Stories from the Sigmaverse

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A collection of short stories written by Brodie-001. Please feel free to leave feedback and/or constructive criticism on the talk page so I may improve my writing in the future, thank you.

Enjoy.

Cleaning
It wasn't the knife in the back that surprised Alec. Well, it was surprising. One moment he was checking his datapad, the next his back had sprouted a rather large knife as a gloved hand was clamped over his mouth. As a so-called 'Insurrectionist', Alec knew that the UNSC had agents everywhere, and being paranoid generally got you through to the next day. No, it was something else entirely that had sent a wave of fear coursing through him.

The datapad fell from his outstretched finger and clattered onto the floor as his body jerked. Waves of pain coursed through him as the knife twisted. Slowly. He had glanced into the floor-length mirror seconds before, and what he had seen had chilled him to the bone.

"Quiet now, Mister Jarvis. It'll all be over soon"

The voice was soft, comforting. Like wine, Alec thought. The voice was that of Doctor Alexander Redford, who had joined his group almost three months ago. His file had checked out: A hundred thousand creds on his head for blowing up a UNSC armoury. He had been accepted into the unit, becoming well-liked and respected. Hell, he had patched up Alec himself after a lucky guardsman had shot him in the leg.

"Why?" he hissed, words barely audible through the vice-like grip over his mouth. In the mirror in front of him, Redford's face came into view. He was an average-sized man, mid-fifties, with thinning hair and quite a well-spoken accent. A malicious grin split across his face as he removed the knife, spinning Alec around to face him. Their eyes met, Alec's light blue to Redford's maroon ones. It was like staring into an abyss.

"I'm sorry about this, truly. It's just business, you see"

Redford pushed Alec back against the mirror, cracking the glass. He slid down it slowly, trailing blood, and slumped to the ground. His vision blurred and dimmed as his killer wiped the knife off with a cloth, before concealing it once more in his belt. Sweeping around the room, Redford hurriedly checked for information on the desks, plugging a tiny device into Alec's terminal before turning back to the dying man.

"Still alive I see? Good. You won't want to miss this part"

There were voices not far off, faint but audible. Redford scooped up his datapad, that same grin on his face. Alec couldn't feel much anymore. All he could remember was the face. Redford stepped into the darkness. Alec tried to move, but couldn't. The door to the apartment slid open, and three figures stepped in. There was a scream, and one of them ran to him.

"Alec! Alec, can you hear me!"

"Shit, where's the doc? Red!"

Their voices were muffled. Alec raised his head slightly to see a worried young woman crouched before him. It was Gemma, one of his comrades. She was checking his pulse with one hand. The other held a loaded pistol. The two others, Lokir and Otis, had also drawn their weapons, their eyes darting around for an attacker.

"Who did this Alec? Was it the Doc?"

He couldn't speak. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Shouldn't I have died yet? he wondered. Looking down, there was a lot of blood from his wound. Gemma lifted his head up, and turned towards the others. They were wary, alert. It didn't help them one bit.

As Otis turned back to reply to Gemma, the shadows parted. There was a flash of silver. followed by a spray of blood from his throat. Before his knees had hit the floor, Redford had leapt towards Lokir. The knife flashed once, twice, thrice, a blur as more of the dark red ichor spurted from Lokir's face. The big man staggered back, screaming. He tried to raise his weapon, only to have it fall from his grip as his wrist was slashed, the gun falling into waiting hands.

Moving quickly, almost gracefully, Redford span around Lokir as Gemma fired on him. Unscathed, his form dived away while the second and third shots impacted on Lokir, silencing his screams. Redford uprighted, raising the stolen weapon as he did.

Alec flinched as the back of Gemma's head exploded over him. The woman slid silently to the floor, her expanding pool of blood mixing with his. Redford looked down at the pistol in disgust, holding it at arms length. He let it drop to the floor. The look faded from his face. It was the same look that Alec had seen in the mirror.

It was as if Alexander Redford's face, that almost constant smile, the reassuring voice and caring personality, had been replaced with that of another being entirely. It was a bestial snarl, teeth bared, hands more like talons as he extinguished the lives of others. Though he did not know this, Alec was one of the few to have seen the look twice. Redford approached.

"Well, that was...exhilarating. I bet you're wondering why you are still alive, Alec. Am I right?"

Alec tried to nod, but couldn't. He felt tired, barely able to lift his head. Redford crouched before him, lifting his chin up. Once again, he faced those deep, abyssal eyes, gates into hell itself.

"That's quite all right, Alec. The poison I administered on the blade would slow your death for a while. How about this: One blink for yes, two for no?"

Alec blinked once.

"Very well then. I suppose that you of all people deserve some deal of closure before your death. It is these poor fools, rude people-" he said the word with a great deal of disgust in the same manner that one might say 'murderer' "-lying here that suffered truly, dying in seconds. You get to experience all of it, Alec. Isn't that exciting?"

Two blinks.

"No? So much for the art of civilised conversation, even with a dead man. I had better be off then. My work, my art, is never finished after all. Other places to 'clean up', and so on, though I have enjoyed the last few months. Close your eyes"

Alec complied. Why not? he couldn't concentrate anyway. The blurry figure faded from view as he closed his eyes. There was a brief rustle of movement, then nothing. His head slumped down once more.

Redford sighed. Having brought his knee up below Alec's chin to kill him was so simple, annoyingly uncomplicated for his liking. This assignment had not been terrible by his standards, but rather slow. He would have probably eliminated this lot out of boredom had his contacts at the Office of Naval Intelligence not contacted him. The war had been over for six years now, but his work had not slowed at all. Oh well, he thought, shrugging to the bloodied corpses around him. Time to clean.

There was no need to move the bodies. No one had heard the gunshots, and the 'fight' had been over too quickly to cause any damage. He removed his device from the terminal. A green light indicated that it had been filled, no doubt with all kinds of delicious information pertaining to the Insurrection.

Stowing the device away, Redford stepped calmly over Lokir's mutilated corpse, and headed for his room, where he retrieved the C13 explosives he had stashed away. It was quite funny, looking at it from his perspective. He kills a rebel cell, blows the place up, and it gets blamed on more rebels! For someone bothered with, say, the moral implications, it may have been a problem, but not for Redford. He had been at this game long enough to know that it was better just not to care.

Setting the explosives carefully, his practised hands ensuring that each was remotely linked to the detonator, Redford checked over the corpses once more. The three of them had stepped out to get some supplies, leaving Alec alone with him. Had they been gone longer, then he may have been able to set up something more elaborate, more...fun.

The grocery bag yielded better treasures than the various material goods and chemicals that would probably go into mediocre bomb-making: A bottle of wine. Smiling at his luck, Redford uncorked it and placed it on the table, drawing himself a chair. He was careful not to get any blood on his immaculate shoes. He glanced around the room. No glasses. How they intended to drink this was a mystery.

This piqued his curiosity. Taking out a small device, he ran it over the bottle, it's green light scanning the contents. Redford could recall, almost two decades ago, watching his partner flailing around, clutching her throat as poison took her. He couldn't quite remember her name-was it Shelley?- not that it really mattered. She had bad taste in music.

Content that the wine was unpoisoned, he took a small swig from the bottle, and nearly spat out the contents. It may well have been poison. ''Vintage 2350? Pish!'' He stood up, leaving the bottle on the table. Grabbing his charcoal grey coat from the rack, he exited the apartment, barely casting a glance at the slaughter behind him.

Minutes later, Redford was several streets away, having embraced the cold night of the city. He toyed with the detonator for several moments, took a deep breath, and pressed the button. The explosion rocked through the streets, followed closely by screams and panic. Satisfied, he strode off towards the Spaceport, activating his communicator as he did. After a few moments, his ONI handler answered.

"This is Eagle Eye. Red, is your mission complete?"

"All targets have been eliminated."

"Good work, Doctor. We'll have a transport waiting, along with your pay. We've got another assignment waiting when you get back to Earth"

"I'm looking forward to it. May I ask what this assignment entails?"

"You'll be fully briefed when you get home. Something to do with Spartans. We'll see you there, over and out"

Redford smiled. He had never had the opportunity to work with the fabled warriors before, and was genuinely interested, something rare for the veteran agent. His mind briefly flicked back to the apartment where he had lived for the past few months, and the people he had collaborated with for that time. In the end, their deaths had meant as little as the hundreds of others he had used his considerable skills on over the years.

Well, this would be enjoyable.

Rebirth
Pain. That was the first thing Jack felt.

His eyes opened slowly. From what he could tell, he was being suspended in some kind of tank. Numerous wires were attached to his ruined form. Then it all came flooding back. ''Jack. That's my name.'' He had no surname, no family, nothing. Just a name and a number. Eighty-Five. It had meant something once, years ago.

The Rebellion. His fight.

The Array. His battle.

Marco. His failure.

Jack could recall every moment of the fight with perfect clarity. How they had fought on the rocky plains where his ship had crashed, blows and counter-blows traded in perfect sequence, the simultaneous, visor shattering punches that had staggered the two of them back. Meeting face to face.

It had been twenty five years since their last meeting. Jack had been much younger, but no less determined. No less filled with rage for his captors. Marco had been weak, foolish. His best friend had been brainwashed into staying, fighting for a lost cause. Somehow, Jack had always known that they would meet again.

Marco's face was scarred from decades of war. There was dark stubble under his chin and that same defiant look he had met Jack with all those years before, on Earth. His eyes, those piercing green eyes, stared unblinkingly at him, reflecting his foe.

Jack saw himself in those eyes. His face, contorted into an inhuman snarl of anger, his manic eyes staring straight back. For the first time in his life, despite all of his achievements, his kills and his conquests, Jack was afraid, not of his enemy, but of himself.

In those eyes, for that split second, he saw the monster he had become, the lunacy and the absolute destruction that he had wrought upon himself. He should have surrendered at that moment, made amends with his brothers and joined them, to fight as a Spartan for humanity, the future that had been created for him when he had been abducted as a child.

It was only a second. One moment of doubt in a lifetime of certainties.

Instead, he lunged forward, dived headfirst into the madness. They had fought on anyway, in silence. They had trained together, knew each others every strength and weakness. Jack was the cunning one, the perceptive one. Always had been. A quick glance showed him a weapon lying in the dirt beside the armoured, unconscious body of another former friend. Marco was stronger, both physically and mentally. The only chink in his psyche had been removed before Jack's 'departure'.

He had dived for the pistol, rolling before spinning round to level it. Marco was already there, and they were back to fists. That was when it hit him. He just didn't have it. No matter what he did, what move he played against his old friend, Marco would be stronger. He always had been. This angered Jack more than anything. A swift kick knocked Marco to the ground. He knew he wouldn't hit him, but aimed the weapon all the same.

Then, high above him, the last nine years of his life burst into flame. A cursory glance upwards told him that, and something broke inside him. Not for the first time in his life, Jack ran.

He had followed the falling fire for hours, to the rocky heights where it had crashed. No pursuit. Panic. Loss. Emotions flooded through him. He was confused, staggering about the twisted metal as more rained down around him. He had wept. Wept?! Aimlessly he wandered, until something gave way. It was not, thankfully, his sanity. What had once been a piece of titanium battleplate, weakened by the fall through the atmosphere and the subsequent impact, broke under the weight of his stolen MJOLNIR armour.

He fell.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Darkness. Everything was broken. Fire did little to illuminate the nothingness that surrounded him. Suddenly, he felt a strange feeling of separation. Looking down, another falling piece of metal had severed the lower part of his body, just above the legs. That hurt. He had screamed and screamed until the blissful blackness had taken him.

Ah, the pain. Which brought him back to his present moment, suspended motionless in a gel-filled tube, the only sounds being barely audible mechanical motors from his extremities as tiny pieces of metal were affixed to him. Where was he? Is this hell? he wondered.

"You live" A voice. No, a chorus of voices

Jack tried to open his mouth, but no sounds emerged. A heavy breathing device had been clamped over it. Who was that?

"We represent the first awakened of a kind beyond your knowing"

How had they known what he had thought? Unless... Where am I? What is happening to me?

"You are in our resting place, our tomb. We are repaying your favour for awakening us"

Awakening?

"You, creature, will become what you have always been destined to be. You will be our herald, our vanguard. You will know greater power than any of your kind, a God in walking form. You will serve in our pantheon as the voice of the Silence"

He didn't quite understand what the mysterious voices meant, but some things made sense to him. Namely the 'greater power' part. I accept. He thought about all those who had wronged him. He had spent his entire life being abused, abandoned, betrayed. No longer. He had nothing now, no connections to anything or anyone.

