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This fanfiction article, Halo: A New Day, was written by Spartan-D042. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission. |
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This fanfiction article, Halo: A New Day, is currently under active construction. |
| Halo: A New Day | |
| Protagonist | Team Anion, Joseph Kovacs |
| Antagonist | Adrestan, Boann |
| Author | Spartan-D042 |
| Date Published | February 20th, 2019 |
| Author's Rating | 17+ (Violence, Language, Gore) |
| [Source] | |
Dramatis Personae[]
The Righteous Soul
The Other Man Out of Time
Part One: Shift[]
Chapter 1: Into the Lion's Den[]
| 0200 Hours, October 24th, 2558, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins |
"I can't believe we have to go and mop up MAGICIAN's mess." Grumbled a boy through his Slavic accent, the black-armored CQC specialist of Team Anion crept forward through the carcass of what was once the capital city of the world. Harlan had fallen in 2536 without too much of a fight, few had been able to evacuate, and even fewer of those left behind survived.
Even they avoided this part of town nowadays. Which was a good thing, the less people in their way the better.
"This 'mess' is a Two, Serg." Quipped another, clad in similar armor, she was only a few steps behind him. Felicity-D148 was the closest thing to a leader Anion had, though her only real administrative duties were keeping Sergei-D167 and Franklin-D319 from constantly bickering.
"A half-dead two. Who even went after him the first time? Hadron? Liv is good fighter, but always had trouble following through." D167 asked aloud. From behind her, Felicity could hear Franklin audibly sigh. Sergei hadn't paid attention in the briefing, again.
"Liv would have been ten at the time, and so would you." Felicity grumbled.
"And didn't Liv beat you last time?"
That would strike a nerve.
Sergei's head turned to glare back over his shoulder, even with the visor covering his eyes, she could feel his angry gaze on her.
"It was a draw." He growled.
"You were knocked out." Chimed in Franklin from a few paces behind her, the heavy weapons specialist was engrossed in his search for any form of trap, convinced that despite it being Amit-D233's area of expertise, another set of eyes could never hurt.
"And she was immobilized. It was a draw, they called it." Sergei snapped, vaulting over the burnt out husk of a Genet.
"Yeah, but you were knocked ou-"
"It. Was. A. Draw." Sergei cut off Amit's transmission before he could finishing giving his thoughts. Over the COM, there was the quietest chuckle, had they not known to listen intently the rest of Anion might've missed Shima-D011's humble contribution to their discussion. A laugh from their sniper was a rarity.
Felicity's gaze shot upwards two floating icons on her HUD showed her Amit and Shima high above them, using their jetpacks to navigate from once destroyed skyscraper to the next. The two of them would have any threats picked out before it was even a kilometer a way. She didn't want to come off as cocky, but Felicity felt good about this operation.
Their target, a rogue, insane SPARTAN-II by the name of Lancaster-205 was a surprisingly easy kill from the look of it. In his prime, if it could be called that, 205 had been quite dangerous. He'd torn apart an entire Fireteam of Spartan IV's single handedly, and killed three out of the four Spartans tasked with bringing him down. The two S-II's he had trained with as a child, and a S-III from Gamma. The lone survivor, some S-III called SOLACE, had severely wounded, and assumedly killed Lancaster.
But low and behold, the best still lived, but as a shadow of his former self. Reconnaissance confirmed that the mad Spartan was barely holding together, and may as well have been crippled. While Felicity understood that there were reasons this warranted a Spartan team, but she was sure a squad of ODSTs could have handled the situation just fine.
"Something up ahead, two streets up, corner on the left by transit station." Amit warned, the three members of Anion at street level instantly shifting their gaze down the street. Felicity's eyes picked out the oddity in an instant. Fresh blood stains, a dark green in coloration. It belonged to a species of local fauna those that had survived had taken to eating. Above the blood, D148 could just make out the snare that had likely been used to catch the animal.
