RP:Awakening Demons/Chapter 2

Part Two : Shadow Killers

2.1
Iris Sabio didn't look up as Shepard entered the apartment. In fact, she didn't move at all from her cross-armed position, standing straight-backed next to the wall. The other three individuals in the room all turned their heads to face him.

"About time," said Corina Winther, a stern blonde-haired woman and one of twenty people tasked with overseeing many of the Syndicate's "transactions". Shepard paused, turning his gaze to stare directly at her.

"I remind you that you're in my apartment," he snapped coldly. "So I would appreciate you not giving me attitude if we're going to work together. I have a very busy schedule, something you were aware of when you agreed to meet with me."

One of the two men in the room began to step forward, but Iris gave him an imperceptible shake of the head, and he obediently stayed where he was. Enrique Croley was a brawny man, one of the Syndicate's best infiltrators with a key position in the UNSC for obtaining information. He did an impressive job of it too, but she doubted that even he would be able to intimidate someone like Shepard. He hasn't even taken five steps into the apartment and we already start exchanging verbal blows. She gave a silent snort of disdain and stepped forward. "Let's get down to business, instead of bickering. You're not the only one whose time is important."

Shepard nodded, not even bothering to look in Winther's direction. He strode over to the living room table and sat down next to the window. Iris moved across to the other side so she was facing him but remained standing.

"Last week Mr. Croley has obtained some information that you may be interested in," Iris said, getting straight to the point. "It's very valuable information, taken straight from ONI's data banks. Naturally, we have a price."

"A price?" repeated Shepard. "I thought offering my services to the Syndicate involved you paying me, not the other way around."

"This is more of a personal matter," said Iris. "Your personal matters, to be exact. I understand you have something of a vendetta against the Sangheili?"

Shepard scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"Well, right now I know the key to wiping out every Sangheili I come across. And believe me, that's no understatement."

The ex-Spartan leaned forward immediately. "What did you say?"

"ONI has requested the presence of one Dr. Thomas Martel," she explained. "A UNSC scientist, known for his extensive research on Slipstream space travel, rechargeable energy shielding, and in your field of interest, Sangheili biology. In 2549 he finished development on a prototype biological weapon that is lethal to multiple substances found solely in a Sangheili's body. I could go into detail on how it works, but it would take a while to explain. The project was held on Arcadia but was lost after the planet was glassed. Dr. Martel recovered the data in 2569 but ONI made sure he kept it quiet."

"Until now," guessed Shepard.

"Until now," Iris said, nodding. "It's obvious that the UNSC is becoming concerned about the Path Walkers and are looking for the simplest solution. So Dr. Martel is here now, and he's brought his research along. The Syndicate has little interest in wiping out the Sangheili, since we consider them reliable in terms of business. But I think you'll be more than interested in getting that research."

"So why are you telling me? I always thought the business came first for the Syndicate."

"Consider it a long-term investment. After all, the information you're going to give me is also highly valuable."

"And what is that?"

There was a glint in Iris' eyes now. "Your old boss, Redmond Venter, ran a program called Project Knight. You still have all the information."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, and one that Shepard didn't deny. "So what if I do? You want to make an army for the Syndicate?"

"You could say that. But that program was run rather sloppily, and fell far short of its full potential. Venter could have done much more with all the resources at his hands."

Shepard considered it. Iris was a prodigy, a descendant of the famed Dr. Jonathan Sabio, and she could certainly go far with the information from Project Knight. And he had no ambitions to bring a bunch of test-tube babies to life. But he wasn't so sure he liked the idea of the Syndicate being backed by potentially thousands of supersoldiers.

And then he remembered what Iris was offering in return. ''The one thing I've been trying to figure out all these years, and all I have to do is steal it. Wipe out the Sangheili in exchange for the creation of more humans. Why not?'' "You've got a deal, boss."

Iris' expression didn't even change. "Good. I'll provide you with everything you need to get the intel from Dr. Martel." She turned to look at the other man in the room. "This is Grayson Macmillan. He will assist you when the time comes to carry out the heist." Macmillan exchanged a silent nod with Shepard. "Now, the data on Project Knight."

Shepard unfastened a chain strung around his neck and pulled out an amulet from underneath his shirt. He tossed it to Iris, who coolly caught it and carefully stored it into a sealed pocket. "Hidden in plain sight?" Macmillan remarked.

"That data is too dangerous to let out of my sight," Shepard replied. "So, about this heist—"

They were interrupted by the sounds of three muffled cracks. Every head in the room turned to see three 14.5mm rounds embedded in the window not ten feet away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Winther draw a pistol, and Croley frantically gesturing her to put it away.

Iris' mind put the pieces together in a heartbeat. She bound towards Shepard and somersaulted onto the table just as two bullets flew past her, drawing her sidearm as she did so. Just over a second later, she slammed into Shepard and knocked him to the ground just as another trio of rounds embedded into the wall where his head was. She raised the gun as Macmillan went for his SMG.

Croley managed to pull Winther out of the living room and around the corner just as Iris and Macmillan opened fire, punching holes in the walls. The mercenary was already advancing on their retreating forms by the time Shepard got up with his own pistol in his hand. Croley was heard talking into a COM down the hallway. "We're backing off. Put everything you've got on the windows!"

Iris already knew there was no time to move. If they slowed down to engage him and Winther, they were going to be shot in the back. Especially since she had a good guess of what was going to happen next. Without stopping to explain, she kicked the table over so it was lying on its side, and grabbed both Shepard and Macmillan and pulled them behind cover with her.

A split second later, the entire array of windows shattered as explosives tore open the outside wall. The entire living room shook as metal and glass flew all over the room, although the table protected the three of them from getting hit. Iris could hear the sound of aircraft outside. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, listening carefully. "Hornets. Four of them."

"Good, they'll get in each other's way," said Macmillan confidently. Winther moved slightly out of cover and aimed at them, and he fired a burst at her, forcing her to draw back again. "Boss, put your aim on the second one from the left. Aim straight at the pilot."

Iris thought about this, working through all the possibilities of what he was thinking. "You can't be serious," she said two and a half seconds later.

"Trust me, boss," he insisted.

She grunted but nodded, nudging Shepard and tilting her head at the Hornets taking aim at them. "Second aircraft from the left. Help me out." She stared straight at him, making sure he understood, and seeing no apprehension, put her pistol over the rim of the table as he did the same. They concentrated their fire on the same Hornet, emptying their magazines into the cockpit window, which began to crack. Macmillan, who was still suppressing Winther and Croley, looked back at the gaping hole in the apartment, and was now holding a tomahawk in his other hand.

The damaged Hornet jerked and began to pull off. "No you don't," the mercenary grunted, flinging the collapsible hatchet at it. He timed it perfectly, and the tomahawk flew straight through the moving Hornet's window, shattering it and flying into the pilot's chest. The aircraft swerved and plummeted out of sight. The three of them ducked back into cover as machinegun fire began to shred apart the table.