Nothing but his anger.

"We knew you would. Once you have been unleashed, none will stand against you. Do you have a name?"

Jack.

"Simple. Weak. Meaningless. You will serve us as Reave, when the time truly comes. As for now, your rebirth into a greater being is in progress"

Reave. That sounded nice. Jack smiled beneath his mask, ignoring the pain it caused. He would decide his own name, though. Already, a plan was forming in his mind. Genius. He would be the first of a new breed. Those who stood against him would be thrown down, be they Human or Covenant.

The voices were right. Once he had been remade, Jack would be a God among lesser creatures, perfect and ageless. Even the Spartans would pale in comparison when compared to him. All those who dared face him would face annihilation. And Marco? Well, he had all the time in the world to create the most exquisitely painful forms of demise for his former brother.

Somewhere in his mind, the tiny piece of regret and remorse, the fear and the vulnerability, his humanity, all those emotions that had been conjured up in that second of looking into those green eyes, were crushed.

In that chamber, deep beneath the scarred surface of Endrin, all that remained of Jack-085, the Spartan, died. Forever.

Rough Night
Training Exercises. That was what they called it.

Kilo Company had been stationed on Pelion for only two weeks now, and the general consensus was that it was hell. The year was 2568, sixteen years after the end of the Great War, and Humanity was still rebuilding. Pelion was one of the first planets to have been colonised, twelve years before.

Corporal Reyes walked lazily down the busy market street of the town, along with the eleven others in his squad. The colony had an unusually high level of civil disobedience and anti-UNSC propaganda, prompting the Marines to be dispatched to keep order. Sergeant Kowalski, their NCO, was trying to talk to one of the stallholders.

"No, I said. Have. You. Seen. Rebels?" he said, speaking loudly and slowly. Reyes sighed, and walked over to the two, smiling at the elderly vendor.

"has visto alguna individuos sospechosos? rebeldes? Las personas con pistolas?"

The man shook his head. "Nada" he muttered, casting a glance over the Marine's shoulder. He turned back to selling his wares. Kowalski and Reyes walked away. The sun was beginning to set, and they had achieved nothing today.

"Hey Reyes, where'd you learn spanish?" Kowalski asked.

"Learned it in the orphanage, Sarge. Can speak Japanese, Farsi and French too"

Kowalski whistled, obviously impressed. "And you joined the Marines? Damn"

Reyes shrugged. Many others had asked him the same question. He would have been accepted to any of the universities on Earth, yet he had joined the military. To this day, he too was unsure why, but had felt compelled to do it. Before he could answer, a distant sound alerted the entire squad.

"Explosion?" asked Private Rollins.

Kowalski put two fingers to his helmet radio. His eyes widened in shock. "It's River Base, there's been some kind of attack. The base, where most of the company was stationed, was only twenty minutes away. They had walked out of the front gates that very morning.

"Let's move!" The Sergeant shouted. Reyes checked his assault rifle, and began to run after the others.

This was bad.

Back at River Base, most of the Operations Centre had been destroyed. Corpsmen were picking through the rubble, while by the vehicle depot, a line of bodies lay. It was chaos. After reporting in, Reyes' squad had discovered that a local who had been brought in for questioning had smuggled a bomb inside with him, and detonated it, killing himself and two dozen UNSC personnel. Every patrol they had sent out in the local area had been recalled to the base. Things were not looking good here. With the losses here and the rest of Kilo Company on the other side of the planet, the base was dangerously undermanned.

Sergeant Major Haines, the highest ranking officer left alive, was attempting to coordinate the marines around the base, though she was showing obvious signs of worry, strained from the sudden responsibility of command. Gunfire from beyond the walls of the base snapped the marines into battle mode, Reyes running with his squad to the battlements. Things on Pelion were much, much worse than the UNSC had expected. Outside the base, dozens of figures brandishing a variety of weapons. The young marine levelled his Battle Rifle, and fired a burst at one, who was attempting to aim a missile launcher. He dropped like a sack of bricks and the others scattered. Back in the courtyard, Haines was yelling at several technicians, who were hurrying across with their toolboxes.

"Damn it, get that comm tower fixed, now! Corporal Hsu, I want a fireteam covering the west ASAP! Sergeant Kowalski, your men-"

Reyes never heard the rest of the sentence. In an instant, the Sergeant Major was gone as the mortar struck the centre of the courtyard, followed by several others. One landed just below the wall he was on, temporarily deafening the Corporal. He fumbled and dropped his gun, panicking for a few seconds as this hearing gradually recovered, a loud ringing sound in his ears. Missiles streaked from towers within the base, and judging by the explosions, hit the source of the mortar fire. Reyes grabbed his rifle, reloaded and fired a few more bursts at their attackers. What the hell was going on?! It seemed as if the whole village had risen up against them, and then some.

"Shit, Sergeant Major's down. Keep firing, we've gotta hold out as long as we can!" Kowalski was now the senior NCO in charge.

Three hours later, and still no sign of reinforcements. This wasn't good. Reyes had picked off several rebels hidden within the bushes with his battle rifle, and ammo was running low. The only thing keeping the two dozen marines in the fight was the advantage of the fortress walls and the high ground. Kowalski moved into the guard tower, crouching low to avoid snipers. He tossed two bags of ammunition to the floor and moved to check the window. The fact that the rebels had held out at all was something of a surprise. They had been here for three weeks and aside from a few peaceful demonstrators and the occasional hidden weapon that had been seized from the surrounding towns, there was no sign of any major Insurrectionist activity.

"Sarge, got something on the road, looks like a vehicle"

Kowalski made his way over to Reyes, who had sighted something large heading their way. Through the fading light, the shape of an Olifant garbage trunk came into view, trundling towards the front gate. Several men ran alongside it, hefting portable missile launchers. The truck had obviously been heavily modified, and was bristling with weaponry. It accelerated towards the fort, shrugging off rifle rounds. A missile streaked past it. Seconds later, it hit the gate, which collapsed inwards. White smoke streamed from exhaust ports as the vehicle came to a halt in the courtyard.

"Get some goddamn fire on that truck!" Kowalski roared, pulling the pin from a grenade and tossing it downwards. Figures darted out of the smoke and dived for cover before it exploded, and immediately began trading fire with the marines. These weren't your average pissed of colonists. They were hard-line innies. Trained killers. This was bad. Reyes let off a few bursts from his rifle before two bodies tumbled through the door to his left. He span round to see a heavily armoured, hooded man stabbing Corporal Hsu in the throat with a jagged blade. Without thinking, he rushed forwards, slamming the butt of the rifle into the man's head. The rebel grunted in pain and attempted to roll over as the second blow came. It smashed into him again with a dull crack. He slumped to the floor. Reyes span the gun around, and fired twice.

Hsu was dead. He didn't have to check to see that. The marine stared at his kill for a few seconds, breathless. It was the first time he had killed someone in close quarters combat. His body had reacted, killing the other man before he could do the same. He reloaded his weapon, and turned to Kowalski, who hadn't even noticed over the gunfire and explosions. As Reyes opened his mouth to speak to the Sergeant, everything went white. He felt himself tumbling down, sharp pains erupting all over his body as he finally struck the stone floor. His hearing was muffled, and it hurt to draw breath. Reyes' eyes blinked open. He was alive, at least. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before looking round for his rifle. It was still intact, and with half a clip left.

The enemy seemed to have won. Outside, the sounds of gunfire had all but faded as the remaining Marines were being hunted down by the rebels. For all their superior training and equipment, the defenders had been overwhelmed. Reyes sat for a little while longer, nursing his wounds. For all he knew, he was the only one left alive. Kowalski and the others had been killed when the tower was hit, probably by a missile of some kind. He could surrender. He was outnumbered at least a hundred to one, with a half empty rifle and, by the feel of it, broken ribs. The gunshots outside made it pretty clear that these guys weren't feeling very merciful. Guns blazing it is, Reyes thought to himself. The marine picked himself up and crawled out through a gap in the rubble, and onto what remained of the wall.

Outside, the rebels were taking everything they could from the fort. A pile of corpses in Marine Corps dress lay by the front gate. More were being dragged out of the demolished headquarters. Reyes froze as a man, clad in ragged gear, appeared at the top of the steps, placing a captured helmet on his head while carrying several looted rifles under the crook of his arm. The moment he turned away, Reyes leapt from his hiding place, combat knife drawn, and plunged it into the man's throat, covering his mouth with the other hand as he dragged the man back into the shadows. Eventually, he stopped twitching and was still. Warm blood ran over the Marine's shaking hands. He gathered up the fallen rifles, taking the clips and reloading his own.

No one had seen or heard a thing. The power had been cut when the HQ was hit, plunging the base into near-total darkness. Good. Reyes sighted four rebels patrolling the main courtyard, and opened fire. All four were cut down in seconds as others ran to investigate, flashlights shining up at the balcony where the Corporal was taking cover. Stepping back into the darkness, he reloaded and moved to another position, bursts of fire taking down multiple enemies before he spotted one of them hefting a large grenade launcher. Swearing, he made a dash for the edge of the wall and leapt off, landing on the roof of one of the rebel trucks as tracer rounds flew past. He rolled down and sprinted into the remains of the headquarters. A sharp, burning pain in his shoulder told him that he had been hit. Reyes kept going, diving behind a wall to reload.He had to survive. Defeat just wasn't an option here. The sound of footsteps grew louder as the first of his pursuers rounded the corner.

Let's do this.

The sporadic gunfire from outside had stopped almost completely in the last few minutes. Corporal Reyes sat crouched behind a pile of rubble, and checked for any movement before grabbing his second canister of biofoam. He unhooked the nozzle and injected the spray into his wounded leg. There was a sharp burst of pain for a few seconds, followed by numbness. Since he had taken cover inside the building, Reyes had been hit thrice; he had killed several dozen in return. The fact that he had survived until dawn was something of a miracle, though two of the trucks had trundled off towards the town, probably to get explosives or reinforcements to flush him out.

A loud crash from outside brought him to his senses. There were short bursts of rifle fire and shouts from the rebels. Five of them came lumbering into the building, right into Reyes' killzone. As he opened fire on the first one, the others fell forwards, cut down by burps of suppressed SMG fire. Two men, wearing heave black body armour and black-visored helmets stepped round, guns raised. These were Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, or ODST's. The wounded marine waved them over. They did so, not lowering their weapons as they did so. The first looked the marine over before helping him to his feet.

"Major Michael Green, 105th ODST. Where's the rest of your platoon, soldier?"

"They're dead, sir. I'm the only one left"

"I'm sorry to hear that. How long have you been here?"

"I've been holding out all night."

"Damn. We'll get you to a medic, Marine. My boys are clearing the rest up outside. What's your name?"

"Maynard Reyes. Corporal, Kilo Company of the 28th"

"Nice to meet you Maynard, let's get the hell off this planet"

Two weeks later, Maynard was sat in a bed on the medical deck of a UNSC Destroyer. The rest of Kilo Company had come down hard on the other rebels after the garrison in River Base had been wiped out, and were sweeping the rest of the planet. He had been close to passing out from blood loss when the ODST's had picked him up. Major Green had personally taken him to a dropship, and vowed to put him in for a Colonial Cross after his actions on Pelion.

The door to his room slid open, and a dark suited man stepped in. He seemed about fifty, with greying hair and dark circles around his eyes. The insignia of a Rear Admiral was pinned to his chest. Maynard saluted, and said nothing as the man sat down beside the bed.

"Maynard Reyes?"

"Yes sir"

"I'm Rear Admiral Ryan Samson. Just got word of what you did down on that planet, Marine. Remarkable work. We need more men like you in the field"

"Thank you, sir"

Samson took out an envelope, and handed it to Maynard. "We're recruiting the best of the best, both from the military and civilian sector. Read it over, and if you like what you see, report back to me when you're feeling fit to walk" He stood up, and walked out without another word. Maynard tore the envelope open and unfolded the letter. He spotted an insignia at the top, followed by the title: SPARTAN-IV. He smiled, and began reading.

Overwatch
Gress was burning.

From a cave entrance in the rocky slopes of the Telai mountains, several figures sat and watched as the distant city was slowly turned to glass by Covenant ships. Thousands had been slaughtered in the brief ground engagement before the human defenders had finally broken and retreated. In orbit, the fleet had been decimated by the alien attackers, wrecked hulls of warships left floating in pieces while the remainder of the UNSC fleet had been pushed back across the system.