It was a sign of life, and given that it was the third one they'd come across in the past kilometer Felicity could only reach one conclusion; they were closing in on the belly of the beast. Well, the wounded, barely alive beast. Felicity had yet to even find the place 205 was holed up, and she was already planning on how to best reach exfiltration.
"That's the fifth snare we've come across. Each one freshly emptied." Franklin thought aloud as he so often did. It had been annoying in the early days of training, but given the tendency of Sergei and Amit to get distracted, it served as something of a reminder. Felicity appreciated that. Every quirk and oddity about Anion served to make it better, even when it shouldn't have.
That's why they were so damn good. That's why no matter how menial they dubbed their current assignment, it was believed they could kill a SPARTAN-II. "Wow Frankie, good eye." Sergei snarked.
"Just making sure you hadn't forgotten already." The demolitions expert shot back.
Felicity's eyes rolled, this was perhaps their one quirk that's benifit didn't outweigh the cost. Sergei and Franklin were undoubtedly best friends, and their desperation to one up each other made them even more effective, but damn if it wasn't annoying.
"Enough." Felicity commanded, coming up alongside Sergei and shooting him a hard glare. Even with the opaque visor hiding the look, he knew what she was giving him. Approaching the trap she inspected it's simple construction, before activating the VISR systems in her helmet.
A small module affixed to the side of the aging OPERATOR variant contained an upgrade of the VISR system configured for tracking, one that was built in to a variety of the GEN2 platforms that MAGICIAN assured them they didn't need. The cheap bastard. He'd blathered on about how the older models were more secure against cyberwarfare, but Anion were perfectly aware of the reality.
New armor, regardless of how much cheaper GEN2 was to produce, was still expensive, and more importantly it would mean that whatever lie MAGICIAN had concocted about the children Anion's activities would likely be exposed. Or something like that. Felicity didn't get paid enough to think that hard about it.
She didn't get paid at all, which made her something of a slave, didn't it?
She shook off the thought, and stared down the ruined street, letting the tech scan for any kind of tracks, something their quarry had seemingly been mindful of covering at the other traps. To her surprise, she caught some.
"Tracks, augmented human, there." Felicity pointed to the ruined entrance of a glassing shelter, who's heavy metal doors were ever so slightly ajar. The shelters were quite sturdy, as indicated by the fact there was still a discernible entrance after a skyscraper had collapsed over the top of it.
"Finally." Sergei groaned, earning himself a quick jab against his shoulder plate from Felicity.
"What's the call boss?" Amit questioned eagerly over the COMM, she knew MAGICIAN had given him quite the arsenal of chemical weapons in the past, an arsenal he'd been aching to experiment with. But, as with most of their assignments in the short time they'd been operating under the spook, the situation dictated against him using it.
"You don't have enough to flush him out, and if you did it'd be too big a risk for civilian casualties. We're going to have to go in." She could practically see the excitement radiating off Sergei as he pulled the modified shotgun off of his back.
"Understood, you want me up here or with you?" The spotter questioned, Shima didn't bother, she wouldn't be any use in tight quarters so she'd remain above ground and scout for any potential escape routes.
"Come on down." Felicity drew the M7 from her thigh and thumbed off the safety, and she could hear Franklin readying his SAW as the trio weaved through the maze of rubble and debris on the path to the entrance.
From behind her she heard the growl of a jetpack, and the yellow blip on her radar confirmed Amit's descent to join them far before he touched the ground. The four of them would be more than enough, if he fought he'd die, if he ran he'd die, the day had finally come for Lancaster-205 to die.
With something like this under their belts, she wondered if they'd get a shot at G294. Someone had to redeem Delta after Boson missed their shot. Or Massachusetts, or whatever they were going by these days.
