began to sound, blaring loudly as he gathered the pieces of armour together. Zhou had left the moment the alarm sounded, carrying Erikkson’s unconscious form to the foyer where Amanda, Carol and Rizhan waited. Mitchell crammed as much as he could into his bag before sprinting towards the exit, helmet in hand. As he ran towards the front door, Amanda snapped at him.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?! His collector’s crap was wired to a separate alarm system, you stupid fuck! We’ll have every cop in the city on us in minutes!”

Mitchell didn’t respond immediately. All he did was remove his facemask and balaclava before lowering the skull-visored helmet onto his head. The familiar HUD lit up once more; these things never seemed to run out of power.

“We should get moving, then.”

The five of them ran across the front lawn, carrying weapons and bags and an unconscious informant as police sirens rang out in the distance. Carol grabbed her device from the front gate as they ran past, immediately tripping half a dozen alarms they should’ve set off earlier during their brief assault. Several cars rounded the corner as they loaded Erikkson’s body into the truck, prompting Rizhan and Zhou to open fire on the incoming police. Several fell before the two men leapt into the truck, which took off at some speed down a side street. Mitchell glanced towards Amanda for a second, seeing her angry, determined-looking face.

“Think the Dynasty will be ready?”

“It always is.”

“Sorry about setting off the alarm.”

She didn’t respond, and merely focused on moving their little truck through the city’s narrow streets towards the spaceport.

“Are you mad at-”

“Mitchell,” she said in a low voice. “Shut the fuck up, I’m busy.”

He kept quiet for the rest of the trip. Surprisingly, the police had a hard time keeping up with their truck as it sped into the nearby spaceport. The freighter’s cargo ramp was already open and several armed guards were stationed in the bay already. The truck sped up the ramp, while the first police car to follow them was hosed with assault rifle fire. The cargo doors slid shut as the ramp drew back while Amanda’s team heaved themselves out of the parked truck.

“Faisal,” Amanda called over her long-range COM. “Get us out of here, get a random slipspace vector in the moment we’ve cleared the atmosphere!”

Mitchell didn’t hear the pilot’s response. While Zhou and Carol heaved Erikkson’s unconscious form from the back of their truck, he made his way towards the cargo bay’s exit; all he wanted to do was sit in his bunk and go over his old armour. Before he could leave, a hand grabbed his shoulder and span him round. The next thing he knew, a fist hit his gut with a surprising amount of force.

“You stupid bastard.”

Winded by the blow, he buckled for a moment before glancing up at his attacker. It was Amanda. Anyone else would’ve been subject to a fatal beating, but he merely backed away from the ship’s captain, nearly dropping his bag full of armour.

“Okay,” he wheezed. “I deserved that.”

“Damn right you did. I don’t know how we got away cleanly, Mitchell, but your bullshit means we won’t be able to come here for a long time.”

He nodded, regaining his breath. “I’m sorry about that, but this bastard decided to buy my stuff after I was captured. I don’t know about you, but I object to my things being used as pieces in that fat fuck’s private museum.”

“That’s fair enough,” came the response. Amanda’s green eyes glinted fiercely as she prodded him in the chest with a finger. “But if you fuck up or endanger my people again, you’re getting spaced. Deal?”

“Yeah, deal.”

“Good. Let’s get the hell out of here. I want to see what this idiot knows about Magnus. He’s in for a nasty shock when he wakes up.”

Cleanup
There was nothing quite like the sight of a crumbling fortress.

Alexander Redford stood by the cliff’s edge and watched as the metal supports of the fortified base began to buckle and collapse under the weight and heat. The entire area was strewn with burnt metal, fallen rocks and corpses. The man sighed wistfully as the wall finally gave way and collapsed before turning back towards the base’s single landing pad.

''Another one down. I swear, this is getting much easier.''

To any casual observer, Redford’s unassuming features and constantly upbeat attitude made him appear like a kindly old man; silver-haired and seemingly frail as he walked slowly across the metal platform. In reality, this was all just a cover for his true self, as the inhabitants of this outpost had learned the previous night. Once he and his partner had initiated their attack, the rebels didn’t stand a chance.

“Hey Red!” a voiced called from behind him. Redford turned to see the green-armoured bulk of a SPARTAN-III trudging towards him, rifle in hand. Her MJOLNIR suit was still spattered with blood; by the look of it she’d been taking her time with prisoners again.

“Get anything useful?” he asked.

“Mostly screaming, I’m afraid.”

“Oh well, I’m sure the next one will be better.” His partner nodded, emanating the enthusiastic air of an excited child. Layla-B101 had been Redford’s ally and protector for some time now, and although he’d hated her carefree attitude and destructive streak in missions - rather uncommon for a Spartan - at first the pair of them had soon gotten used to each other. He was rather fond of her, in an odd pseudo-fatherly sort of way.