The war was entering it's twenty-first year, and now there were no illusions, even among the public, that humanity was losing. The casualties were already in billions, and with the apparent loss of Admiral Cole a few years before, morale was at an all-time low, even with the heavy censorship administrated by the Office of Naval Intelligence. There had been many victories, but each had come at a price. The Covenant may have had their superior technology and destructive weaponry, backed up by a fanatical devotion to the destruction of their foe, but humanity, on the other hand, had the power of ingenuity and adaptability, as well as a centuries-old talent for warfare. As such, many projects had been devoted to devising new and efficient ways of fighting. Currently, the results of one such project were observing the destructive power of their foe.

"Well, that's another planet gone"

"We did all we could, Jax"

"I know Chief. Gave those bastards a hell of a time getting through that valley to the capital though. Nice nuking, Marco"

"My pleasure"

Nine figures sat on the rocks outside the cave. Each one was clad in bulky MJOLNIR armour, standing roughly seven feet tall. Though their faces were usually concealed behind opaque visors, most of them held their helmets under their arms. One, wearing blue armour and being noticeably taller than his comrades, threw down a heavy metal box before sitting beside it. Another Spartan, in silver armour, opened it and began handing out small packets.

"MRE's, Resk?" he asked. 041 was stamped on his chestplate in black, slightly above a recent plasma burn. "Thanks, but a few nukes would have been better" The other Spartan, Resk, shrugged, and looked around at the starlit sky. "Eh, I'd take food over a WMD any day, even if we're on a burning world" He seemed content with the situation, in spite of the destruction going on a dozen miles away.

"We pulled something out of the bird, at least" said Jax, finally tearing his eyes away from the distant glassing. "I was worried we wouldn't make it, with 'ol Nef flying us in"

"Well Jax" intoned a deep voice from a helmeted Spartan in the cave entrance. "I'm sure that with your piloting skills, we'd have gone straight into the mountain and not be sitting here having a picnic"

Jax chuckled at this, and looked over at the other side of the makeshift camp, where three of the other Spartans sat huddled around a transmitter, attempting to repair it with the basic tools they had. "Any luck, Jacob?" he called. A man in dark green armour, with a distinctive mohawk hairstyle, looked up and shook his head before returning to his work with the other two. Since the nuke had obliterated that Covenant army, comms had been a mess. Jax clicked his tongue a few times and looked around at his teammates before returning his gaze to the city being glassed in the distance.

"Anyone else getting pretty sick of seeing this? Wouldn't mind a few more times when we kick ass and stay to enjoy the scenery"

No one replied. After a few seconds, Jax sighed and picked up his helmet before standing up and stretching. Taking out his shotgun, he turned to the camp. "I'm going for a walk in the woods. Might be some Covvies that we didn't kill still snooping around. Anyone coming?!

Resk jumped up and hefted his heavy machine gun, which he had restocked with enough ammo to mow down half a Covenant legion with. "Let's hunt" he said plainly, striding off after his best friend into the night. Though it was unlikely that any enemies had survived the bloody fight in the valley below, they had to be sure that there was nothing left alive down there. Another thirty seconds passed before Wulf, who had discarded his half eaten MRE, spoke up.

"Jax was right, y'know. No matter how many we kill on land, They can just burn us out from orbit. We've already lost New Llanelli this year, just a matter of time before they hit Earth"

"They'd have to get through Reach first" intoned the tan-armoured Spartan, Marco. "Technological superiority or not, we'd give them a bloody good fight before they take the place"

"Still, we haven't got that many places to run to, is all I'm saying. Fargad, Reach and Earth are the biggest military places we have left. We had double that number a decade ago"

"Wulf" Master Chief Petty Officer Fenn-145 stood up, a confident smile on his face. "I know you, you're a fighter, a wolf" Wulf sighed and shook his head at the comparison, which had been made far too many times for his liking. Fenn continued. "Mark my words, we'll win someday. Hell, none of us may live to see it, but we'll win. Doesn't matter what they use against us because in the long run, humans are better at fighting and surviving than them" This seemed to raise the silver-armoured Spartan's spirits somewhat. From the cave entrance, Nef-015 clapped several times.

"Nice inspirational speech, Chief. Not the best I've seen, but pretty good all the same"

"Glad to see someone likes them. Want to join us, Nef?"

"No, I'm fine here" Fenn shrugged. Nef had always been a loner, even in training. He had been like that. At least he wasn't being as surly as he usually was. Fenn was pretty sure that his reasonably good mood was attributed to an impressive laser shot earlier, which took down three banshees at once. A sudden crackle from the radio brought the attention of everyone over. Fenn stood up, and Jacob-076 tossed the radio over to him. He activated it, and spoke.

"To any nearby UNSC ships, this is Sierra One-Four-Five of SIGMA Team. We are in need of immediate evac, I repeat, we have a team of Sierra's on the ground needing pickup"

There was no response for a few moments until a voice broke through the static. It was resounding, speaking with a clear and authoritative tone. "This is Commander John Hawkins of the UNSC Albumasar. Sigma Team, we have your location but cannot maintain our position for much longer. We will need you at the pickup point the moment the dropship lands or we will leave you, is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir" Fenn responded, and shut off the radio. On his HUD, a navigation marker half a mile away popped up, on the summit of a grassy hill above the forest. He immediately activated the COM as the rest of Sigma packed up and prepared themselves. "Jax, Resk, get back here. We've got to move right now or we'll miss the pickup point, do you read?"

An explosion in the forest below, followed by a string of expletives over the COM and the buzz of machine gun fire seemed to answer. "Chief!" Jax shouted as he blasted away with his shotgun. "We've got half a damn army down here. Get going now, we'll catch up to you in a while" Wulf, Nef, Marco, Jacob, Kane-099 and Amy-133 all looked to their leader for orders. Fenn swallowed. Resk and Jax would never allow the other to die, and they weren't suicidal to stay behind to 'buy more time'. He turned to the rest of the team. He was their Chief, and they needed orders.

"Right, lets get running. Jacob, you're on point. Wulf and Marco on flanks. Everyone else, stay with me. We're getting the hell off this planet"

With a final look towards the glow of burning city in the distance, Fenn noticed that the Covenant cruiser had stopped it's relentless glassing, and had begun making it's way straight towards them. Just another reason to sprint faster. He began moving behind Jacob, who was the fastest in the team, keeping a lookout for any Covenant that might have gotten past the others. The Spartans ran through the long grass, leaping over fallen trees and rocks while keeping in formation. He checked the COM again.

"Jax, Resk, we'll be there in thirty, what's your status?"

Resk responded, speaking in his eerily calm voice as he mowed down wave after wave of enemy infantry. "We're moving back, Chief. Be there in less than a minute, give or take. I'd go faster but I'd rather not lose my weapon" Typical Resk. He'd get there with his beloved gun and clamber aboard without a word, closely followed by Jax. The extraction area was in sight. Fenn and the others clambered up the hill, only slightly fatigued, and listened out for the telltale roar of a Pelican's engines.

"Chief!" Kane called over, looking down the sights of his rifle. "Sighted wraiths moving through the valley we nuked. Geiger counter must be ticking for 'em, but they'll have us zeroed in pretty soon. Plans?

"Have faith in evac, Kane. You know how pelican pilots love to make an entrance"

"It's not that I'm worried about, it's just that I've crashlanded in enough, and I'd prefer not to go down twice in a day"

A flash of red and blue caught Fenn's eye as the other two Spartans backed out of the forest, guns blazing. They reached the top of the hill where the other Spartans were positioned in no time. Fenn began to fire with his assault rifle at the grunts who emerged from the treeline, bringing down five before he had to reload. There was a deafening roar from above as half a dozen missiles impacted the forest below, setting it ablaze as a Pelican dropship descended, it's rear doors opening. Sigma Team backed into it one by one, hopping onto it's blood tray without a word. Fenn, as usual, was the last in. He gave one last look to make sure his team was in before clambering into his seat. They had made it out of another one. The dropship rose, taking them away from danger.

"Well" panted Jax. "That was fun"

"I thought you were the one going on about how you were sick of losses and retreats" said Amy, who had remained largely silent so far. Jax shook his head.

"Hey, if there's one thing I can do, it's look on the bright side. There'll be other battles to fight. We'll win in the end" He began to whistle an archaic tune from an old movie he had forced the others to sit through years ago. Fenn couldn't help but smile.

"That's exactly what I said earlier Jax. Doesn't matter how long it takes, we'll win this war, one way or another"

Departure
'''Quito Space Tether, Departure Lounge 3R. September 19th, 2555'''

Thirty-Eight days after Operation: ASHES

The entire area was bustling with activity. Hundreds of people walked to and fro across the departure area of the station atop the huge space elevator, which was safely latched into the Ecuadorian capital many hundreds of miles below. Even two years after the official end of the war, most resources on the orbital were still being commandeered by the UNSC, though commercial flights were becoming available again. One such flight was due to leave in fifteen minutes. A man, clad in a long coat, sporting a shaven head and several tattoos, stalked across the main floor towards the terminal that would lead to one of many shuttles currently docked at the station.

This particular man didn't get many glances from the other passengers making their way to the gate. The particular shuttle here would be travelling to Circumstance, one of the very few Inner Colonies remaining after the war. However, when a second men, wearing black body armour sprinted into the lounge, calling after him, every eye was on them. Two security personnel took notice, and began moving towards the man, their hands going towards their weapons.

"Mal!"

The man turned to face the armoured trooper, face concealed behind an opaque visor. He didn't seem to pay much attention to the two security guards behind him. He sighed, and ran a hand over his scalp.

"What is it Ash, come to say goodbye?"

The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper removed his helmet, revealing a pale face with a noticeable scar running across his chin. As the security staff reached out to grab Mal, he stepped forward, glowering at the pair of them. They backed off instantly. ODST's, commonly known as 'Helljumpers', were known for being slightly crazy; it was in the job description. "Back off boys, he's not causing any trouble" said Ash Mitchell. They did so, returning to their post without a glance back. Mal smirked at this.

"Y'know, it's when you do stuff like this that you remind me of McNair"

"You keep saying that, Sergeant Roberts, but you ended up with the robot arm"

Mal frowned at this, his right arm moving over his prosthetic left instinctively. He had lost in on a classified mission not long before to a high-powered energy blast. "Oh, and I'm not a sergeant any more Ash, I took the promotion and quit, remember?"

"That's why I'm here, Mal. You loved being a hellie. You were one of the best too. Remember our first mission, Draco III?"

"Ash, I really don't have-"

"Remember?!" Mal looked down and sighed at this. It had been their first mission as ODST's, a decade ago. The two of them had been dropped in as part of a 40-man unit under the command of Henry McNair, their former trainer. It had been a losing battle from the start, and by the end, only the pair of them, along with a group of Spartans and another ODST team, had managed to get out alive. It had been a harrowing experience, one that had shaped their lives as soldiers. Mal had always been something of a loudmouth, quite cocky and confident. Now, everything about him seemed to look haggard, as if he had suddenly aged every day of his forty one years in a month.

"I remember, Ash. I see what you're doing, too. Look, attempting to appeal to McNair's memory or whatever won't work, I've made up my mind. I'm done with all this bullshit command is pressing on us. That last mission? Lost my goddamn arm, and for what? So the place gets blown up and the freaks rescue their buddy? That it?"

For the first time in all the years Ash had known him, Mal Roberts looked genuinely terrified. The trooper looked at his friend in silence as he attempted to regain his composure before continuing. "And that's not all, too. They knew I wanted out. ONI knows everything about us. You think they'd let me retire in peace? I get a needle or a bullet and suddenly you get news that I've had a heart attack. I'm leaving, Ash. Only one place I can go where they'd have trouble finding me"

"Mal, you're not serious? Innies?"

"Why not? I ain't into that 'down with Earth' stuff. I'll find a place in the outer colonies, far away. Retire. Have a life, since I've wasted most of it fighting Covvies"

Ash had to admit, some of the stuff his old friend was saying had made a lot of sense. He doubted that ONI would take kindly to anyone telling the public about ancient alien death machines not long after the war. "Look, I'm not asking you to join up again, I'm actually considering leaving myself. I just think you should stay on Earth for now?"

Mal snorted. "What, didya fall in love with me or something? Sorry Ash, I don't swing that way" His armoured friend almost punched him for that. "No Mal, that's not what I mean. Think about it, if you do leave, it'll only provoke more suspicion, you don't want that!"