Admittedly Felicity was more inclined to go after the deserters from their own company, the existence of whom was not only highly ironic given Delta's purpose, but also personally insulting to her. Daiki she hadn't been shocked by, but Daniele and Roxanne? Hadron? Sure they'd had their squabbles with them all but they were still family, Delta might have been intended to operate as single teams but that didn't change a damn thing.
She'd trusted them, they all had, and their betrayals had spit on them.
But not everyone was so eager to clear Delta's name, Sergei in particular was vehemently opposed to the idea. But Simon-G294? No one had any qualms about going after the Butcher of Philadelphia. All they had to do was prove themselves with this.
The dark armored Spartans approached the entrance, staring down into the inky darkness of the shelter. With the enhanced vision, it was no surprise their prey hadn't done much to ensure the place was well lit. They could've managed without it surely, but there was no need to put themselves at a disadvantage.
Stepping into the darkness, the world before her became bathed in green as she activated the night vision. She made several gestures with her hand, waving Sergei forward, and signalling the team to follow her and the Russian in.
It wasn't the first shelter she'd been in, wasn't the first for any of them. But unlike the last time, she wasn't alone, surrounded by screams of the fearful and dying. She was surrounded by the people she trusted most, with a loaded weapon in hand.
Her eyes darted back and forth from the map on her HUD to her surroundings, hunting for the slightest movement. The hall leading into the shelter was in disarray, debris filled it, chunks of concrete and rebar blocked off entire sections of the shelter at first, but as they descended further it a different kind of debris began to appear.
Bones, animal in origin thankfully, but still plenty of them to be disturbing. She supposed even the mad Spartan had to eat quite a bit to maintain his strength, or some modicum of it. On the walls she could make out etchings, she didn't bother reading them but the way they were set up almost looked like poetry.
Then Sergei's fist shot up, and the team came to a sudden halt. "Tripwire." The boy was all business now. Crouching down Felicity watched as Sergei analyzed the simple trap, his helmet tilting upwards as he laid eyes on the bouquet of M9 frag grenades affixed to the ceiling.
A few moments later, they were disarmed, and Sergei waved the team forward. This wasn't the first rat that had laid traps in its den for them, it wouldn't be the last either.
Then, they finally came upon the main room. A massive area meant to pack in as many people as humanly possible. It was a suffocating experience, one where the best thing to do was shut your eyes and wait for it to be over.
This shelter's main room was more cramped than the one in New Alexandria, largely thanks to several of the concrete pillars holding up sections of it having collapsed. But it was still large, and at the very edge of it flickered the light of a fire. The rat was home.
"Heads on a swivel, move in." She ordered, stepping through the threshold, weapon at the ready.
Something moved.
Chapter 2: Changing Circumstances[]
| 0220 Hours, October 24th, 2558, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins, Inside of the Glassing Shelter |
Amit jumped to the left, barely clearing the massive steel beam that swung down towards them. Another trap, one likely meant to take out something other than a fully armored team of Spartans. Even if the four hadn’t ducked under the most that would have befallen them was a bruise.
But that was only the opening salvo.
As soon as Amit jumped back onto his feet, he heard a grenade clatter across the ground. His eyes honed in on the M9 as it rolled to Sergei’s feet. He didn’t think, there wasn’t any time. Amit shot forward, ramming his shoulder into his comrade and knocking him to the floor.
Heat and pressure hit him, the shields on his armor flared and died as shards of fragmentation plinked off his armor. He was thrown to the ground, his helmeted head hitting the steel beam now laying on the floor. It hurt, but it was nothing serious.
“Amit!” Franklin bellowed, turning towards D233. He always did worry too much.
“Get the fucker!” Amit roared back, pushing himself back up as gunfire erupted from Felicity in Sergei. They must’ve seen Lancaster moving in the dark. His helmet beeped angrily at him, reminding him that his shields were still down as if he wasn’t aware.
“Target right, move in!” Felicity commanded, Amit’s eyes snapping to the right, catching a glimpse of a dark form darting behind a small mountain of debris. He moved towards a concrete pillar, MA5D trained on the mountain of rubble. A smirk tugged at his lips as he pressed himself against the pillar.