"We can't stay here," Shepard grunted, reloading his pistol. Iris' gun already held a fresh magazine and she was aiming at the hallway in case Winther or Croley reappeared.

There was the sound of shattering glass from somewhere above them. Macmillan was peering through a bullet hole at what was happening outside. "Holy shit..."

The gunfire stopped abruptly, and there was the sound of metal striking metal. Shepard followed his gaze, looking just a bit astounded. "It's Nimue," he said. Iris risked a backwards glance to see what was going on.

And so it was; she must have leaped out the window one floor above, for she was now perched on top of the middle Falcon's cockpit and was fighting for the controls. It only took her a few seconds to fling the pilot out where he fell hundreds of stories to his death. She had one hand on the controls, keeping the Hornet airborne, although she appeared to have some difficulty climbing into the pilot's seat. Iris couldn't help but feel that she was faking it though.

The reason why became clear as she pulled up at the last second, just as one of the other Hornets fired at her. The missiles missed cleanly, however, and managed only to blow up the other aircraft. And in one smooth motion, Nimue aimed her hijacked Hornet's guns at the remaining enemy and destroyed it with a deadly hail of gunfire.

"If you're coming, do it fast," Nimue said over the COM. "I've spotted snipers all over the surrounding buildings."

"Reaper, go with her and get out of here," Iris ordered. "I'll contact you when this is all sorted out. Macmillan, on me. We're going to take out Winther and Croley." If those two get word back to the UNSC about Project Knight, then the Syndicate will be in a lot of trouble.

Both men snapped into action, with Shepard running for the Hornet now hovering outside the destroyed apartment, and Macmillan moving up, gun ready. Iris turned the corner to see that it was empty.

"Stay sharp, Macmillan," she said, proceeding towards the apartment's doorway, which was open. She stepped into the hallway and saw that it was deserted as well. But there were only a few directions the two UNSC moles could have gone, and it wouldn't be hard for her to figure out which. Still, this was going to be quite a chase.

I guess we're doing it the hard way.

2.2
Many of the people who actually lived in Thebes never saw anything like the elegance of inside the towers they walked by every day. But to someone high-up in a UEG branch, luxury was nothing new. Stephen pulled tight the tie he was wearing, considering the bottle of Harvester sitting in a bottle of ice on the carved wood table. Had he not ignored the view his window afforded him, he might have seen something quite interesting on the horizon, but as it was, he only frowned at the bottle.

A few sips of the alcohol might help steady his nerves, but he was late for things as it was. Eventually, he left the bottle unopened, smoothing his suit's jacket as he left his room. He'd wanted to visit the building the summit would take place in, and get a feel for it before the mass of arguments began. Or maybe he just wanted a reason to throw off Dockson's schedule, he'd lost his exact train of cause-and-effect by now.

Walking down the hall towards the elevators, he noticed a blond woman in a gray suit and skirt loitering. Her head was tilted down, and Stephen saw her eyes tremble in his direction over her glasses for just a second. She was waiting for him, and paranoia stroked the back of his mind. Could she be with the Syndicate? Trying to ignore her, Stephen hit the button for the first elevator he reached so he didn't have to pass her by. It opened at once, and he immediately hit the button for the ground floor, putting his back to the far wall.

The door wasn't fast enough, and the woman slipped inside just before it closed. Now she didn't hide her stare, and as soon as they felt the car begin its descent, she drew something from a pocket.

"Mr. Leibowitz, Sarah Vickers, Thebes News Network. Will the UNSC's representatives be demanding the Elites' help in return for aiding them in what is their war?"

Thank God. Stephen thought. It was a relief she wasn't an assassin, just a minor headache. He recalled his rehearsed lines. "The Path Walkers are more than just a threat to the Sangheili, they're threatening galactic peace, and that certainly gives us a stake in it."

"And what about our own problems?" Vickers inquired eagerly, pushing her recorder towards Stephen's face. "How is the UNSC responding to the recent attacks claimed by the Sons and Daughters of Reach?"

Modern elevators were mercifully quick, and he knew a good dodge. "No comment." he said, using the change in speed and direction as the elevator stopped to knock Vickers' recorder from her hand. The doors opened with a ding just as she bent over to pick it up, and Stephen hopped out of the elevator, hitting the emergency stop as he slid through. The doors slid quickly shut behind him, and he got one last look at the alarmed Sarah Vickers, Thebes News Network.

"Not bad." A husky voice said behind him. Stephen turned, startled, coming face to face with a man with graying hair and beard wearing a dark coat. "Could have picked a better catchphrase, though. I'm Agent Aagard, and I already know who you are. Come on, follow me."

He did follow, if only to clear up his confusion. "But, my car's out—"

"Front, where there are a half-dozen other wanna-be reporters are just waiting for someone interesting to come out the door." Aagard interjected, casting a look over his shoulder as Stephen caught up. "A man named Dockson asked if I could give you a ride."

Good old Dox, planning me into cars with strangers. Stephen thought. "So, you're headed to Iskandar's Parliament Building too?"

Aagard looked thoughtful. "Not me, exactly. My charge."

Before he could ask, their conversation was interrupted by having to file through the door to the back entrance, coming out to the hotel's parking garage. Motors and tire squeals echoed in the permacrete walls, and Aagard led to the black limousine waiting for them. The agent ducked inside first, walking hunched over to a seat farther forward while Stephen took the back seat. A young woman was seated inside, looking curiously at the new passenger.

"Government district, driver." Aagard said before turning back. "Mister Leibowitz, this is Ariadne Harvard."

Stephen extended a hand. "Miss."

She shook it tentatively and drew back. She seemed a little skittish to him. "Why is the CAA taking part in the summit? I thought you only handled statistics."

He ground his teeth. It was more or less true, but that didn't mean Stephen enjoyed being reminded of it. He faked a smile. "The colonies need some kind of token representation. And what are you supposed to be doing? Interns aren't usually assigned bodyguards."

"I honestly don't know." Ariadne admitted. "I'm just a scientific consultant."

Aagard grinned, an expression that didn't look quite right on him. "You should give yourself more credit. She's one of the brightest we've got, although you'd have to have clearance to her full records to know."

Stephen just nodded and sat back, taking his word for it. He hoped this ride wouldn't be much more difficult than the elevator had been.

ASniper, sniping.

2.3
"Sir, we've got a couple of men here to see you"

"Who are they?"

"'Ambassadors' from Makosky, I think"

"Christ. Send 'em up"

Carlos Driscol sat behind his desk, absentmindedly flicking through the reports coming in from across Thebes. The Minutemen were already spreading their roots throughout the city, gaining informers and power as they went. So far, there wasn't much to go on. There were reports of Syndicate activity, though nothing out of the ordinary, and an increase in UNSC activity due to the summit. They wouldn't come for him though, Driscol was sure of that. They probably still think I'm dead, he thought with a smile. At the very least, they weren't hunting him with the same vigour as before. As for certain others...