A voice through the speakers announced that the flight to Circumstance was now boarding. Mal turned away from the ODST and began to stalk towards the exit before Ash grabbed his shoulder. Mal turned round, his robotic hand shooting towards his friend's throat.

"Fuck off, Ash. You want to play soldier boy with yer oonskie pals, fine. I'm done with this shit for good. Last mission opened my eyes to how pointless everything we were doing was. Fighting aliens? Fine, but I ain't playing curbstomper now the colonies are getting riled up. I'm-"

Looking down, Mal saw an M6D pistol pressing against his chest. Through his visor, he could see that Ash's eyes had taken on the hard, cold look associated with a trained killer. The robotic had released it's grip, and he stepped back. "Bye" he said, and turned away.

Ash Mitchell holstered the weapon. He honestly couldn't believe it had come to that. Mal Roberts had been his best friend for the past decade, and now they were literally at each other's throats. As much as he had despised the Human-Covenant War, it had brought humanity together, his time fighting in the ODST's along people from all different nationalities and backgrounds had taught him that. Now everything was back to some semblance of normality, the veil had been lifted, and people's true colours were being shown. It had taken Mal a couple of years to snap.

He sighed, looking around glumly at passers-by. Ash had to get back to the frigate he was stationed on. As an officer, he had to control the men and women under his command and inform them of their next assignment: a counter-rebel op on an inner colony world, where massive riots had broken out. He wasn't sure of the details, but had a bad feeling that the ODST's wouldn't be there to keep order-they would enforce it, probably with gunfire. Ash gave one last look at the transfer gate to the Circumstance flight before setting off in the opposite direction.

He had tried, at least. Hopefully Mal would find whatever peace he sought out in the colonies. He deserved that, at least. If not, then Ash prayed that they never met on the battlefield as enemies. He would kill his friend without a moment's hesitation, and that was what frightened him.

The Damned
War was pretty damn stupid.

That was the first thing that Carlos Driscol taught those under his command. You got all sorts in this profession: The psychos, the idealists, the fanatics and the followers. Driscol proclaimed himself to be something of a battlefield philosopher, though many considered him a complete and utter sociopath. Currently, he and the remnants of the second Mamorian infantry brigade were sheltered amongst the many caves that dotted the planet's mountainous region. Mamore had been a place of uprisings, terror attacks and general discontent for years now. Full-blown battles were taking place in the streets, though after the massacre today, it was clear that the UNSC was winning.

Driscol sat by the small, hydrogen powered heater that gave his soldiers light and warmth, two things critical to surviving a night in the mountains. Even in May, the temperature would drop to below freezing in some areas. There were four others huddled round the generator. As brigade commander, Driscol knew them all by name: Remi Marshall, Franco DeMont, Hideko Asami and Alan Brown. They had all come here as volunteers to fight for the war effort. The media painted them as terrorists and criminals. While that may have been true for some, everyone had a different story, a reason for fighting. It wasn't an easy life, but at the very least it was one that people chose.

It had been a disaster today for the brigade. They had been nearly seven hundred strong at the beginning of the day, and were now reduced to barely a hundred fighters. The plan had been to storm another UNSC-controlled outpost, raid it's armoury and supplies, and retreat into the mountains. Backing them up had even been a few stolen dropships and even a a shortsword bomber that had been hijacked from a shipyard on Harmony a few months prior, being aboard a military freighter at the time. Though the attack had gone perfectly, they had not expected UNSC aircraft to hit them so quickly. A single ship, some kind of new fighter, had obliterated their entire air force in seconds and began bombing them. When Driscol attempted to get a signal to their own freighter in orbit, he was only met with silence. Assuming the worst, the remainder of his forces were able to retreat into these mountains, with plans to hijack another ship when they returned to the city.

Driscol cleared his throat, the men nearest to him looking up at their commander. There was a lot of discontent about the mission today, but what could he have done? They hadn't expected a single spacefighter to decimate them in under an hour. Franco, a lean man with a well-used assault rifle strapped to his back, spoke up.

"Sir, what are we gonna do now? Today was a mess, putting it lightly"

"You're alive, aren't you?" replied Driscol, unscrewing the lid on his water bottle and allowing himself a single sip before stowing it away. "Oonskies got the jump on us, that's all. Tomorrow, we get off this rock and go somewhere else. Jiles will probably take us in" This seemed to pacify the soldier, who sat back, casting a glance to some others huddled around the cave entrance. What they were doing now was no different to what others had been doing for thousands of years; fighting for a just cause. Mamore may have been a godforsaken shithole of a planet with little strategic value, but the UNSC still wanted it. That's why they were still fighting.

"Remi, how ya feeling?" Driscol asked. The soldier was in his late twenties, but had the appearance of someone much older. There were dark circles under his eys, and he kept nervously checking his weapon, as to see if it still existed. He looked up at the brigade commander. "I'm fine, sir. Just a bit shaken up, is all. Didn't expect any resistance at the outpost"

Ah, that was it. Driscol had seen the lad gun down three marines as they ran for cover, allowing his squad to advance. He recalled watching him methodically executing each one; a quick double tap with his pistol ensuring that they wouldn't get up. He had to admit, he felt slightly bad about teaching young Marshall that one. Turning a human being into a soldier-a taker of life-involved destroying much of their humanity. Those who retained their basic emotions-empathy, regret, sorrow, would most likely die or give in. Though Driscol had never been a religious man, he was pretty sure there was a "Though shalt not kill" written somewhere in one of those books. He snorted with mirth at the foolishness of it all, attracting stares from the others.

"We're better than them, you know" he proclaimed.

Asami shook his head. "Not by much, boss. Didn't feel good about blowing up that barracks a few years back, all those boys on their first night of boot an' all. Not good at all"

"Hey, at least we don't bomb fucking kids from orbit, then make it look like we're making all the war orphans" This had come from Alan Brown. From what Driscol had heard, his family had been killed, and he had gone crazy after that. Not that the commander minded. Crazy alone was suicide. Concentrated crazy, pointed at the right target, was nigh-unstoppable.

"Well then" Driscol said cheerily. "What are you boys in it for? The cause, I mean"

"To kill 'em all" whispered Brown. Again with the whole crazy thing.

"To bring down the fascist Oonskies, obviously" That had come from Franco. Such an intelligent and utterly meaningless answer from such a learned and boring man.

Marshall took a few seconds to answer. "I just want my sister to have a better life" It was simple and naive, Brown shooting him a a disgusted look. Driscol rather liked Remi Marshall, to be honest. The kid had talent as an innie, if little else.

"What about you, Hideko?"

The last man in the squad had listened to the others intently, and seemed to me contemplating his own reasons for fighting. He was an older fighter, in his early fifties at least, and had seen his fair share of death. He sighed, and spoke, his voice as calm and levelled as it had ever been.

"When the Covenant glassed Hat Yai, my wife and children were killed. The UNSC couldn't protect the planet, so we fell back to another colony, then another when the Covenant attacked that one. Sure, all we hear are victories in the news, Admiral Cole wins this, blah blah blah. Went on for a few years, felt like I was sleepwalking through it all. Then, we ended up penned in on Charybdis IX. Remember the big riots there?"

A few of the others could vaguely recall what had happened. Hideko took a sip from his water bottle and continued. "I saw what happened. ODST's dropped in and started gunning down anyone that was in the street. Sure, there were a few there after oonskie heads, but most just wanted food and stuff, that's why I was there. Saw the soldiers throwing grenades into the crowd, killing people trapped in alleyways. Made me sick. Woke me up. I left on a stolen ship that night and joined up then"

Remi let out a low whistle. Even Brown seemed a little shocked. Driscol eyed him apprehensively. "Well, why did you join up then?"

"I joined up because I can't support the side that is shooting unarmed people. Can't condone it. Never will. I know the Covenant must be beaten, but I can't fight for the UNSC. I'm hoping they'll beat the Covenant for us, but where will that lead, even if we win? Anarchy isn't people shooting eachother and looting because there are no laws. That's the idiot's idea of it. I suppose it's closer to what the Koslovics wanted to achieve, albeit without placing a dictator in charge. Once the Covenant are beaten, we'll see"

Brown seemed slightly confused. "Wait, so you want the goddamn oonskies to win?!"

"No, Alan. I want them to defeat the Covenant, so that people like you and me can bring them down, keep us free. The URF can't win against the Covenant, it's as simple as that"

This pacified Brown, while the others sat thinking Asami's story. He had never shared that much about himself with anyone, Driscol included, in his many years of fighting for the Insurrection. Driscol briefly wondered why before his COM began to buzz, snapping the others to attention. He activated it, but could only hear heavy breathing for a few seconds before a staccato of gunfire cut through. It was close, likely coming from the outer sentries they had posted by the edge of camp. Grabbing their weapons, his soldiers jumped up and looked to their commander for orders.

"Get out there! Set up a field of fire, night vision on!"

The three or four other squads in their cavern were moving out as well. By the sounds of fighting outside, the UNSC must have sent half a company after them. At least his boys had the high ground. Driscol picked up his weapon, a customised BR55 Rifle, and slapped another magazine into it, replacing the other one he had half-spent clearing a room of marines earlier. The COM had gone dead. As he reached the cave mouth, he caught sight of a small black object flying past, and swore loudly before a blinding flash and a deafening bang hit him. Driscol staggered back, hitting the wall and slumping down while waiting for the effects to wear off. He then fired a few bursts for good measure.

As his eyes slowly recovered, and the cave came back into focus, he could see that his soldiers had been disappointingly unsuccessful in stopping the enemy. Several lay dead at the cave mouth, ripped to shreds by bullets. Hideki Asami lay a little further in, a gaping hole in his head. Franco DeMont, wounded in the leg, attempted to crawl behind a rock, and was hit by a burst of fire from outside. He slumped forward, and was still. Alan Brown backed into the cave, reloading, and was struck in the chest by an armour-plated fist. He flew back and hit a nearby wall, screaming in pain. Then, he saw it.

It was a Spartan. The UNSC's magical super-soldiers, apparently invincible fighting machines that had been the scourge of the URF since Robert Watts had been taken by them many years ago. Apparently, Driscol's brigade had warranted Spartan deployment against them. He was rather flattered to be considered that much of a threat. Then, he noticed Marshall edging around the side, rifle in hand. The kid was going to die, sure as hell.

From the corner, Driscol noticed Brown fumbling with a syringe, before injecting it into his arm. The Spartan, who was casually killing everyone else, didn't seem to notice the wounded soldier slowly getting up. It had to be Brown, out of everyone else, who was keeping some rumbledrugs stowed away. The brigade had never thought that they'd encounter any Spartans, and had disposed of theirs. Marshall fired a burst from his assault rifle at the Spartan, and missed by inches. Before their armoured enemy could return fire, Brown let out a roar and leapt forwards, wrenching the rifle from the Spartan's hands and kicking it back.

This seemed to be a huge surprise to the enemy, who backed away a few steps before slipping into a combat stance. Brown gave a single look towards Remi Marshall, who looked terrified. "RUN!" he screamed, before jumping into the fray again. He was going to die, there was no doubt about it. As he struggled with his enemy, trading blows and taking hits that would kill a normal man, the usual fire that burned in his eyes was gone. He seemed at peace. Good for him, thought Driscol, a second before an uppercut broke his neck and sent him toppling back.

Carlos Driscol threw his rifle down, gaining the attention of the Spartan, who immediately marched towards him. He expected a single hit would do it; that or a shot to the head. Instead, the Spartan took out a small pad, and scanned it. Then, he (or she, Driscol couldn't tell with the darkness and the armour) showed it to him. It was a picture of him, dated a few years back, with a long list of supposed 'crimes' against the UNSC. This was worse than death: They had come for him. Driscol had one hope of getting out of this.

"So, was that you in the fighter earlier, the one that killed my boys?"

A nod. Nothing more.

"Fine. Didn't get me, as you've noticed. You come alone?"

Another nod. At least Remi Marshall had a chance of escaping then. Maybe, just maybe, he'd come back for his old commander.

"Okay then, I get it. You're good. But did you expect me to go down without a trap? Now!"

As the Spartan quickly looked round for the non-existent ambushers, Driscol's hand shot for his holster, pulling out his pistol and firing it thrice in the Spartan's face. Nothing happened, only the brief shimmer of energy fields. The Spartan stamped on the gun, crushing it, and several of his fingers into the ground. He then found himself facing the business end of an M6D Pistol. Then, the realisation hit him.