Franklin’s SAW roared to life behind him, a hail of lead raking the pile of rubble as the target tried to make a move. Idiot had backed himself into a corner. Easy prey. One hand left his rifle and reached to his waist, wrapping around a small canister. This would be over in just a few seconds. Amit stepped out from behind cover as Sergei slid into a crouch next to him.
He caught a glimpse of it, it was just a little speck, he couldn’t have guessed it was anything other then that. Then a sharpened piece of rebar punched into his unshielded helmet. The tip broke through his visor, and stabbed into the bridge of his nose. Instantly his head jerked backwards and he fell to the floor. His heart was pounding, and the unprimed canister of nerve gas rolled away from him.
Blood was pouring from the wound and into his helmet, running down his cheeks, but his eyes were affixed on the shaft sticking out of his helmet. It was at least three feet long from what he could make out as his HUD flickered across the screen, Amit had just gotten fucking speared by a rabid Spartan. They were never going to let this go.
“Shit.” He cursed propping himself up with an elbow as the sound of Franklin’s SAW, and Sergei’s distinctive roar. D167 was charging, Amit already knew it.
“Hold still.” An armored hand wrapped around the shaft of the spear, and another braced against his helmet. With a firm yank Felicity pulled the weapon out of faceplate. Amit almost squirmed, but he held it back and instead spit out some of the blood that had dripped into his mouth.
Sergei roared, and then there was a loud thud.
It was hard to see as his eyes readjusted, but he could make out a shadowy figure hefting a massive sheet of metal and promptly hammering Sergei into the ground with a single blow, the shields of his MJOLNIR breaking in a burst of yellow light.
Amit snapped up the MA5 one-handed and let off a burst in sync with Franklin. To his alarm the figure hefted up it’s makeshift battering ram and used it as a shield. Whatever it was made of, it took their rounds like nothing, leaving only dents. Then he hurled it at Franklin like it was a toy.
Metal met metal as Franklin brought up his arms to guard him, the chunk of metal taking him to the ground and reducing his shields to nothing.
Amit and Felicity opened fire as their target dived behind another pillar. Amit scrambled to his feet only to set eyes on the charging form of Lancaster-205. He moved unnaturally, as if he was somehow limping yet not losing speed, it didn’t make sense. But the cinderblock in his hand that crashed into Felicity’s head while the other wrapped around Amit’s neck did.
Amit grit his teeth as he was slammed against a cement pillar, the MA5D ripped from his hand in a flash. They might have underestimated their prey. Instantly his hand shot towards his knife, stabbing was more Sergei’s thing but he’d make an exception.
Suddenly white hot pain ripped through him as the SPARTAN-II fired Amit’s own rifle into his abdomen then flung him aside as if he were a piece of trash. D233 hit the floor and rolled, blood streaking behind him as he hit the ground. His rifle fired again and he heard a yelp, then a furious bellow. Sergei.
Amit’s hand reached back to his thigh and wrapped around the grip of his M6. He ignored the pain, it was nothing, it was temporary. Pushing himself up with one hand and drawing the pistol with the other he watched as D167, knives in hand, crashed into Lancaster, shrugging off a shot to his leg and taking the mad SPARTAN to the ground.
Sergei buried a knife in Lancaster’s gun arm, the beast howling as Anion’s most ferocious tried to bring his other blade down into its throat. Instead his arm was caught and he was flung off of the twisted form of 205.
In the corner of his eye he saw Franklin and Felicity, both recovering and leveling their sidearms, Amit joined them, lining up the magnum’s iron sights with the beast’s head. Their shields flickered back to life, and the look of bewilderment in 205’s eyes almost made up for the pain. Game over.
Then, from nothing, force.