He paused momentarily, glancing over the last couple of reports. One was about an odd-looking truck in the warehouse district, probably from some lowlife informer desperate to find something. He discarded that one, and scanned the contents of the final report. It was a barfight, nothing too unusual; three idiots gunned down my some merc, but the name caught his eye. Mitchell. Of course, there were plenty of mercenaries sporting ODST-themed suits, some of them being the real deal, but the name... ''No. He couldn't be here. The man was being hunted across every corner of UNSC space''.

Driscol recalled the news reports from last year, and how he had laughed to hear that the straight-laced trooper had apparently gone bad. The man was still probably pissed off at him after Skopje, but then again, what threat did he pose? Sure, they'd been trained by the same man, but besides that, Driscol was the one with the men and the power. He'd dispatch a few of the boys to-

"Mister Driscol?"

Two men stood at the door to his office. They were clad in old military attire, with long coats that probably hid sidearms of some kind. He knew that he'd have both of them shot to pieces in a second if they tried to make a move, courtesy of the machine gun under his desk. Anyway, he was pretty sure that Makosky wouldn't send assassins. Not yet, at least. He indicated the seats in front of the desk, and allowed them to sit before speaking.

"Well then, what does the old man want now?"

"General Makosky wants to make an alliance with you, Driscol"

"Is that so? What would your so-called General have to offer me, then?"

"Power. Once we've driven the UNSC and the Syndicate from the city, we'll hand over control to the Minutemen"

"Is that the best he's got? I give money, men and supplies in exchange for 'power'?"

The other man spoke up. "Driscol, you were a Colonel in the URF. Surely you can-"

Driscol snapped. "I can what?! You think I give two shits about the URF after they abandoned me? It's a dead organisation, you morons. Why d'you think we don't use ranks here? We ain't stupid enough to keep that military bullshit shoved up our asses the whole time, that's why. And Makosky? He's batshit insane!"

"Look, you want the Syndicate taken care of, right? Makosky already has troops outside the city. He's preparing to attack"

"The Syndicate?"

"No, everyone. That's why we need you on hand as support. The General needs you to engage the Syndicate, keep them busy so that we can move in on them undetected"

Driscol thought about this for a few seconds. Undoubtedly crazy though he was, Makosky wielded a surprising amount of influence. If he could at least get some of the old bastard's support, then the Minutemen could take over his operation and crush the Syndicate sooner than he had expected. Still, he'd play it safe for the time being.

"Tell your boss that I'll consider his offer. That's the best you're getting"

The two men stood up, and saluted, much to Driscol's annoyance. He'd hated all that stupid robotic behaviour in the UNSC, and had been annoyed to find it in the URF. He waved them away, watching the pair leave. He flicked on his COM. "Travis, keep an eye on those two. I wanna know where they go from here, and how the hell they knew where to find us, clear?"

"Got it, sir"

Driscol turned it off, and began to light a cigarette. It was the sixteenth one he'd had today, and certainly not his last. He stored away the reports for later, as Makosky's whelps had pissed him off, and he needed to think right now. The man would be dealt with in time, he was sure of that. For now though, he had appointments to keep, particularly one with a 'Hector Thornhill'. That was important. Driscol checked to make sure he had his usual 'insurance' prepared, namely the machine gun, pistol, and shock baton he kept in and around his desk. Satisfied, he sat back in his chair, content to have one smoke in peace for now.

Brodie-001

2.4
"Mitchell's all settled in, boss," Jonah over Mordred's secure chatter line. "He just signed in at the apartment you rented him."

"Good, good." Mordred thrust his free hand inside his dark overcoat's pocket. It felt good to have the coat back on, one of the items he'd had shipped to Thebes beforehand. For urban ops like this, the black coat was practically his trademark: civilian-looking garb that could hide all manner of the concealed weapons he sported wherever he went. The coat was damn heavy, practically a suit of body armor on its own. A regular human would have been slowed considerably by its weight, but Mordred's body handled it easily.

That was another mystery of his vanished past, this body of his that could withstand greater injuries, move at faster speeds, and handle more weight than the average human being could. Mordred understood some of what had been done to himself, but much of it was still a mystery to him. And like most of his mysterious past, Mordred didn't much care to find out about it any time soon.

"Keep scoping the neighborhood out," he told Jonah. "Are those scanners in place around Mitchell's apartment?"

"Just planted the last one now," the boy reported.

"Great job. That should be worth an extra fifty credits for you. Buy yourself a treat." Planting bugs in Mitchell's apartment would have been stupid; the first thing a professional like the ex-ODST would do was sweep the room for any monitoring devices. But now Mordred had no less than five scanners checking the airwaves around the apartment complex. Any calls Mitchell made or received from the room would be shot over to Mordred. And if he left the complex without orders, well, that was what Jonah was for.

It really was funny how easily people could overlook a boy tailing them, even if they were desperate men like Mitchell. Jonah simply blended into the crowd as if he wasn't even there.

Mitchell would be insanely useful once things really got going. Mordred just needed to make sure this particular ace in the whole didn't try anything behind his back. ''It's a tough galaxy, Mitchell. I'm sure you'd understand.''

But now it was time to focus on his key asset here in Thebes: the Minutemen. Mordred slipped the chatter away and thrust both hands into the overcoat's pockets as he strode towards the grungy warehouse that Carlos Driscol called home. He had to give the man credit: this place certainly didn't look like the hangout of a criminal organization. A few workers lounged about the entrance; Mordred could tell which of them sported concealed pistols underneath their grimy overalls. He didn't doubt that the Minutemen had heavily armed response teams tucked away somewhere around here. There was probably a sniper tracking him right now.

A sour-faced worker greeted him at the entrance with a threatening scowl. Mordred gave him a wide smile and nodded at the door. "Thornhill," he said by way of introduction. "Your boss is expecting me."

The worker grunted. "Let's pat you down first."

Mordred had been expecting this. Time to see how far he could push his luck with Driscol's people. "Look, that's going to take more time than either of us has," he said, spreading his arms but not letting the worker get close. "I'm almost late seeing your boss, so could you just let me in?"

"Why, so you can blow his brains out?" the worker demanded.

Mordred sighed. "Please, give me a little more credit than that. If I wanted him dead, I'd have flown an air taxi through his window, not waltzed in the middle of all his goons before I wasted him."

The worker spat and reached a hand inside his overalls. Mordred smiled. He could practically feel the other two men that had been watching him from behind since the conversation began. When the worker drew, he'd incapacitate his arm and get around so that the warehouse door was behind him. From there, he'd use the man as a shield and haul him inside before...

A small comm unit on the worker's shoulder buzzed. "It's alright," it crackled. "Let him inside."

The worker's scowl deepened--if that was even possible--but he relaxed and entered a short code into the door. "This way." He led Mordred through a darkened hallway and up a short flight of stairs before bringing him to a small door. There were no guards posted outside, but Mordred noted that there were several other offices lining the hall. He doubted those were empty.

He smiled again and nodded to the worker before flipping him a small credit chip. "For your trouble." Still smiling broadly, he pushed his way into the office.