“So,” she began, speaking in her deliberately sweet ‘disguise voice’ that Redford hated. “What’s up next for us? We going after more of these guys, the Legion, or some Split-Lips?”

“I don’t know, Layla. We’ll just have to wait for orders. Didn’t you want to go back to your team?”

The Spartan shrugged, and removed her helmet. It was essentially an upgraded ODST helmet, designed to work with her advanced MJOLNIR suit. Why she insisted on that model truly baffled Redford, but it wasn’t his place to question a Spartan’s fashion sense. Layla yawned and joined Redford on the landing pad, looking out over the vast wastelands beyond the burning base.

“I don’t know, Red. Thor’s great and all, but there are times when I need a break from the others. We ain’t exactly like the other Spartans, you know?”

He nodded, knowing the complicated history behind Thor Team and their infamous record over the years. “That’s fair enough,” he said softly. He sat on a nearby crate and took off the black gloves he’d taken to wearing over the last few years?

“Problems?” Layla asked.

Redford shook his head. “Just looking over it. Routine maintenance.”

He flexed his left hand, looking over it as tiny servos moved finger joints and mimicked the movements of a flesh-and-blood organ. He’d lost his original nearly ten years ago, having cut his own hand off with a serrated knife to escape a fiery death on New Albion. He’d seen the robotic prosthetic as a sign of shame once; a single mark of failure on an impeccable record of nearly fifty years working for ONI. Now, it was just part of his everyday life. Just like Layla.

“Storm’s coming in,” the Spartan remarked, breaking the silence. “Hope the evac ship gets here in time.”

“It’ll be here.”

The two didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. It was always like this at the end of missions, sitting by the rubble and ashes following the regular slaughter. It was hardly a regular life by any means, but it was all the pair of them knew. The old man had once looked down on the Spartans for being controlled and brainwashed into service, but as time went by he felt as though he was more like them than he was willing to admit; obedient, loyal and deadly. Those were the hallmarks of his decades of murdering in ONI’s name. Eventually a voice crackled over his communicator.

“BLUEBELL, CAESAR, this is Zulu Nine-Three, do you read me?”

Redford switched on his COM as Layla placed her helmet back on. “Copy that Zulu, we are waiting for now. The mission was a success.”

“Good to hear that, CAESAR.” The pilot paused for a few seconds before continuing. “We’ve uh, got a change of plan in terms of our destination. We won’t be heading back to the Heavens Asunder this time.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, glancing to Layla for a moment. “On whose orders?”

“We’ll transfer you to a secure channel once you’re aboard, sir. Coming in now.”

The pair stepped back from the landing pad as the familiar shape of a Pelican dropship came into view across the nearby canyons. It didn’t even touch down on the pad; merely turning round and opening the rear hatch long enough for Redford and Layla to clamber in. Then it rocketed off and upwards.

“Thanks for giving us time to sit down,” Layla muttered as she braced herself on the Pelican’s walls. Redford sat down without a word as the pilot began patching him through to another COM frequency.

“Right sir, got you through. We’re heading to the UNSC Montreal now. You’ll be transferred from there.”

There was a slight delay before Redford reactivated his communicator. Almost immediately, a familiar voice began to speak.

“Agent Nineteen, it’s good to hear that your mission was successful, old friend. I have an important mission coming up that will certainly require your unique talents, so I diverted your dropship for the time being. I’m sure this won’t be a problem, will it?”

Sitting across from Redford, Layla picked up the subtle facial and body changes in her partner. Whoever it was, the venerable agent obviously hadn’t expected to be contacted by them. He took a deep breath before replying.

“No, sir. No problem at all.”

“Excellent, Nineteen. I’ll see you soon.”

The COM switched itself off as the link was severed. Redford sighed, and merely sat back in his chair as Layla removed her helmet once more.

“What was that about?”

“New mission.”

“This soon? I didn’t think they’d have one until we were back on Luna.”

“It’s not from command, Layla.”

“Oh?” the Spartan cocked her head. “You said ‘sir’. Who was it?”

“Agent One. The head of BRUTUS. I haven’t spoken to the man in over twenty years. Thought he was dead or something.”

She’d evidently heard of BRUTUS as well. The supposedly secretive organisation was well-known within ONI, even if very few people knew who the agents were or how many people worked for the group. If the Spartans were the UNSC’s most effective and devastating weapon on the battlefield, then BRUTUS was ONI’s equivalent. Redford hadn’t even spoken to one of his fellow agents in a number of years.

“It can’t be bad, right?”

Redford wondered if Layla’s vaguely optimistic tone was merely an attempt to reassure him, or if the somewhat psychotic Spartan really believed that there was anything good about BRUTUS. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of being taken to Agent One himself; one of the most powerful men within Human space. He didn’t have a choice in the matter, in any case. For the first time in what felt like years, Alexander Redford felt truly afraid.