"Oh, I get it. Dead or alive?"

A single nod. That was it. There was a brief flash, and then nothing.

Revelation
This was the end. Over one thousand years of alliance and brotherhood fractured in a single moment.

Shipmaster Felo 'Ranakee stood on the bridge of his CCS-Class battlecruiser, Undying Faith, and listened as he was told of the destruction of everything he had fought for. There was a meeting of Shipmasters being held at this very moment, being presided over by the esteemed Imperial Admiral Xytan 'Jar Wattinree, who was rallying the Sangheili in this dark hour. Ranakee's ship had been refuelling and resupplying, and was out of the loop in terms of the political situation. Following the destruction of the human world, Reach, the fleet had broken up somewhat.

"...and so, my brothers, it is crucial that we unite against the treacherous Prophets, and their Jiralhanae lapdogs, if we are to continue our very existence!"

The bridge's COM winked off. The crew, who had sat in stunned silence as they were told of the massacre of the council and the position of the Sangheili being usurped so quickly, turned to Felo. He was their shipmaster, and they would follow him no matter what. Behind him stood his two most trusted lieutenants and blood-brothers, Sur and Rol. Neither said a word, though Felo could tell that they both wanted to take action. What Sur lacked in subtlety and manners, he made up for in sheer violence and loyalty. Rol, on the other hand, was much more pragmatic and intelligent than his brother. Still, they too looked to him for guidance.

"What we have heard is...troublesome. The fact that our Covenant has been rent asunder has come as a shock, especially in these trying times. However, I feel that, as the Admiral stated, we need to fight for our survival. The task ahead is simple: Kill our enemies before they kill us"

This caused an uproar amongst the assembled command staff. While some nodded and shouted their agreement, several jumped up. "Heresy! The holy prophets would never do such a thing!" This only provoked two more dissenters to rise and bark their anger at the Shipmaster, who stood in silence, his face betraying no reaction to this inexcusable outburst. "You are unfit to command this vessel!" shouted another. Sur growled, a hiss of energy as his crimson blade ignited.

"Silence, whelp!" He advanced slowly as the five dissenters drew their own swords. It would soon turn into a bloodbath if Sur got any closer. At a time like this, they could not avoid a schism aboard the ship while his people were massacred by traitors elsewhere. Felo spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, yet heard by all.

"Sur, get back"

Felo leapt from his command station, over his brother as he moved away, and landed on the floor, rolling as he did so. A blade of blue energy sliced through the skull of the first. The others had no chance. He was a living maelstrom as those who had dared defy their shipmaster were hacked to pieces. It was over in seconds. None of their blades had struck his, let alone even touch his golden armour. Striding back to the command centre, his authority made clear, Felo spoke over the ship's intercom.

"To my brothers, we have been betrayed. What I am about to say may sound like heresy, but hear me out. The council has been killed. Murdered, by the Jiralhanae, on the orders of the Hierarchs themselves. The Imperial Admiral himself has ordered us to fight back against these traitors, those who have fractured our glorious Covenant. As your shipmaster, I order you to capture the prophet that we have aboard, no matter the cost"

He clicked the intercom off. Hopefully, the rest of his crew would not be so blind as to betray him. Mentioning Wattinree would help a great deal; there would be few Sangheili who had not heard of his great exploits. Nevertheless, Felo would have to hunt down the rat that resided on his ship for answers. After they had stopped to refuel, the Prophet of Piety had boarded, along with a contingent of Jiralhanae. While this had merely seemed unusual at the time, now their purpose was crystal clear: They would have killed him and his crew before taking the ship for themselves. The mere thought of such a despicable act made him furious.

"Bring up the cameras heading toward the hangar!"

After a few seconds, images of the Faith's hangar bay and surrounding corridors popped up. It didn't take long to find the prophet, moving along on his chair surrounded by a dozen brutes. The hangar itself was a battleground, Felo's crew fighting a desperate battle against the traitors, who were clearing a path towards Piety's personal shuttle. Felo turned away and stalked towards the door, closely followed by Sur and Rol. He would not be allowed to get off this ship. As the three ran, several more of their allies came into view, heavily armoured SpecOps soldiers of Sur's personal lance. Felo slowed, keeping his hands on the activation pad of his sword, just in case. The leader stepped forward.

"Shipmaster, the brutes began attacking moments before your broadcast. Is it true then? Have we been betrayed?"

"Yes, Major. Do you remain loyal to the Sangheili?"

"Of course. The crimes committed here are unforgivable"

"Good. Gather everyone you can and get to the hangar, once it is secure we shall discuss our future from there"

"Of course, Shipmaster!" The Major sped away, followed by his lance. It was good to have such loyal soldiers still remaining. The utter confusion that seemed to be affecting many could be fatal if not combated swiftly. After so many centuries under the Prophet's rule, freedom would not come easily. Stalking toward the hangar doors, Felo could hear the sound of spiker fire. Motioning to Rol, who had his carbine raised, the shipmaster ignited his sword in one hand and drew a plasma rifle, creeping forwards. There was a faint hiss from behind as Sur's twin blades activated, a faint red light emanating from them. The door chimed and slid open.

Felo had been in this situation a dozen times before. He and his brothers had practiced this particular manoeuvre extensively in their keep. Humans had a habit of sitting behind doors with as many guns pointed towards it as possible. While they had never used it against brutes, he was fairly confident that it would be successful. Before the hangar door had opened fully, he had rolled forward, and fired a few rifle shots in the general direction of the enemy before jumping sideways. Rol had darted to the right and took cover behind a pile of crates. He was a proficient swordsman, but seemed to dislike fighting in close quarters.

"RAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Sur 'Ranakee. Second only to his older brother with a blade, but unparalleled in terms of brutality and violence. Even the brutes, who roared in anger and surprise at their sudden arrival, could not match his fury. Had Felo allowed Sur to fight on the bridge, he doubted that anyone would be still alive up there, loyal or not. The warrior's blades sliced through armour, fur, flesh and bone as the prophet's guards turned their attention away from the few remaining Sangheili to meet this new threat. Felo advanced, gunning down the Jiralhanae who stood in his way before he caught sight of his prey's hover chair heading for a shuttle. Dodging a few spikes, he leapt forward and sprinted after the Prophet. A heavily armoured Chieftain, hammer in hand, growled and raised the weapon as he approached.

Dodging the cumbersome weapon as it slammed down was easy. It was what came next that took skill, and even some artistic talent. Felo sliced through the handle of the hammer and spun, ducking, to avoid the Chieftain's claws before attacking again. This time, he struck the back of his enemy's knees, bringing the brute to the ground. A lazy slash across the throat silenced the beast's screams. Felo barely had enough time to savour the takedown before a sizzling green bolt of energy passed by, missing him by inches. For one so weak and dependant on others, this worm certainly had fangs. A single blow threw the prophet from his throne and onto the hangar floor.

"What now, mighty prophet? Will you declare me a heretic? What will you do now, without your brutes to protect you!"

"Blasphemy!" cried the Prophet of Piety. "You dare strike me, traitor? I carry the power given by the hierarchs themselves!" Felo couldn't help but chuckle at this spirited, if meaningless defiance. He dragged the screaming prophet away from the shuttle, and turned him to face what appeared to be most of his crew. Over a hundred Sangheili, along with various lesser species, had gathered in the hangar. No one spoke word. They were too shocked to speak. Felo turned to the prophet.

"Tell us, then, why you have betrayed us! The Council, slaughtered, our ships attacked and the Covenant itself broken. Why?!"

The diminutive alien shook with terror, it's beady eyes darting around the room. "The Great Journey-"

"-Is a lie!" Felo roared. This brought the crowd into uproar. He would have to silence them again. Giving the whimpering prophet a final look of disgust, he grabbed it by the neck, and ignited his sword, impaling him instantly. The charred corpse fell to the floor, and silence filled the hangar once more. All eyes were on the shipmaster. Right now, he had to bring order before he could obtain revenge.

"My brothers, our Covenant has broken. For untold centuries, the prophets have been keeping us in check with this lie. Nowm their plot has been uncovered with this unforgivable irredeemable act. As you heard me earlier, the Imperial Admiral has called for action, which we have taken. High Charity is no more. This is, without a doubt, the end of the Age of Reclamation. I do not know what the future will bring, but survival is paramount. As your shipmaster, I will lead you through this...Schism"

The assembled crew roared and cheered in agreement. He was their leader, and they would follow him to the bitter end. As he strode back towards the bridge, flanked by his two brothers, a great feeling of emptiness came over him, coupled with that of freedom. Things had seemed so much simpler when he had blindly followed orders. His thoughts began to turn back towards the war. Had their entire campaign against the humans been another lie?

"What of the humans, brother?" this had come from Rol at precisely the right moment. Felo sighed. "Maybe... maybe this war was wrong. Perhaps we should be allied with the humans against the prophets and their brute lapdogs"

This seemed to shock even his loyal kin. They stopped in their tracks. "What are you saying, brother?!" asked Sur, a look of complete shock over his face. "We have hunted them like vermin for so long, how can you say that the cause is not righteous?" This was typical of Sur. He had taken to fighting humans with a high amount of zeal, refusing promotions to ranks of command so that he would be allowed to remain on he field. Rol added to Sur's argument. "You have burned their worlds, killed thousands, and survived a fight with one of their demons. You of all people should hate the humans for what they have done"

Hate was not what Felo felt. Only regret. He recalled, not long ago, when he had killed the old human leader on that wretched planet. He recalled how hard he had fought before being stabbed, how he had spat defiance in Felo's face as he died. Then, the demon engaged him. Somehow, he had been bested by the red-armoured beast, wounded and disarmed. But not killed. The demon had named himself as a 'Spartan' and departed, carrying the old warrior's body. Felo had barely survived the battle, both ships under his command being destroyed by the humans. Had it not been for his recovery of the relic, he would have almost certainly been killed upon his return to High Charity.

"I feel nothing but remorse. There are some humans with honour, some that have fought bravely against us. We never gave them a chance to join our Covenant. We attacked with fire and sword, only to be defied time and time again. Keep your opinions to yourselves, brothers"

"Yes, Kaidon" replied Rol with a hint of disgust. This froze Felo in his tracks. His younger sibling was correct. Their current Kaidon, Ordam 'Ranakee, had been on the Sangheili council, and was likely dead. As the oldest living heir, Felo would become Kaidon by default. He had to get home to his keep. The prophets may have attacked the Sangheili homeworld in an attempt to wipe out their race. Though it was unlikely, he had to return. Reaching the bridge, he barked orders to his navigator to plot a course to Sangheilios at once. One of his crew called over.

"Shipmaster, Rtas 'Vadum of the Shadow of Intent has been gathering our forces above the second Halo ring. Shall we join him?"

"No. We have our priorities. Is it not 'Vadumee', crewman?"

"They are dropping all ties to the Covenant, Shipmaster, names included"

This was odd, but not unexpected. The '-ee' suffix signified their servitude to a non-existent entity. "So be it" he said simply, and sat in his command chair. Felo 'Ranak, Kaidon and Shipmaster. Something about that sounded good. In spite of the betrayal, death and confusion, he would remain in control, in command. He had to.

"Take us home"

Boot
"How long you been fightin', son?"

"Five years, sir. Joined up just before Harvest was attacked"

"And you survived all that? Heck, we should put you boys in pods right away, most of our boys haven't seen half of what happened down there. What's yer name?"

"Mack, Richard. Corporal"

"Okay, go through the gate and we'll put you in with the rest of the candidates"

The sergeant ambled off to the next recruit while Mack moved into the next room, where over two dozen other men and women were seated. They were currently in the Special Operations Application Centre, or SOAC, on Fargad, one of the most militarised planets outside of Reach and Earth. Looking around, he could see that just about everyone in here had seen some action. Several had nasty looking plasma injuries, brought on by the vicious campaign that had been fought for the last five years to retake Harvest. They had won, but not without considerable losses.

After a few minutes of sitting in the waiting lounge, the last of the applicants had finally been processed. They had already gone through several screening papers and interviews. Now it was time for the real work to begin. Mack had fought as one of thousands of ordinary marines on Harvest against their alien foe, the Covenant. He could recall the first time his unit had happened upon a group of them. It had been easy to see them as genocidal monsters who burned planets. Five years later, and little had changed. A door slid open at the other side of the room, and three men entered. Two were clad in black armour plating, with opaque, silver-visored helmets. The third wore a simple black uniform. He looked around at the assembled men and women in the room, before speaking.