Carlos Driscol looked up from the cigarette he was smoking. Seeing Mordred, he extinguished the cigarette against the side of his prosthetic leg. "You're here early," he observed. "What would you have done if my men had started shooting down there?"

Mordred shrugged and pulled up a chair. "Oh, we'd have had a little firefight, I guess," he said cheerfully, sitting down in front of Driscol's desk. "Not exactly big news in Thebes. I knew you'd step in."

"You should be more careful, Thornhill."

"Oh, 'careful' is my middle name." Mordred had scoped out the entire district before sauntering over to the warehouse. If anything had gone wrong, there'd been ten different routes he could have used to make his getaway. "So, how thing's going around here?"

"Better and worse than we expected," Driscol admitted, sitting down across from Mordred. "We've made huge gains here in the lower levels, and as far as we know the Syndicate's none the wiser."

Mordred nodded. "Yeah, they still think the UNSC's the only thing they have to worry about. So what's the problem?"

Driscol's weathered face pursed in a frown. "Have you heard of Adam Makosky?"

"Sure. Some old coot from the Insurrection. What about him?"

Driscol's scowl deepened. "Apparently he has troops outside the city. He's planning some sort of attack. Hopes to take down everyone: the UNSC, the Syndicate, everyone."

"Huh." That was news to Mordred; he'd have to figure out how something like that had slipped by him. "So his guys rush in and get slaughtered. If anything, that's great. It'll keep everyone looking the other way."

"You don't know Makosky like I do," Driscol told him gravely. "He's batshit crazy. You can't hope to predict what he'll do. And with the summit just around the corner..."

Mordred shrugged again. "Well, as long as he doesn't come after us I don't see anything to worry about. Just keep an eye on things and we'll carry on as planned."

"Already on it." Driscol stood up abruptly to check on the papers in the filing cabinet beside him. "And what about you? I'm not paying you just to remind me how to run things."

"Don't worry, I'm on top of things." Mordred pulled a small datapad out of his coat. "Those weapons I diverted to you. I was told your men picked them up?"

"Yes. Just a bunch of rifles, nothing we don't have already."

"Be careful with them," Mordred warned. "They've been tagged by ONI."

"So you told me." Driscol turned to look down at Mordred. "So what do we need them for?"

Mordred opened a file on the datapad and slid it over the cluttered desk to Driscol. "Just get them to teams of your best people. Have them ready to roll out and hit the targets there in, say, twelve hours."

Driscol's brow furrowed as he looked over the file's contents. "These are just street addresses. Half of them are in the suburbs. What do want to hit there so badly?"

Mordred grinned and tapped his head. "That's just what they want you to think. What you're looking at is a bunch of ONI safehouses. They've got undercover teams running recon ops on the Syndicate from them."

"Oh." Driscol looked back at Mordred. "So what are you going to do about them?"

Mordred spotted an apple sitting on the corner of Driscol's desk. He swiped it; fruit like that was hard to come by out on the frontier. He grinned at his partner in crime as he took a bite.

Time to get this party started.

"Oh, that's easy," he said between bites. "We're going to kill them all."

2.5
Stel 'Vadam stood confident in Thebes Central, his dark purple cape flapping behind his equally dark purple combat harness. Being a Supreme Commander of Sangheilian naval forces, he was an individual of considerable importance. Several of his bodyguards stood beside him, one of which had recently arrived. His armor was a shining white, indicating him as an Ultra.

"Commander!" The alien gave a traditional Sangheili salute by placing his fist over his chest. "Admiral Gering and Chairman Locke are waiting your presence below."

"Good, good. Let us go, then." Stel ordered, as the guards checked their weapons. The majestic cape of his flowed behind him as he and his entourage of Sangheili soldiers departed.

The Commander's energy sword rested itself on his thigh plate as well as a Type-33 GML's needles were visible. The wizened Sangheili's facial features differentiated him from the majority of his men - there were numerous scars scattered across his face, and his characteristic blue-and-green eyes were hidden by his HUD. Most strikingly of all was his robotic prosthetic, in place of a left arm. As rather flashy as his stride was, he and company made their way to the conference room.



Chairman Kevin Locke and Admiral Andrew Gering approached their podiums, hands placed behind their backs and standing straight. Stel was on the opposite podium, aside the conference room. The conference had been called in Thebes Central for a very delicate and equally dubious matter. Dr. Martel's work.

"Now, Admiral, Chairman. You both understand why I have called this meeting between us? We have a very delicate matter to discuss." Stel muttered, with a slight stern tone.

Locke spoke. "Unless I have your assurance of security, I won't speak. Keep in mind that this is top-secret."

All Stel had to do was turn to his men gathered behind him. Atleast four majors, one Field Master and two Ultras, all armed with state-of-the-art Covenant weaponry. As old as it was, their weapons had never lost their effectiveness since the Human-Covenant war. The veteran Sangheili commander soon turned back to face the podium.

"I think we can proceed." The Admiral muttered, glancing at the several of his and Locke's marines.

Clearing his throat, Stel's mandibles parted. "I have discovered some very concerning data. You are aware of the esteemed Dr. Thomas Martel, correct?"

"Who isn't? He's a scientist who is an expert on Sangheili biology. I can see what you're up to now..." Locke replied.

The commander gave shifty eyes towards Locke, uncomfortably. "Continuing...regarding the information I have acquired, Dr. Martel had almost finalized his work on a biological weapon potent to chemicals found in our bodies." The Sangheili motioned to his men, who looked among each other.

"As you both know, Martel's work was recovered five years ago, and our human allies plan to use them against the Path Walkers." Stel's voice had a sudden change in tone. He sounded like he was two seconds away from pounding his left fist into his podium.

The Admiral glanced at the Chairman and nodded. "You're concerned about our possible usage of the weapon. We're planning to deploy some time in the future, but-"

And so it happened. The commander slammed his robotic prosthetic's fist into the surface of the podium, gritting his teeth. "We are aware, Admiral, but what guarantee do we have that you will not end up using this weapon as leverage against us?! Have you explored the possibility of the Syndicate empire gaining this information?"

Locke soon said, with a confident yet condescending tone, "Commander, this is a formal meeting! We will not have you losing your temper!"

"Enough!" Gering finally intervened. "We will have order, here."

Both 'Vadam and Locke exchanged glares, Stel clenching both fists this time. The Sangheili took a moment and returned to his podium. "Perhaps...perhaps you do have a right to use such a weapon. Your species went to great lengths to survive, after what the Covenant put you through, which even I helped with. I pity you that you've got to such an extent...you can use the weapon. But promise me in return that you must keep it under control."

Gering nodded in affirmation. "Of course. You have a deal, Commander."

The Sangheili gritted the teeth on his right mandible. "Then this meeting is adjourned."

2.6
The apartment's accommodation wasn't exactly five-star, but it was better than nothing. In a city like Thebes, safety was scarce. Ash Mitchell pulled himself up off the floor, having completed his pushups, and looked back to his gear. He'd had a shower and a shave once he'd arrived, after checking the apartment for bugs and recording devices. He didn't have the equipment to detect them, as he'd had back in the day, but anyone with the training knew where to look.