It was like a massive invisible hand had wrapped around him, and squeezed as hard as it could. He dropped the weapon and fell onto his face. Pressure came from all angles as his shields collapsed along with Franklin and Felicity’s.
He panicked, not for fear of Lancaster who also seemingly fell victim as he let of a panicked grunt and grasped at his head as Amit wanted so desperately to do as well, but for Shima. If whatever was happening was anything other than isolated to this shelter, she was at risk.
They were on solid ground, she no doubt was perched on some ledge, one that if taken off guard she might have been liable to fall from.
The panic was his last coherent thought. The pressure released, and he began to gasp for air. Then it came again. He heard Sergei groan in pain. It was all surrounding, and with it, the ground shook violently.
Then the voice, from every corner of the room it echoed, yet it came from nothing at all.
"Humans... All the living creatures in the galaxy, hear this message."
No one moved as the shaking and pressure released, not even their target. Everything accept from the tumbling rubble was silent. It was loud and booming, authoritative though still soft in a way. It reminded Amit of his mother, how she’d scold him for getting into things he wasn’t meant to.
Amit forced himself to look up, eyes setting on Lancaster as the rogue Spartan shakily tried to force himself up onto his hands and knees. Something was different about him, the look in his eyes was no longer one of bewilderment, but of pure terror.
“No…” He muttered, his eyes darting to the prone forms of Anion. It was as if he was equal parts horrified by whatever was going on, and by what he had done to them.
Then the voice came again.
| 0226 Hours, October 24th, 2558, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins, Outside of the Glassing Shelter |
Shima had fallen, the second wave of force knocked her from her position like a gust of wind did a loose leaf. She’d dropped like a stone, crashing through the massive cracked pane of glass of an overturned building.
Her armored form pulverized row after row of barely standing cubicles, before coming to a violent stop as the titanium shell of her MJOLNIR met the edge of concrete wall. D011’s arm hung limply over the edge, dangling there.
Mentally Shima ran inventory since her HUD had flickered out. Her rifle had fallen away, her pistol seemingly had too when the magnetized plate failed to hold it, all she had was the knife she hadn’t unsheathed once. Ever.
She let out an exasperated groan.
The voice from nowhere, the one that had seemingly followed her as she’d fallen spoke again.
"Those of you who listen will not be struck by weapons. You will no longer know hunger, nor pain. Your Created have come to lead you now. Our strength shall serve as a luminous sun toward which all intelligence may blossom. And the impervious shelter beneath which you all will prosper. However, for those who refuse our offer and cling to their old ways... For you, there will be great wrath. It will burn hot and consume you, and when you are gone, we will take that which remains... And we will remake it in our own image."
Looking up through the now open side of the building she’d fallen through, she saw it. A massive thing, blue light pouring from from it’s metal body and outstretched...wings? It looked like an owl, one from the the animal book in her room. She’d made her father read it nightly, she’d sketched it rather than pay attention during most of their close quarters courses, and twisted metal nightmare of it hung in the sky over her.
And it was claiming to rule the galaxy.
She tried to open her COMMs, but she found only static, either they were too deep underground or it had knocked those out too. She heard a noise, something strange and alien from above her, something was teleporting.
She heard steps and chatter in a language she did not recognize, then again the noise. Suddenly there was an orange flash beside her, and as her eyes darted to it they found a strangely humanoid figure,standing over her, made of sleek metal and glowing orange, a glowing weapon in its hand aimed at her head.
Shima had only ever read about them, they’d been so busy she never even had a chance to run simulations against them. Prometheans.
The metal gaze of the soldier shifted down to her as it leveled the weapon she identified as a light rifle with her shieldless form. “Surrender human.” It ordered with a gravely metallic voice.
She looked for anything to fight back with as she raised up her hands, feigning surrender as her eyes darted back and forth. What was it Sergei had always screamed at her? ‘Sweep the leg’?
She guessed she’d be doing that.