"Looks like everyone is here. Good. Listen up! I am Gunnery Sergeant Keel, an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. Every single one of you has chosen to be here today, and has at the very least shown to be smart enough for the paperwork. If you'll kindly move your arses aboard the transport, we can take you for some actual training"

Keel stepped aside to allow each person to file past. It was true that the ODST's were a volunteer division, and only took the best applicants. Mack had a feeling that in the next few weeks, over half their number would drop out. He hadn't exactly been a volunteer, but after an incident the previous week, this was his only real option. He walked amongst the silent group and boarded the transport. It would take them about a week at most to get to Reach, where they would go through the physical part of the gruelling training of an ODST.

Oh, how he hated cryosleep.

Mack sat up, spluttering as he coughed up the surfactant designed to give his body nutrients while in cryo. It tasted terrible. There was a chorus of coughs and groans along his row of freezers. Strangely, aside from waking up with a nasty taste in his mouth, Mack had never had any ill-effects or the occasional sickness that accompanied cryosleep, even when he had first shipped out from Earth six years ago. Like most of the oddly beneficial things that had happened over the years, he attributed it to the injections he had received at a young age. Though he had only heard about it from his father, whatever had been done to him had always given him an edge.

Mack climbed out of the cryotube, and walked towards the lockers without a word. Though some people he had known liked to chat after waking up, he had preferred not to speak while cold and naked. He got dressed in silence, that bad taste still in his mouth. Thinking back, dad had once told him that he was 'special'. Of course, most parents would say that to their children, but perhaps he had actually meant it. Mack had grown up in a household where strangers in military attire and dark suits often passed through, though he never spoke to any of them. Joining the Marine Corps had been a bit of a nasty shock for his father, who wanted him to attend the Luna OCS, or Corbulo Academy, two places that he could have easily gotten into. Maybe this Shock Trooper business would impress the old man, who had been some kind of special forces soldier years ago.

After collecting his belongings in a duffel bag, Mack joined the others as they filed into their seats. A monitor on the wall displayed the date: March 2nd, 2531. It had taken them nearly three weeks to get to Reach. Gunnery Sergeant Keel entered the room, which fell silent immediately. He had changed from his regular uniform, and was suited up in the black BDU and armour of an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. It became clear to them that rather than being a simple drill instructor, this man had seen action. His chestplate bore a noticeable plasma burn, while the rest of his armour had been customised to some degree, one pauldron showing signs of repair, the other with a print of the Union Jack above four painted yellow stripes.

"Right then, welcome to Reach. It is here that the lot of you will go from being soldiers, to genuine hard bastards like me" This brought on a few chuckles. "Everybody out!" he called, marching towards the airlock followed by the candidates. Rather than going straight into the terminal and catching the MagLev to wherever, Keel had other plans for them. After climbing down a gantry onto the spaceport floor, they had to march, still carrying their bags, towards the exit, where four troop transport warthogs awaited them. Keel waited for the last stragglers to catch up before handing out lists to the drivers.

One by one, they were called to their transports. According to one grumbling applicant, they were being put into groups according to their service records and performance reports, as well as the results from the mental paper they had taken before leaving Fargad. He didn't know anyone here, and so could not discern if this was true or not. Eventually, his name was called by Keel, who was at the front jeep.

"Richard Mack...Junior?"

He walked forward. A few others were staring at him. "That's me, sir"

"You're up here. So, are you the son of-"

"Yes, sir"

"Right. Get on, you're with the A-grades"

That confirmed the rumour, at least. Mack knew all about how famous dad was in the Marine Corps, and had seen him on the news a few times over the last few years, largely discussing tactics against the Covenant or making public statements about the few victories the UNSC had garnered. It didn't help that he was already some sort of hero years before his son's birth. Mack boarded the warthog, sitting close to the front. He was the first one to be called to this one. He sighed, and waited for the inevitable questioning.

"Steven Embry!"

"Mira Reyes!"

"Michael Baird!"

"Carlos Driscol!"

"Edward Buck!"

"Gregor Papadakis!"

"Konstantin Stark!"

A few more were called before the warthog was ready to go. There were just under forty of them going for this training. Not one of them wanted the shame of being returned to their unit because they couldn't make the grade here. This was, putting it simply, the big leagues of soldiering. The man sitting opposite Mack, a man in his early twenties, leaned forward, looking at Mack until he caught his eye.

"Hey, you're Richard, right?"

"Yeah. Don't call me that, please"

"Why?"

"Never liked my name. Hell, my Dad doesn't like his own name either and he named me after him. Just call me Mack"

"Sure thing, Mack. Call me Eddie. So, you're looking to be an ODST too?"

"That's why I'm here"

"I served on Harvest too. Your dad was commanding my company, y'know"

"Is that so?" Eddie seemed friendly enough, but he was starting to get on his nerves a little. Whenever someone met Mack, they always wanted to speak about his father's exploits rather than get to know him. Eddie smirked. "Okay, okay, I get it. Dad's a war hero, right? He was a good leader, but kind of an ass, sorry"

This was the first time that anyone had spoken about Mack Senior in anything other than high praise or admiration. Maybe he could get used to this guy. Mack found himself smiling. "Tell me about it. You didn't have to grow up with the guy. Where are you from?"

"Draco III. You?"

"Earth. Lived there 'till I joined up and got shipped out here"

"Homeworld man, eh? So, why didn't you join up with one of those fancy officer colleges they have there? Trying to piss off the old man?"

Mack shrugged. "Pretty much. What was your last name?"

"Buck. What, you don't like Eddie?"

"Last name basis, we're in the military"

"Yeah, fair enough. Nice to meet you, Mack"

It took them nearly two hours to reach the ODST training grounds. Mack had seen the place before when he had come to Reach for his basic training a few years back. It was separate from the area where both the Marine Corps, Army, and Colonial Militia were trained for combat. To be an ODST, you had to be the best of the best, bar none. The warthogs ground to a halt on the gravel outside a large building. Three men stood outside, waiting for them.

"Line up!" shouted Sergeant Keel. The trainee ODST's trudged across and stood side by side, dropping their kit bags at their feet. With a sudden internal jolt, Mack realised that he recognised two of the three uniformed men striding towards the recruits. The one he didn't recognise, a tall, lean man with prematurely greying hair and a hooked nose, paced in front of the recruits, surveying them like a predator watching his prey. He had the air of a drill instructor about him and was probably, Mack guessed, going to be the man responsible for making them into ODST's. As the other two approached, he stood back and allowed them to inspect the group.

He recognised both men. The first, in a plain black officer's uniform, had short, straw-coloured hair and a fierce look in his eyes. Though he didn't look much older than thirty, something about him made Mack think that he wasn't exactly a young man. A bruise was fading just below his right eye. This was John Ackton, the Major he had made the mistake of fighting a few weeks back. They had just taken Harvest, though Mack had been the last survivor of his squad in the final stages of the conflict. He was tired, angry, and the wrong man had just bumped into him. Of course, the fight had probably lasted no longer than twenty seconds, but by the end, the officer had a black eye and half a dozen others had wrestled him to the ground. He was thrown in the brig, of course. To his surprise, the officer had come down to visit him with a smile on his face. After congratulating the young marine on his skills, he gave him an alternative to the likely court marshall: Become an ODST, and join his team.

Of course, that one had been a no-brainer on his part. He had no idea why the Major, John Ackton, had decided to give him this chance, and at the time, didn't really care. It was the third man, however, who made everything clear. He was not a particularly large or exceptionally tall man, with cropped silver hair, a scarred face and emotionless brown eyes. He did, however, seem to possess a certain aura of command and power that dwarfed the other men as he casually walked along the line of recruits. His gaze lingered on Mack's for a second before he turned his back to face the first man. This was Richard Mack Senior.

"I'll hand it over to you, Lieutenant McNair. Make them into the best"

The other man saluted before responding. "Aye, sir. I'll have 'em jumping into hell soon!" He had a deep voice, with a resounding Scottish accent. John Ackton took out a datapad, and checked the line, seemingly ticking off a list. Mack guessed that he wasn't the only one to be offered a place in this new unit. After a few seconds, he and Mack Senior turned and walked towards the main building, chatting like old friends as they did so. McNair grinned maliciously at the new recruits.

"Right then! I see 'yer all tired from the journey, so I'll go easy today. Three times around the base, bags 'an all. Move!"

Four hours later, the recruits lay in their bunkhouse, absolutely shattered by the day's events. McNair's idea of a jog around the base included climbing, swinging and crawling through an assault course, all while clinging to their kit bags. Once the Lieutenant had decided that they had done enough, they were allowed to shower and were given their new uniforms. They were largely the same as their previous ones, albeit in black rather than green, with 'ODST' emblazoned on the shirt in white lettering. Mack lay on his bunk, listening to the conversations going on around him. Buck, Driscol and Embry were still laughing at Sergeant Keel's pronunciation of 'water bottle', while Reyes attempted to explain what a glottal stop was to them.

He sat up, and looked around at the others in the room. For better or for worse, they were his family now. Back on Harvest, the heavy casualties had meant that forming friendships was nearly meaningless; a new friend could end up impaled on an elite's blade or vaporised by plasma the next day. He'd make the best of this situation, as he had done before. It didn't matter if his father had set him up for this. Frankly, by this point, he didn't care. Mack looked over a few bunks, where Papadakis was telling several others about his younger brother's disappearance on the UNSC Spirit of Fire not long before. Mack sighed, and lay back. It was the strangest feeling, he felt both surrounded by company, yet completely alone. The Lieutenant, McNair, seemed to have something similar about him. He was engaged with the recruits, leading and ordering them, while remaining detached all the same.

Richard Mack Junior lay back and closed his eyes. Sleep never came easily, especially after what he'd seen on Harvest, but he was grateful for some kind of respite from the world around him. In spite of all his supposed superior abilities, the special treatment he had been given and despised, he was still only human.

Jacked
"Thank you for choosing Hyperion transport, offering you luxury travel at affordable prices"

If luxury meant being strapped into a metal chair in a confined space with a hundred others, including half a dozen kids who didn't know the meaning of silence, then Bill Cross would love to see what the non-luxury seating entailed. Probably being tied to the exterior of the ship in a spacesuit. He sighed, and tried to let his mind wander elsewhere, attempting to meditate, something he had been instructed to do while on long journeys like this. It was only a short slip, taking up nearly two days. Not that there were such things as days and nights in space, but there were 'night' periods when the lights dimmed and allowed the passengers to sleep in their crowded quarters.

The main reason Bill had sat down in the first place was due to his dislike for the microgravity on this deck. Though you could quite easily walk across the room, it would also be easy for him to float up to the ceiling, if he chose to. He unclipped his harness, feeling the need to stretch his legs and get to the bathroom before their final approach to Circumstance. The Epsilon Eridani system had been one of the first places reclaimed by the UNSC after the war, and currently there was only one remaining colony there. Moving slowly, with the loping stride, or 'space walk' of someone who had spent a significant amount of time in these conditions, Bill was able to work his way around the various seats, cabin entrances, crates and stray children that barred his path to the restroom. He locked the door, and sighed, feeling safe in the claustrophobic confinement of the little room.

He was no stranger to tight quarters; he relished in it, in fact. They had always said that you needed to be a special kind of crazy to become an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. Dropping onto planets in a glorified tin can was something he had become quite proficient in over the years, though he was currently on leave to see some family. As he sat down and began to ponder life in general, as many others in the past had whilst using the lavatory, there was a loud noise from outside, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of gunfire, and screams. He sighed. Bill wasn't particularly worried about what was going on. It was both sudden and unexpected, but it didn't particularly worry him. Quickly finishing his business, he unwisely took a deep breath of the foul smelling air, kissed the tiny silver cross that dangled from a chain around his neck, and slipped out of the toilet. He was forty one years old, and had put up with twenty seven hours of screaming children and others with poor personal hygiene. Without a single weapon and only in an old, grey tracksuit, he felt ready to take on anything.

Dropping into a crouch, he edged forwards, still hearing screams and gunshots. There was some small relief in the fact that these were human invaders. If it had been Jackal pirates or even Elites, then those on board would have little chance for survival. This deck was completely empty, the raiders having blown through the airlock here before boarding. Looking back into the seating area, the floor was strewn with bodies. Some of them were children. Gritting his teeth, Bill moved to check them, just in case. What he saw didn't shock him, but filled him with rage. They hadn't been gunned down in the crossfire; they had been lined up and shot in the back of the head. Well, now he knew that he couldn't let them live. A hacking cough from nearby caught his attention.