Nothing.

It didn't mean that he former ODST wasn't being watched, however. Either his new employer was using an undetectable tracking system, or Mitchell's skills were getting a little rusty with age. Still, if this was an ONI trap, they were taking their sweet time with things. He'd had the chance to have a nap and remove his armour, which was currently laid out on the bed. It had been refurbished and spruced up many times over the years, barely anything remaining from when he had first set out on his own, fourteen years ago. Even so, the life of a fugitive had left little time for maintaining the suit, leaving it dented, dirty and scarred in many places, reminders of various close encounters with his pursuers.

Stay here, wait for orders. That's what he had been told. Even back in the UNSC, Mitchell had been used to jobs with little-to-no intel, so that didn't bother him too much. It was the sheer inactivity that really got on his nerves. All these months of running had made staying in one place very difficult. He didn't have much in the way of weapons at this point, either. The M6D Pistol was a must at all times, having excellent stopping power and a smart-linked scope, provided he was wearing his helmet. He had an old shotgun and a handful of grenades too, but that was about it.

Mitchell walked to the window, and peered between the curtains. It was still light out, giving him ample time to rest up and prepare for whatever job he would be given. Something about the man who had recruited him just didn't feel right. He was too happy, at ease, for a simple merc recruiter. Yet he had taken the job. What was the alternative? He could have refused, found somewhere to sleep for the night, and kept on going. That was hardly a life. He'd either run so far that there'd be no return, or get himself gunned down in the process. If anything, he had been given a chance to stand and fight.

Sighing, he closed the curtains and returned to the bed, picking up his communicator. This would be the most dangerous thing he'd done in years, but something told him it wouldn't matter, in the end. He'd bought it two months back off a Kig-Yar trader for a princely sum. With any luck, his message would reach it's destination. Eventually. The fact that it could be tracked or picked up from here was another distinct possibility, so he'd have to keep it short.

Tapping in a number and coordinates into his communicator, Mitchell hesitated for a few moments before activating it.

"Hey Sue, it's me" he began, already struggling to think of what to say.

"I can't stay long, and you know why. They're all looking for me, and the only reason I'm doing this is because soon, I doubt it'll even matter"

Mitchell took his pistol off the table, and loaded it before putting it back. "I can't say where I am right now, but I just thought I'd call to say that I'm still kicking. You've seen the news reports, probably been questioned by ONI about me as well. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if there's a spook listening to this right now. Anyway, you were always a smarter kid than me, smart enough not to believe everything you are told. I won't lie when I say I've done a lot of bad stuff out here, a lot of which I'm paying for, but I've had a lot more pinned on me by others"

A sound from outside sent him dashing to the window, gun hastily snatched up. Mitchell breathed a sigh or relief upon seeing that it was just a car door being slammed. Watching the person walk away, he sat back down on the bed, and continued.

"Anyway, I know what happened, you can decide whether or not you'll believe me. You're not a little girl any more, I need to remember that, being gone all these years, first in the War, and now all this. Best wishes to the kids, anyway. Hope they grow up to do something good with their lives, unlike their old uncle"

Mitchell found his throat suddenly constricted, taking a few breaths as he blinked rapidly.

"I'll be going now, got work to do. This is your big brother, Ash, signing off"

He deactivated the communicator. Immediately, he felt like a fool for doing such a thing. For all he knew, ONI could've already pinpointed his position just from that call. Still, it was cathartic, to say the least. He wouldn't risk going out just yet, not until his new boss got back to him. Looking over at the grimy armour and uncleaned shotgun on the bed, at least Mitchell had something to preoccupy him until the time came.

Brodie-001

2.7
In the forests outside Thebes, Elijah Cavorel was stalking a trophy buck he had been hunting for three hours. Crawling to a firing position, Cavorel saw the buck stop for a drink.

Steadying his hands, he placed his crosshair a little bit to the left of the animal's neck to compensate for wind, and pulled the trigger. As the rifle cracked, the buck fell, and Cavorel smiled as he unsheathed his hunting knife, and began to skin the animal. Chopping off the head from the body, Elijah skinned its hide, and took the choice pieces of meat, putting them in containers.

Marching back to his shooting position, Elijah began to shove the products into olive drab military rucksacks. With the sharp antlers, he winced as the points pricked him, drawing blood on multiple locations of his hand. Grunting, he placed the rucksack on his back, and began the hike back to his truck.

As he continued to hike, he saw the telltale glint of a sniper scope, and by reflex dropped to the ground, threw off his pack, with a little struggle to get the straps off, and unslung his rifle, pointing it at where he saw the glint.

Continuing to sight on where he saw the glint, Elijah eventually saw a figure moving towards him:

"Halt!" yelled Cavorel as he turned his rifle to the stranger coming towards him.

"Calm down there" said the man "We're just some hunters like you out here, and we're kind of lost, do you know where we can go?"

Elijah intently studied the man, and said

"You're no hunter, I can tell. You're an Insurrectionist, correct?"

The rebel tilted his head and said "How did you know?"

"Easy, I was one myself, and know a rebel footsoldier when I see him."

"So you're a sympathizer."

"I guess you could say that."

"In that case, do you have any food? We're running out quickly."

Elijah looked at the rebel, and said "Yes, I do, but it'll cost you."

"How much?" said the soldier.

Elijah thought hard, before he said "Two hundred credits"

The soldier's expression turned hard as he said "Fine.", and handed over a two hundred credit card, and Elijah handed him the deer meat.

"Have a nice day, and nice doing business with you innie." said Elijah as he went back to his truck. Driving back into the city, he saw a man in a out of place long coat walking about, but didn't say anything.

Stopping in the market, he handed off the fruits of his kill to the merchant whom he did business with, and received five hundred credits for the sale. Heading back to his tiny apartment in Lower Thebes, Elijah hung up his rifle, and hunting gear, before producing a photo of him and his squad on Mamore, remembering the smell of powder, and the stench of corpses, the battlefield that he grew up on, and made him the way he was today.

Still looking for work that was something other than hunting, Elijah checked his Chatter, and found nothing, sighing as no new jobs came through for him.

Getting into the shower, Cavorel let the dirt, grime, and sweat run off of him into the drain, before getting out, and flopping down on the bed to sleep.

B1blancer2

2.8
Everyone was awfully silent. It was a narrow waiting room, completely deprived of attention and communication. Stephen tried to keep a straight face, peering outside the tinted windows, watching as civilian life crawls the dull and violent streets of Thebes. Quickly, he made his eyes took a split-second gaze before resuming a fake posture. Aagard was dabbling his fingers on a holopad but really, he wasn't even looking at what he was typing. Instead he was staring at the floor, like a hollow body.