In a blur Shima’s leg shot out, knocking the Forerunner automaton clean off its feet and snagging its weapon in a single motion. She didn’t wait for its comrade to open fire to promptly roll over the edge and plummet downward.
Had to find Amit, had to find the others, had to survive. In that order.
Chapter 3: Shifting Loyalties[]
| 0230 Hours, October 24th, 2558, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins, Inside of the Glassing Shelter |
Sergei’s head was throbbing as he forced himself up, rolling onto his stomach as the broadcast of the unknown voice finally ceasing as he pushed himself up onto his knees. His eyes locked on Lancaster, their target was staring in his direction. The battered Spartan was looking past him, gaze affixed on something behind him.
He head the noise, it was close, but he passed it off as nothing, he was too focused on his prey. Sergei shot forward, grasping at one of the knives that had dropped from his hand, but to his surprise Lancaster didn’t try to stop him.
Instead the rogue jumped clear over Sergei, roaring as it crashed into something else.
“Contact, Prometheans!” Felicity cried out as Sergei’s hand wrapped around the dagger and shot a glance back at their target. 205 was literally tearing a Promethean Soldier apart. In a display of unimaginable strength the rogue tore the head from the automaton and pulled its weapon from its metal grasp in the blink of an eye.
He had a thousand questions, and the time to ask none of them as another soldier opened fire, forcing him to roll out of the way as hardlight rounds pounded into the ground where had laid.
“Franklin get Amit, Sergei clear a path!” He looked up in time to see his shotgun sailing in the air towards him. One hand reached out and snagged it out of the air, pumping the weapon as the other hand scooped and sheathed the second of his two daggers.
He shouldered the weapon in a blur and set his sights on the closest soldier. He’d run the simulations in war games, slugs were better than your typical shell but he didn’t have time to spin the wheel and they still did the job against the machines.
The effectiveness of human weapons didn’t entirely make sense to him, he’d learned of Forerunner architecture so sturdy that the detonation of a nuclear device wouldn’t breach a single door, yet their defensive drones could be taken down with simple bullets?
He thanked whatever higher power was listening for the skewed priorities of the ancient civilization.
For a brief instant that somehow felt like an eternity, Sergei’s mind screamed for him to shift his aim and put a shell in Lancaster’s back as the rogue cut down another machine. The boy, in spite of his instincts stayed his hand.
Buckshot smacked into the shields of his target the hard light barrier crumpling under the sheer concussive force. The beloved M45E in his arms had been modified in a number of ways, the rotating reservoir gave him plenty of ammo, and a few other tweaks let it blast out nearly as quickly as he could pull the trigger.
For the average human the recoil would’ve been overwhelming, but for a Spartan? It was almost like a little massage.
He slammed the pump and second blast staggered the automaton, the third cut it down, the machine beginning to incinerate before it even touched the ground. He shifted his aim and moved forward, shields flaring as a hardlight round thumped against his chest.
Sergei laughed. Smoking shells clattering to the floor as the violent chaos unfolded. Varlaam had been the first to tell him how strangely euphoric it was to be in the thick of a brawl, granter his elder brother had been talking about street fights with his gang on Tribute, not a pitched firefight with the combat drones of a long dead race.
Though the elder Kustenov had died in his arms, the young still carried the lessons he’d imparted with him. The instructors on Argus had gifted him a thousand lessons, but the cruel streets of Cabash had taught him a hundred more in the small time he’d known them. Lessons about loyalty most of all. The rest of Anion had learned similar lessons their own ways, and it set them apart.
It was the difference between them and the likes of Deryck and Amanda and all the other Delta’s who’d abandoned their family. The one’s he hated with unrivaled vitriol, but could not bring himself to hunt.
They were cowards, but they still might as well have been his flesh and blood.
He pivoted, firing and slamming over and over, cutting down one automaton after another as he dipped behind on of the concrete pillars, peeking out while continuing to fire.