A man lay at the foot of the stairs, riddled with bullets. How he wasn't dead was anyone's guess, but there was no saving this one. As the ODST approached, a bloodied face turned to him, a desperate, pleading look in it's eyes. Bill crouched by him and clutched his shaking hand. After a few seconds, the eyes of the unknown man glazed over. Bill made the sign of a cross across his chest and closed his eyes. As he did so, something on the floor by the man caught his eye: A M6D Magnum, the sidearm for security forces on ships like this. Checking the weapon, it hadn't been fired once. "Thank you" he whispered to whoever the dead man was, and tucked the gun into his waistband before ascending to the next level.

Now, he had a gun. There were voices coming from up ahead. Moving as slowly as possible, Bill peeked his head round the corner. There were two men up ahead. Both were heavily armed and equipped, clad in black armour and visored helmets. Aside from the different, spherical shape of the helmet, they could have even passed for ODST's. He levelled his pistol, taking careful aim at the back of the nearest one's head. There was no guilt to be had for shooting a murderer in the back, he reasoned. Two shots, and the first had fallen. Another three, and his friend was down. It was sickeningly easy, but he had no time to dwell on such things. Bill grabbed their rifles and took one of their combat vests, giving himself a little protection at least. Someone had to have heard the gunshots. Moving towards the main living quarters, several voices came into earshot.

"-couldn't find any others, sir"

"Keep searching. The man we want is here, I know it"

"Yes sir, we'll keep looking"

"Get on with it. Mitchell, if any UNSC ships come poking their noses in, tell them we'll execute the hostages"

"Yes, Magnus"

Bill froze on the spot. The three voices he had heard were quite distinct. The first was that of a man, probably just a low-ranking grunt. The fear in his voice was also evident. The second was rather interesting. Though it was obviously spoken through a mask, it carried the tone of command, albeit in a threatening manner. Whoever this person was, he was obviously in charge here. It was the final voice that had shocked him. It was an unremarkable voice, though it spoke with a little more authority than the first. The man speaking there was probably a second in command, or something along those lines. However, from these two words, Bill already knew who it was, and that truly scared him. He had never feared death in all his years as a soldier, but this time something was different. That was Ash Mitchell.

The man in the next room, who had taken part in this massacre, had been his former commanding officer before disappearing six years ago. Mitchell was a man of strong convictions, and one of the best soldiers he'd ever seen. The thought of him becoming an insurrectionist was truly terrifying. Bill remembered watching him, about twelve, or thirteen years prior, gunning down scores of aliens as their team caused havoc in an enemy facility. He had even survived being taken prisoner! Bill shook his head, dispelling all these thoughts and settling back into the logical, almost robotic mind of a soldier, as he usually did while in combat. Mitchell was an enemy to be eliminated. Nothing more.

A flash of movement to the left caught his eye. In less than a second, he had swung round and had his gun trained on a young man, who had frozen like a rabbit in the headlights. The man raised his hands in surrender, and was visibly shaking. Bill sighed and lowered the weapon, gesturing for him to come over. He was probably barely out of his teens, with an unruly crop of black hair. In an instant, the frightened look disappeared, being replaced by a determined grin.

"Oh, thought you were one of the bad guys, had to put on a little act there"

"That's gutsy. How'd you survive?"

"Ran for the storage section the moment I heard gunshots. You?"

"I was taking a shit. These guys are either sloppy or desperate not to do a thorough search. Do you have any military training?"

"Nope. You?"

Bill smiled. "Son, I've been on Draco III, Fargad, Reach and a dozen other places in my time. I'm an ODST, and pretty much your best chance of survival right now" The man's eyes widened with surprise at this.

"Okay then, I guess we're gonna have to pull some heroics. What's your name?"

"Bill Cross. What's yours?"

"Devin Harland. Let's do this"

Bill had to admit, he was surprised at the courage the young man displayed, though it could just as easily be recklessness. He handed Devin his rifle and went to retrieve the other one from his second kill, tossing another combat vest over. Devin weighted the weapon in his hands, and raised it, taking aim. Bill watched him for a few moments before going over to stop him blowing his own head off. "Okay, have you ever fired a gun?"

"I'm guessing that video games don't count?"

"No, they don't"

Though in this situation, Devin's lack of experience was a serious issue, some part of the ODST was glad. He was among the first generation to grow up without the immediate threat of the Covenant bearing down on them, and had never needed to take up arms. Muffled gunshots from further along the ship brought his attention back to the situation at hand. People were dying, and he was messing around. Motioning for Devin to follow him, Bill moved cautiously, his weapon at the ready. Heading along the deserted corridors of the ship, dotted with the occasional bloodstain or corpse, he became increasingly concerned that the mysterious boarders had moved on. None of the people on the ship had been robbed of their possessions, just cut down or moved along.

"Bill, over here!"

On the wall to his left, Devin was watching a monitor, which showed a live feed from the ship's canteen. There were roughly two dozen people sat on the floor, hands on their heads. In the middle of the room stood a giant, at least eight feet tall, dressed entirely with black, a mask covering his mouth and nose. Towering over his comrades, the leader seemed to be giving orders while one man, clad in heavily modified ODST armour, stood at his back. A skull had been painted onto his visor. After a few seconds, the giant looked up at the camera, and casually shot one of the civilians in the head. He nodded straight in it's direction before raising his gun. The feed went dead. Looking over at the young man, Bill saw a look of sheer terror in his eyes.

"He knows. He saw us"

"Calm down"

"Calm down?! He's a freaking giant, he'll just gun us down like the rest, we're-"

"Shut up" Bill grabbed Devin by the shoulders and shook him. "We're going down there to save those people and get off this ship. Now, you're young, I can understand your fear. Stay here if you want, but the escape pods are down there too, Devin"

"But there's just two of us! We don't have anyone else on our side!"

Bill shrugged, and indicated the silver cross. "God?" he said, half-heartedly. Devin snorted derisively, but froze when he saw the look the ODST had returned him. "What, seriously? God ain't much protection against bullets, how much difference will your faith make?"

Bill shrugged again. He'd never exactly been a very devout man, usually being the sort that made last minute prayers when everything else had gone to shit. The odds of the pair of them taking down an entire group of well-armed mercenaries, along with their leader, who could probably crush their skulls in a second, were very bad indeed. Still, in his mind, it was better to walk into danger with some peace of mind about what would happen if he died. It generally helped with some of the crazier plans he'd come up with over the years. Checking the stolen rifle, he flicked the safety off, and began to march towards the canteen. Devin watched him for a few seconds before sighing.

"Hold up, I'm with ya. Any plans?"

"Sort of. I was hoping to get the jump on them, gun a few down and get the rest chasing me so you can rescue them and escape"

"That's it? I don't hear anything about you escaping there"

"Never said I would"

"Oh" As they descended the stairway that would lead to the corridors adjacent to the canteen, he spotted a hatch in the side. Now, he had no real idea of what was in the vent, if it was trapped or just unopenable. He had never held or fired a gun before this day, or killed a person. What he had done, however, was watch a lot of movies. Vents were generally good things.

"Hey, Bill"

"Mitchell, have you acquired our cargo?"

"Yes sir, Mister Durovin is cooperating"

"Good, what about our guests?"

"You think that some people survived?"

"One of your teams isn't reporting in. I'm guessing that someone up there is playing hero"

"They're not my men. They're cheap, loyal and shoot straight"

From his position in the centre of the room, Magnus was overseeing the entire operation. Once his contacts had reported to him about the cargo being carried in this innocuous little transport, he just couldn't pass up the opportunity. ONI still thought they were so clever. Eight AI's, all packaged up and ready to be used on Circumstance as it recovered from the devastating attack last year. They were 'dumb', of course, only fit for working within their set parameters, but they were still worth a lot of money on the black market.

"Mitchell, I want everything out of here in three. Send Durovin over to me"

The skull-visored man stood up, carrying a small crate, and kicked a middle aged, besuited person over. He was trembling in fear, looking up at Magnus with a look of sheer terror as the giant strode towards him, lifting him up by his collar and placing him on his feet. "Now then" he intoned, his deep voice slightly distorted by the mask "So, you're the head of Durovin Industries? One of the richest men in UEG space, I hear"

"Please, I'll give you anything you want. Money, equipment, anything! Please don't kill me!"

"So, would you trade the lives of all these people for yours?"

Durovin barely gave the crowd a second look. "Yes, yes! Look, I'm worth billions. Get me to a biomet scanner at any bank, and you can have it all!"

Magnus inclined his head to one side, his cold eyes boring into Durovin. "How generous. All your money, your assets and the lives of these people" He turned to the other hostages. "Good news, everyone! Mister Durovin has volunteered to die in your stead. Bravo sir, bravo"

The colour drained from the businessman's face. He fell to his knees, grovelling for mercy. "I have kids, please don't kill me! I'll give you anything you want, anything-" Magnus' knee shot up under his chin. There was a dull crack and he fell to the floor, dead. "Thank you, Mister Durovin. Your children are better off without you" At once, two men walked up and put the body into a black bag. They would need his biometric data-fingerprints and eyes-to access his accounts. Magnus deactivated the tape recorder. That was the voice. He was having a lovely day, but they had what they had come for. Time to leave. Already, Mitchell was setting up the fireworks. Two gunshots turned him round to see one of his mercs, unwary after watching the proceedings, fall to the floor. A man, dressed in a grey tracksuit, stepped out, rifle pointing right at him.

"How interesting"

Bill reloaded his rifle soundlessly, never taking his eyes off the terrorist leader that stood before him. Five others turned to him, weapons raised. He knew full well that he'd be dead in a second. The leader held a hand up, and his men stopped. The hostages were sat at the other side of the room, cowering. This was definitely the craziest plan he'd ever come up with. The man with the painted ODST armour moved forward, and stopped to peer at him.

"Bill Cross?"

"Hey Ash, this is a surprise"

"What the hell are you doing here?!"

"I could ask you the same question"

The leader, evidently smiling behind his mask, chuckled, and placed a gloved hand on Ash's shoulders. The former trooper shuddered involuntarily at his touch. "Will there be a problem, Mitchell?" He asked calmly. The other men had begun to plant charges around the room. They were C-13 det packs, powerful enough to hit the engines and obliterate the ship when set off. One hostage attempted to crawl towards the door, and was executed without a second thought. Bill raised his rifle, and was met by his former comrade's own. He'd known Ash Mitchell for years, and was almost certain that he would win in a situation like this. The problem was, however, that Bill just couldn't allow that to happen. He looked back over his career, all the battles, secret missions and people lost. Surviving Reach and Earth. Facing the skull-painted visor, he grinned.

"What's so funny"

"You know, I never expected things to end like this"

"How did you think you'd die?"

"Well, though I'd love to die in my bed at a hundred surrounded by loved ones, I always imagined it'd be a Covvie, not an old pal turned traitor. Guess you switched sides just like Mal did, eh?"

"Don't you mention him. I'm nothing like that man. This is just business"

That comment had really gotten to him. Before he took another step, the leader's hand came down in front of him. "Mitchell, back to the ship"

"Sir, I-"

"Now, Mitchell..."

Ash paced slowly around Bill, closely followed by three of his masked compatriots, who kept their guns trained on him the whole time. Aside from the man guarding the hostages, it was just the two of them now. The leader surveyed him curiously, eyeing the cross around his neck. Bill stared back into two fathomless red eyes. He felt strangely at peace. Devin's plan might have failed. For all he knew, the kid might have abandoned him and headed for the escape pods, or even perished in there. It was okay. He understood.

"So, you haven't tried to shoot me yet, what are you waiting for?" asked the man, his arms folded.

"Nothing. Who are you?"

"A greater being than you. If it's names you want, then Magnus will suffice"

Magnus. Bill had heard of him, or at least the spook stories told about the figure. Though ONI had done their best to try and cover it up, many things had cropped up over the years regarding a Magnus. As with most legends, there were many versions. Some believed that Magnus was merely a pseudonym for a group of Insurrectionist leaders, while others saw him as a single man controlling the rebels from afar. Others labelled him as a talented mercenary. Whatever, or whoever, Magnus was, the name had terrified some of the prisoners they had taken, and had even instilled fear into some UNSC commanders. He wasn't even sure if the person in front of him was the real Magnus. He might just be using the name to cover his tracks.