I guess they really do teach unintentional intimidation. Ariadne on the other hand was annoyingly patient, changing positions from leaning on her legs to trying to sleep in her seat to leaning her head on the window. She was bored but he could tell she was also watching everyone else in the limousine but especially tried to get a better look on the holopad. Leibowitz transitioned into a passive state and leaned towards Ariadne. "Scientific consultant, huh?"

She hesitated from the sudden question. "Uh, yeah."

She tried her best to avoid staring at him in the eye. Nanoseconds into the conversation, Ariadne already picked up something strange in the man's expression; he was a very invading man. Aagard's eyes turned to Stephen. His grip on his holopad strengthened as his finger-movement started moving rapidly. Leibowitz forced a smile and kept staring at her while she took an uncoordinated number of glances at him.

"Mister Leibowitz, how is the UNSC responding to the recent attacks claimed by the Sons and Daughters of Reach?" His feigned smile almost instantly diminished. This is no situation he could escape. Both Aagard and Harvard noticed his lips twitching for something to say. Something plausible and realistic. The tension just got better the whole three seconds he spent on finding an answer. "No comment."

Everyone resumed their business, scoffing at Liebowitz' lame statement. The politician leaned back into his seat, humiliated at his own response. If that became public word, I'd be ruined. His face turned red as he began to heat up from his own embarrassment. This wasn't normal for Stephen, because normal is how he acts after dozens of speeches, most of them telling lies and the usual hints of conspiracy within the government. For all he cares, Aagard probably holds more serious debts within the Interspecies Union than himself within the UNSC. But ONI does have its ways with politicians who drop their mouths.

The limousine came to a stop. Aagard already left the vehicle while Ariadne looked out to see what the Parliament had looked like. This was not normal for the teenage genius even though she had already lived a lifestyle unlike that of normal twenty-sixth century students. From living in skyscrapers to antique mansions, Ariadne personally believed that this is slightly too much for the poor girl. Aagard opened her door and Ariadne slowly climbed out. Stephen waited for Aagard to open his. After three seconds he left the vehicle by himself, offended by the agent's disrespect towards an important figure. As he closed the door, both Havard and Aagard watched him in mere silence than the dozens of other people walking up the long steps to the Parliament.

"Expecting some nicely uniformed soldier to open your door, Leibowitz?" Aagard asked.

"Of course."

"Not good for your reputation. Just pointing that out."

"But—"

Aagard interrupted "Hurry up, Liebowitz. The Parliament doesn't take kindly to nonattendance."

The three walked up the steps while a soldier wearing a cap approached them. Aagard recognized the man from his file that he read in the limousine. "Are you Sergeant Major Stacker?"

"Do I owe you money?" The two men exchanged curious and dumbfounded expressions. Stacker burst out chuckling. "I'm only kidding. Sergeant Major Stacker I am." he said while he offered a handshake. Aagard shook his hand accordingly.

A younger soldier rushed behind the sergeant. He gestured at Havard to Stacker. "Is that the girl, sir? The girl that Martel wanted?"

"Um, excuse me but I'm another human being as well." she said. Stacker expressed an apologetic expression to Ariadne before acknowledging his subordinate. "Boy, no one here knows anything you've been saying today and I must admit, for a first day, you're pretty troublesome." The soldier started walking away. "Sorry sir." Aagard glanced at him in suspicion. He stared back. For the five seconds they spent looking at eachother was unnoticed by any of the people attending the Parliament, even Stacker, who was speaking with both Havard and Leibowitz. The soldier then retreated from the agent's sight. Obvious Syndicate he thought.

"Anyway." Stacker continued. "Let me show you the Parliament. You're going to love it."

2.9
"We've got an ARGUS drone overhead to detect explosives if it's any known chemical mix, but if there's one thing we learned in TREBUCHET, it's that rebels are inventive." The Sergeant Major said as he walked, passing Aagard a datapad. They were walking a hallway along the front of the building, with windows that reached the high ceiling letting in sunlight to cast the maroon carpet in alternating rectangles of light and dark. "The Seventh Battalion's providing security, and we're outfitted with the latest Trident revision."

Aagard kept pace with him without looking up, while Ariadne and Leibowitz were lagging a bit behind. "The shielded body armor. I guess production shifted into high gear with the Path Walkers out there. Still, isn't it a little heavy for something like this?"

Stacker shrugged. "It's getting to be standard issue for Special Forces. I'd rather have it and not need it, though, myself."

Though Ariadne stepped smartly to stay close, Leibowitz was fine not becoming involved in the military men's conversation. He amused himself by studying the building's architecture, making comparisons in his mind. All the builders' effort to conceal the fact that it was made with prefabricated parts was trivial to him. Iskandar was nothing compared to the wealthy Inner Colonies, with capital buildings in some cases centuries of years old, maintained from back in the days when every new world discovered stirred the public with thoughts of a distant, final frontier to make a new home on.

Having spent so much time in them may have jaded him a bit, just as time had done to humanity's fascination with space travel. When Thebes was founded, they'd built the grand seat of government with the same pre-arranged design as a dozen others settled in the same span of years. Still, it was much quieter, which he appreciated. No crowds of constant lobbyists and interest groups. Colony life could be much slower, even in its largest population centers. He came from an outer colonial family himself, after all.

The datapad passed back from Aagard to Stacker, and the Marine added, "We've got posts for troopers throughout the building. I can show you around to them while we're doing a perimeter check."

Around the entire building, checking where guards would stand? It didn't sound like Leibowitz's idea of an afternoon. He quickened his pace and piped up. "'Scuse me, but I think I'll skip the tour. I'd just like to see the meeting chamber, if that's alright."

Stacker looked over his shoulder, considering the politician the distraction, not the datapad. "Ah . . . yeah, I don't see any harm. Just don't get lost."

The sergeant smiled, and Leibowitz just nodded as the door came up on his left. Letting the others continue on their merry way, he pulled it open by the handle and stepped inside. When it slid closed behind him, he felt an immense weight lifted from his shoulders. No one talking in here, no cause to look stoic at every moment in fear someone might glance at you, no Syndicate agents, just the barely noticeable hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

The room was a wide semi-circle, and though it had a low ceiling, the floor stepped down in a series of platforms as it neared the center that gave it the same spacious feeling as the hallway outside. He let himself drift away from the wall, meandering down the wide steps from the entrance at the midpoint of the curve. The tables on these mid-level platforms usually held Iskandar's planetary representatives, there wouldn't be nearly enough attending the summit to fill them all. There might be a few ONI or UEG representatives spectating, however.

Instead, the members of the summit would use the table, set in the bottom of the pit with chairs seated all around, some he noticed specially made for large and irregularly-jointed Sangheili. Stephen approached it and ran a hand over the smooth, laminated rim, observing the sheen over the artificial wood. On its surface, decisions were made that effected a colonial farmer, son of a colonial farmer, who'd never even seen a building as big as this or even a small city like Thebes.

That was why he'd joined the CAA. To not just change, but improve how an emergency military government interacted with its most distant colonies. Why he'd accepted the Syndicate's help in going through their ranks. But after enough time devoting energy to projects doomed because they would get no support, he realized the CAA really didn't have any authority anymore. The groups that took over its responsibilities, the reconciliation between military and civilians, weren't putting those needs first. Looking at that, it was small wonder the Insurrection's return had started in the former heart of the Inner Colonies. Even as the CAA's Director, Leibowitz had little to do but sit in plush comfort and be present while the UNSC made decisions. And now, the Syndicate would want him to somehow do something for them, while Locke's administration was keeping a close eye on him.

He'd just have to keep his head down at this summit. At least it would mostly be generals discussing broad tactics anyway, nothing the Syndicate could reasonably expect him to effect.

He frowned into the table's reflective surface, disgusted with it. Not because it had failed to live up to Inner Colony standards; he probably disliked the ornately carved things even more, but that they'd tried to. Colonists didn't need their leaders to have nice tables, and really, neither did the leaders. He was sick of all the comfort while he was helpless to make anything better, and this thing only served him as a reminder.

ASniper, sniping.

2.10
"I'm taking a huge risk here, Thornhill. This had better work."

Mordred smiled and pressed the chatter device closer to his ear. "Oh, come on. Have a little faith. I got you this far, didn't I?"

Driscol snorted. "So far all you've given me is a handful of weapons and a bunch of promises. It's about time you started showing me results. Earn the money I'm paying you."

"You got it, bossman." Mordred cast his gaze over the spacious parking garage where over a dozen Minutemen were preparing their trucks and weapons. Each team was gathered around its own respective vehicle, armed to the teeth with the weapons he'd diverted from the Syndicate shipment. "These guys are all up to scratch, right?"

"Veterans, every one," Driscol assured him. "And they've all done work for the Syndicate before, just like you wanted."

"Great. Then you just sit tight and wait for the good news." A slight beep alerted Mordred that he had another call incoming. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta catch another call."

He switched over to a different line where Jonah was waiting to make his report. "What've you got for me, kid?"

"No movement from Mitchell, boss," the boy reported. "He made a call earlier, but unless it was code it sounded like he was contacting someone in his family."

"Forward me whatever the scanners picked up, but I wouldn't worry to much about it." Someone like Mitchell had neither the time nor the resources needed to construct an elaborate code system. For now, at least, he could still be trusted. "Keep up your surveillance for now, but be ready for some night moving, because I'm sending him out."

"Copy, boss." Jonah would send the details to Mitchell's com over a tight, close-range signal. Mordred would have done it himself but he'd been busy all day getting this next phase of the plan ready. "What's the job?"

"There's a police station about ten blocks from his apartment," Mordred said, consulting his datapad. "I want him to go there and blow it into next week."

"Got it. Um, do you think he'll mind attacking cops?"

Mordred laughed. "A guy who's wanted for the things he is doesn't have much call to start getting up on a high horse now. Besides, those guys are all in the Syndicate's pocket. They're guns for hire who do law work on the side. Anyway, I'm forwarding you a complete list of all the stations I want him to hit. There's six total, all around the Minutemen operation area."

"Sure thing, boss. Any more details?"

"He's a creative guy, I'm sure he can get this done without me holding his hand." That's why I hired him, after all. "But there is one thing. I want him to make sure they know that it's Ash Mitchell pulling off these hits."

"Boss?"

"Just trust me on this one, Jonah. Show his face to the cameras, stick a gun in someone's face, I don't care how he does it. I just want the authorities to know that he's back on the grid." Having someone like Mitchell running around causing trouble would confuse everyone even further. So long as no one knew who was calling the shots for him, he, like the Minutemen, would remain a wild card. Besides, this way he won't be tempted to cut a deal with the UNSC if things get hairy.

"I'll pass it on." Jonah paused. "Be careful out there."

"You know me," Mordred assured him. "Aren't I always? You just focus on keeping an eye on Mitchell."

"You got it, boss." Jonah signed off, leaving Mordred in the garage full of Minutemen troopers. One of them, the man in charge of this particular group, sauntered over to where he was standing.

"Everything's prepped," he said, slapping a hand against the pistol at his side, another tagged weapon just like all the others. "We're ready to move out."

"Glad to hear it." Mordred slipped the chatter into his overcoat pocket. "I'll take the lead car. Do you have lines to the other strike teams?"

"They're already moving into position." The team leader indicated Mordred's overcoat. "Sure you don't want to slip something else on?"

Mordred gave him a smile out of the corner of his mouth and headed for his car. "Oh, don't worry about me. This thing's more useful than it looks."

He raised his voice to call out to the other Minutemen. "Alright, you know the plan so let's get this show on the road! We've got plenty of ammo, so feel free to light up out there. Let's try to wake the neighbors, alright?"

The strike team chuckled as they clambered into their vehicles, weapons at the ready. It was an odd convoy that rolled out of the garage, a ragtag line of trucks and cars that cut their way through the streets and headed slowly but steadily for the target. Strapped into the lead car, Mordred couldn't help but smile. Time to get this party started.



The makeshift convoy rolled into the suburban neighborhood. Mordred nodded appreciatively at the well-trimmed lawns as he rolled past them in the lead car. "Got some good grass cutters around here," he told the Minuteman driver beside him. "It'd be a shame if we shot up some of these bushes."

The driver laughed and tapped the submachine gun cradled in his lap. "We'll try not to get too much blood on the yard work."

Mordred's earpiece was buzzing with feedback from the other strike teams. Most had already reached their targets; they were just waiting for his signal to move in. ONI had plenty of these covert safehouses tucked away across Thebes. It was his experience that wherever you found the Syndicate, ONI wasn't far away. They relied on each other to keep things stable-- a live and let live situation that had allowed both organizations to flourish.

Mordred couldn't really understand why no one had ever thought to exploit that relationship before now.

"That one," he said, indicating a small, one-floor house sitting atop a slight incline. Two expensive-looking cars were parked in its driveway. "Pull up right in front and be ready for trouble."

With a grunt, the driver complied. Behind them, the convoy ground to a halt. Internal lights flickered off, masking the line of cars and trucks in darkness. Half of them had vanished, turning down another road after they'd entered the suburbs.

There wasn't much time. Mordred nodded to the driver and slipped out into the frosty night air. He thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and strode up to the foot of the house's driveway.

Almost immediately a figure emerged out of the shadows to greet him. The woman's bulky frame was covered by a loose sweatshirt--enough to fool a casual trespasser, perhaps, but Mordred could make out the body armor and weapons concealed beneath her outer layers.

"What's going on here?" she demanded. She had both hands in her pockets as well; one was probably holding a sidearm. The other had most likely just been used to trigger a warning to the other agents garrisoned within the house.

"Just out for a little drive," Mordred replied, stopping at the sidewalk and letting the sentry close the distance between them. "Your lawn's the nicest one on the block, so I just thought I'd stop and take a closer look."

He shook his head regretfully. "Shame I don't have a camera on me."

"Oh, really? And what's with the parade?"

Mordred glanced behind him, keeping one eye on the sentry. "Who, them? They've been following me all night." He shrugged. "Can't seem to find a way to get rid of them. It's a real pain, you know?"