"A greater being? Can't say I agree, but I've heard of you, at least. So, what happens now?"

"Now, I'm afraid that you and everyone else on this ship dies, while I escape. If it's any consolation, you helped pave the way for the future"

"Bullshit. I've met enough innies in my lifetime to know what you are: A psychopath. Plain and simple. It's the illusion of sophistication that usually gives people like you away. It's pathetic how-"

A gloved hand had shot forwards in a blur and seized him by the throat, lifting him off his feet. He hadn't even had time to take a breath. Bill kicked to no avail as the life was slowly squeezed out of him. Looking down, back into those eyes, he could, or at least imagined he could, see fire reflected in them. His vision began to blur, everything slowly fading from focus. There was a loud crash from the other side of the room and the sound of gunfire. His attacker dropped him to the floor and opened fire with his own pistol several times before leaping over him and sprinting down the corridor.

Taking frantic, gasping breaths, Bill crawled across the floor as his vision returned, picking up his rifle and pointing it at a blurred shape moving towards him. "It's me!" shouted the blur, which after a few seconds became Devin, looking nervous and panting heavily. He held out a hand and helped the ODST to his feet. Across the room, another guard lay riddled with bullets. In spite of his survival, Bill felt a twinge of disgust at allowing the young man to kill his first human being, even if it was to save him. The hostages were on their feet, and making a racket.

"Bill, we'd better go, right now"

"Why?"

"That"

Looking over, the C-13 charges had began to pulse, a little red light slowly blinking faster. That wasn't good. Red blinking lights were never good. As he recalled, looking at the sign on his way here, the escape pods were a deck below. They'd better move. He fired his rifle into the air, ignoring the frightened screams.

"Everyone with me, NOW!"

The ship had detached itself from the civilian transport. The survivors of the raid sat at their stations while Magnus took the helm. They had acquired the package of AI's, and Durovin's corpse, which had been put in a cryo-chamber immediately. In spite of the loss of a few men, or 'expendables', as their leader called them, the operation had been a complete success. Ash Mitchell sat by his console, the battered helmet on the floor by his chair. Meeting Bill had been...unexpected, at least. The ship juddered slightly as the civilian one exploded behind them.

"Mitchell, check if there are any survivors. They may have reached the lifeboats"

He brought up the console, and scanned the debris. Mitchell was unsure why Magnus had chose to flee rather than kill the interlopers, probably due to the fact that someone had 'accidentally' started the timer for the charges. Something flashed up. Dozens of little orange heat signatures within little metal boxes, slowly moving away from the doomed transport. Deactivating the screen, he turned to his boss.

"No survivors, sir"

Magnus nodded, and returned to navigating their ship outsystem. Ash Mitchell picked up the helmet, and turned it over in his hands, examining the skull he had painted on months ago. It was a little worse for wear than it had been a decade ago, but constant repair and upgrades had given him the much-needed edge. He thought back to what Bill had said about Mal Roberts, a former comrade from long ago. Of course, they had left the UNSC for different reasons, but over the years he had done a lot of things that he hadn't been proud of. He owed Bill, at least.

Next time, they'd be even.

Back Then
2523. SIGMA Complex, United Republic of North America, Earth.

"I'm sick of these stupid tests Roe keeps throwing on us. And now a leaderboard? Where the hell did that come from?!"

"Calm down, Marco. You're still in the top ten"

The two trainees paced down the hallway, away from the main briefing room. Today had been a tough one, having spent the last few hours battling trained soldiers in a battlefield mockup. They had, as always, finished their mission, only to find upon their return that they were now being graded on their performance. The two of them were only twelve years old, but looked much older. The first was quite pale, with short brown hair and a look of frustration on his face. 025 was printed on his grey fatigues in small black print. The second was a girl, a little shorter but walking with much more ease than her friend. 71 was printed on hers. A door opened at the end, revealing a boy with dark eyes and a cocky grin on his face.

"Marco, Elena"

"Oh, hey Jack" said Marco, stopping to greet his friend. "You seen the new leaderboard crap that Roe put up?"

"Damn right I did. Second place ain't bad"

"Yeah, I'm third" said Elena before turning to look at Marco. "Fenn's at the top, of course. I swear, no one can touch him"

Marco shrugged at this. No one ever had a bad word to say about their leader. "Well" he said, sighing. "I suppose seventh isn't too bad. I mean, it's Nef that's in real trouble, isn't it?"

"Poor guy" Jack muttered. Nef-015 was twentieth on the leaderboard, the lowest scoring candidate in all of Sigma. He was as tough as everyone else, but his hotheadedness, along with a weapon jam, had gotten him 'killed' today. Marco recalled watching him trudge off the field at the end of the exercise covered in mud, with fire in his eyes. The quiet, surly kid hadn't spoken to anyone, getting cleaned off and heading for the training room without a word. Marco had gotten himself injured when a TTR grenade exploded close to him.

"So, where are you two off to, then?" asked Jack, still happy at his position among the group. "Kane and Jacob are off at the shooting range, and I think Luisa went with Hank and Resk to speak to Mack about something"

"Well" replied Elena. "Marco was thinking about complaining to Roe, but I managed to talk him down if he didn't want a beating"

"What, from Roe's men or you?" All three laughed at this, and kept on going. It was eventually agreed that they would grab a bite to eat before their afternoon lessons. Sure, this new system Roe had implemented would be the source of a lot of debate among the twenty of them for a while, but they'd get used to it. It had most likely been put in to encourage competition between the group, giving a serious wake up call to those who might have been slacking in some way. It would, Marco thought, probably be changed daily, making everyone have to fight to go up or to retain their own places.

"Get up!"

On the other side of the facility, in the simulation room, Jax-007 groaned and rolled over behind a metal pillar while two others provided covering fire with their pistols. They were only firing TTR rounds, of course, but a direct hit would incapacitate or 'kill' an opponent immediately. Their target dived back into cover, giving the trio a brief respite in which to reload and catch their breaths.

"Jax, did he hit you?" asked Grigori-018. He was breathing heavily, the worry evident in his voice. Jax nodded. Why did they even agree to fight Fenn? He was one of the few who had made it out of today's mission without a scratch, and had floored him before retreating only moments ago. Roe had decided to field Jax, Grigori, Pierre-127, Wulf-041 and Amy-133 against SPARTAN-145. So far, they were getting their collective asses kicked, Pierre and Amy having already been taken out. Wulf poked his head over the barrier he was cowering behind and called out.

"C'mon, Fenn. Come out and fight!"

There was no response. Wulf glanced over at Jax for a fraction of a second, and collapsed to the floor. His teammates barely had time to register the paint on the side of his head before a hail of rounds whizzed past. There was a quick blur as Fenn dashed from pillar to pillar. Jax raced forward, firing several rounds as he did so. Grigori picked up Wulf's pistol and moved around the other side. a two-pronged assault might be enough to overwhelm him. There were half a dozen more TTR shots before he could round the corner. There was nothing there. Edging forward, his pistol raised, Jax noticed a prone body lying ahead, face down.

There wasn't a single sound. Not one. Perhaps Grigori and Fenn had shot each other, though he couldn't see another body. Crouching, he turned the boy in front of him over. 018 was printed on his shirt. Grigori. He was splattered across the chest with TTR hits. He couldn't move, but his eyes looked up at Jax in annoyance. Realising the danger he was in, Jax stood up immediately, and froze. Something cold and metallic had just placed itself against the back of his head.

"Oh shi-"

In the viewing gallery above the simulation room, two men watched as the short sparring match was abruptly ended. One man was tall and muscled, clad in military garb with the silver leaf insignia of a Lieutenant Colonel shining on his chest. He was in his early fifties, but looked much younger, save for the noticeable streaks of grey in his brown hair. The other was slightly shorter, wearing a well-used lab coat over plain black clothes. He had thinning black hair and a beard, with eyes hidden behind the whiteness of his glasses caught in the light.

"Deactivate the TTR effects. End simulation"

The soldier tapped a button on a nearby control panel, reversing the TTR's hardening effects and allowing the trainees to pick themselves up and leave. In spite of the embarrassing defeat, they still chatted happily with Fenn as they exited the simulation room. Richard Mack Senior smiled, and turned to his colleague, who continued to punch digits into his datapad.

"Good to see they don't hold grudges. They're getting better against each other. You updating the leaderboard"

"Yes. Have to move 133 down for getting hit like that. At least 127 went on the attack before 145 took him down"

"They have names, Calvin. Amy, Pierre and Fenn. Y'know, perhaps this leaderboard isn't such a good idea, come to think of it"

"How so? It'll encourage the trainees to strive for success"

"Yeah, against their own teammates. Just saying, we're gonna get some arguments pretty soon. You can't just focus your attentions on the top five, either. What about Nef? Poor kid had a face like thunder after training today"

"He'll learn. Thinking of pitting numbers two to five against our number one. What do you think?"

"Jack, Elena, Pierre and Kane? Look, if five others couldn't touch Fenn today, what chance do-"

"They're the best!" interrupted Doctor Roe, a fierce gleam in his eyes. "Every single one of our candidates needs to know his or her own limits, and we will make sure that each knows the strengths and weaknesses of their comrades" Mack sighed at this, pressing two fingers to his brow.

"Look, we can't be sure after only implementing the leaderboard system for a single day. I mean, people like Nef, Luisa or Marco could easily get on top by the end of the week. Are they doing something similar to this on Reach?"

Roe snorted. Though he hated to admit it, roughly two thirds of the info pertaining to SIGMA was being secretly transferred through secure channels from Reach, where a larger batch of Spartans were currently being trained, to Earth. It was, of course, done in secret, having been approved by Admiral Paragonsky herself. "No, the leaderboard is my own design, though I've been reading Halsey's notes. I swear, that woman has her head so far up her own backside that she actually thinks she's some kind of good samaritan for her efforts"

"Sounds like jealousy, Calvin."

"It's just her. You and I both know we're not saints. Hell, my work on Heimdall and what you've done in ORION is enough to get us put away for life if it came to light"

"Well, Parangosky does hate Halsey. The three of us are useful for now. The dirt on us gets dug up when we outlive that usefulness"

For the first time in a while, Roe genuinely smiled. "More like Parangosky likes you. I know you both hate Halsey, but you can't deny that the two of you are similar in more ways than one, Richard"

Mack wasn't a fan of his first name. He'd never really liked it, and only allowed a few people to call him by it. Frowning, he sighed and glanced over at the monitors. The nearest one showed Marco, Jack and Elena laughing in the canteen. "I'd best be off" he said finally. Roe nodded.

"Say hi to Junior to me. How old is he now?"

"Fourteen. We're not speaking at the moment, had a bit of an argument when he kept asking about this place. He's been getting worse"

"Oh" responded the Doctor, before turning round. "Is it the-" he made motions of a syringe being injected into his arm. Mack shrugged, grabbed his back and walked out without another word. Roe was left alone in the control room. After sending off another report for SIGMA to ONI, he looked around at the monitors, and watched these children he had spent the last six years turning into weapons. They still laughed and played games, but there was a lack of innocence to it. They had spent the day fighting and marching and shouting and shooting, and simply hadn't switched off. On the odd occasion that a fight did break out, it usually took half a dozen Drill Instructors to detain them if Mack wasn't there. They all respected him deeply, something that wasn't shared with him.

Roe fumbled with a stack of pads, and dropped one to the floor. Cursing, he bent over to pick it up, and something caught his eye. A tiny device had been taped to the underside of one of his desks. A bug. Casting his eye toward the monitors, he instantly knew who had done it. The innocent looking little girl, who incidentally was the second best fighter and probably one of the more vicious trainees, not that she looked it, happily sitting with her two friends. Elena. No. 071. Roe couldn't use their names. He wouldn't become like Hasley, who from the reports seemed to get to know each and every one of her Spartans. He was there to manage their training, to turn them into supersoldiers. Besides, with the life they lived, any one of the trainees could end up dead these days. And this was before their scheduled augmentations in a year or two. He wouldn't deal with that. He let Mack play psychiatrist. The old soldier was good at that.

A succession of beeps from the intercom indicated that there was a commotion from the canteen, where all twenty recruits had gathered. 007 had, in his usual manner of taking jokes too far, tripped up 099 as he crossed the hall. What ensued appeared to be some kind of knife fight, with 063 and 076 attempting to restrain their comrades. As the DI's stormed into the room, Roe sighed and turned the monitors off. He had a horrible feeling that one day these kids would be the death of him.