"All right, funny guy, just turn around and get off my property before I call the cops." The sentry stopped, squinting at him in through the darkness. Mordred saw her left arm tighten. So that's the one with the gun.

"Wait a minute," she muttered. "I've seen your face before, somewhere."

Mordred was pretty sure he wasn't on any of ONI's watchlists. Maybe he hadn't done as good a job at covering his tracks as he'd always thought he had. It was something to look into, but for now, it didn't matter. He had more pressing concerns.

"Oh, have you?" He took a step back towards the car. "Sorry, won't happen again."

The sentry saw him move, saw the hand begin to whip out of the overcoat pocket. Her training took over and she drew her own pistol, but before she could take aim Mordred shot her clean through the left shoulder. She faltered, and in the next second he'd put a second round through her head.

Mordred ducked back behind the car, a move that was hardly necessary. Rifle shots cracked through the night air, punching holes in the house's front windows and hopefully through the skulls of any snipers covering the sentry. The night exploded in a storm of gunfire as Minutemen sprayed assault rifles at the house from the cover of their cars and trucks. Assault teams converged from all sides, the elements of the convoy that had slipped off to surround the safehouse and confuse its listening stations.

As the first teams breached the house, Mordred settled back down into his seat and slid a pair of headphones down over his head. He leaned back, letting the roar of archaic rock music drown out the sounds of gunfire he was all too familiar with. He'd be hearing plenty more in the days to come.

The signal had been given, and now the rest of the strike teams would be hitting their targets as well. A few would fail, but even then the dead would be marked by their past Syndicate affiliations and the tagged weapons they were carrying. Tagged weapons that Mordred had helpfully let ONI track to the Syndicate.

As far as the intelligence spooks were concerned, the Syndicate had just wiped out every covert safehouse in Thebes. It really was a shame, Mordred thought with a smile and a shake of his head, for a turf war to be breaking out so close to such an important summit.

'''Sorry it took so long to finish this post. I think the situation's pretty self-explanatory, but if you are confused just message me or put your questions to my on the IRC. In the meantime, the summit will begin in earnest in two standard days.'''

2.11
"No, nothing's wrong. Seriously, you act like I'm about to go off at any second, Alex."

"Alexander. That's because you're, for lack of a better word, volatile, Spartan. Your record speaks volumes."

"Right, and you're a saint. I won't blow up the street, happy?"

"Yes. I've found a contact who may be able to get me in with the Syndicate. ONI was kind enough to prepare another fake dossier for me, just in case. Redford out."

Layla switched the communicator off. As annoying as the old man was, she couldn't deny that he was impressive, having been active before she was even born, spending most of his life pretending to be someone else. She was pretty much the dumb muscle on this mission, something that involved a great deal of waiting. With that summit coming up, she hoped that ONI would assign her to something fun, just in case some morons wanted to try something. It'd be more fun than this, at least. Once Redford got back, at least, they could go back to swapping stories. Both of them had seen a lot, though each had certain tales they would never tell.

Sighing, the Spartan switched on the nearby computer, deciding to check up on the status of ONI's operations in the city. She had put on her Titanium nanocomposite bodysuit, the first 'layer' of her MJOLNIR armour, as it were, in anticipation of something going on. Though Redford was a consummate professional, and was definitely much more dangerous than he looked, it was better to be safe than to be sorry, in her opinion. Not that anything would happen on this boring operation. She'd spent the last fifteen years being sent to distant planets, nameless, alien-infested rocks and dozens of frontier stations with orders to seek and destroy. Now, she was playing babysitter.

"This is station five, reporting in," Layla said glumly into her COM device. There were quite a few ONI outposts around Thebes, with dozens of agents as bored as her monitoring signals across the city. Oddly enough, there was no response.

"I repeat, this is station five. Is anyone out there?"

Nothing.

This was odd. She knew ONI. They might not be perfect, but they were efficient. If there was no one on station at all, then something was wrong. That, or comms were down. Layla brought up some more files, trying to dispel her fears. It was probably just a malfunction, but she'd been taught to be paranoid. Redford had mentioned something about tagged weapons being distributed, and now seemed as good a time as any to check up on...

"Oh, shit"

Across the city map, tiny yellow dots indicated the weapons that ONI had tagged and deliberately distributed to the criminal underworld. There were hundreds, though most seemed to be in clusters. Each group corresponded at, or near the green dots representing the other safehouses in Thebes. Switching up the map, Layla noticed a dozen dots coming right down the street...

"Is this the right place?"

"Of course it is, dumbass. I told ya to take the last exit of the freeway, but nooo..."

"All of you, keep your traps shut. We're a little late, but these oonskie bastards won't see us coming. They've got a couple of suits in there, we've got freaking top-grade guns here. Everyone ready?"

There was a chorus of affirmatives as their group approached the trailer. From the outside, it looked fairly innocuous, blending in fairly well with the dozens of others in the district. However, whoever their boss had befriended had picked up the addresses of every spook in the city. The leader waved two others forward, carrying a military-grade breaching charge. It would certainly be enough to blast this tin can wide open...

"Get in position, then blow 'em to hell."

The others formed up close behind the pair affixing the charge to the door, raising their rifles. Making sure his own was loaded, the leader dropped into a crouch, making sure he had a good line of sight on the trailer. Heh, I almost feel sorry for whoever's inside...'

"Three..."

"Two...."

"One..."

The final word never came. The door flew outwards with an almighty crash, sending several men flying. Barely a second after, a small black object rolled out into the street, all eyes drawn to it.

"Flashbang!"

True to it's name, the tiny grenade exploded with a blinding flash, and an ear-piercing bang. That was when the shooting started. The leader, who along with a few others had the presence of mind to immediately turn away, looked back for a moment, and saw their opponent. It wasn't a spook. It was well over six feet tall, holding a pair of slightly smoking pistols, and clad in dark green armour, with a silver-visored helmet. Then it turned to face him.

"Oh Christ, run, RUN!"

It was a Spartan. Of all their luck, they had picked the wrong safehouse, and had gotten a goddamned boogeyman in return. While a few brave, but idiotic souls tried to fight back, bullets hitting harmlessly against shimmering golden energy shields, the leader was sprinting with all his might towards the truck. He clambered into the driver's seat, and hurriedly began to start it off. Then the door was ripped off.

He froze, and slowly turned his head to see the Spartan standing their, covered in blood. In one hand, it held a knife.

"Hi there!" came a sweet, female voice. She lunged forward.

Well, at least there was some excitement on Thebes.

Layla flicked the last of the blood from her knife, and clambered down from the roof of the truck, pushing off the corpse as she did so. These guys were using the tagged weapons that ONI had gifted to them, and by the lack of responses from the other outposts, were cleaning house. A lot of houses, she corrected herself. Ducking into a side alley, Layla activated her helmet's COM.

"Alexander, I think we might have a little problem..."

-Brodie-001

2.12
Reserved by Sonasaurus