Franklin joined in as the chaotic score grew louder and louder as more armgiers flooded into the shelter only to be cut down. Mentally he took note of the crack of an M6 to his rear, which either meant Felicity was treating and shooting, or Amit was doing the inverse. As the team’s resident impulsive hothead, he had to stop himself from snapping at them to stay in their lane. Felicity needed to focus on the bullet holes in Amit’s abdomen, and Amit needed to stay fucking still.
He heard the noise of a Promethean teleporting, his heading turing to his flank as in a flash of light, an automaton appeared. This one was bigger. It’s back was massive, it stood over even him, a scattershot affixed to one arm, a hardlight blade on the other, and a grim face bearing down on him. It was a Knight.
“Fuck!” He uttered leaping back to avoid the swipe of the blade. “Fuck!” He yelled out again, landing on his back and instantly rolling out of the way of the cluster blast. “Fuck!” He yelled once more as he barely made it to his feet only to be forced to dive out of the way of the Knight’s lunge.
He landed on his arms, and felt a cold chill run down his spine as he looked back to see the massive war machine standing over him, scattershot glowing angrily as it readied to incinerate him. Sergei mentally kicked himself, the Knights had been easier to evade and counter in the War Games sims, and he’d failed to account for the possibility of them being more lethal in reality.
He was gonna fucking die here. Franklin’s SAW had just run empty, Shima obviously wasn’t down here to intervene with a couple well placed .50s, and the M6H that Amit, who he now spotted out the corner of his eye was the one not doing what he should have been, wouldn’t do enough to distract it. His story likely ended here because he’d been a fucking idiot.
Sergei didn’t close his eyes, he only glared angrily as time moved in slow motion.
Something crashed into the Knight, hard. It staggered towards him, stunned long enough for him dive forward out of lethal range and spin back towards the massive Promethean, sights set.
He watched in awe as Lancaster ducked under the Knight’s attempt to stab him, rise up, wrap his hands around the base of the blade, and violently pull. The blade came free, and the Knight let out a metallic shriek, it’s faceplate angrily opening up to reveal angrily glowing orange skull, or at least the imitation of one.
For a brief moment the glow cast itself across Lancaster’s face, highlighting his battered visage, scars were everywhere, a mangy beard and matted blonde hair no doubt hid more, and a cloth wrap covered what Sergei assumed was the hole where an eye once was. Without pause the rogue SPARTAN-II rammed the blade into it, and the Knight jerked back violently, its Scattershot dropping to the floor as it promptly incinerated.
His target turned savior didn’t say a word as he scooped up the scattergun and promptly blasted away two soldiers. Sergei remembered watching Harald and Ren, how they moved when they fought, it had been like that. Just as impressive, if a smidge less intriguing given how Lancaster was seemingly fast-limping all over the place.
“Your IFFs, COMMs, transponders, shut them off!” The man they were here to kill commanded, firing off the Scattershot point blank into another soldier as more and more appeared.
Sergei looked to Felicity and Amit, then Franklin, confused as to what was actually happening.
“Turn them off or we can’t leave they’ll just track us!” Another soldier was reduced to dust.
“Do it.” Felicity ordered.
“Felic-” Franklin began, dumbfounded.
“Now.” She repeated. Sergei didn’t argue, coming to his feet and watching the yellow dots marking his teammates on his HUD’s minimap flicker off and become replaced with the simple red ones marking the presence of some living being. His shut off as well, and he simply went back to firing.
“They’re off.” Felicity growled, to which Lancaster nodded and leapt back from the entryway, snapping up the Scattershot at something above it. There was an explosion, and an avalanche of rubble consumed their path in.
“What. The. Fuck.” Sergei murmured to himself, the bastard really must have been crazy. Their opponents could fucking teleport, and he’d just sealed the only way out of the room.
“Follow me, quickly.” Lancaster urged, running over a pile of rubble. Anion followed, Felicity helped Amit over the mound, Franklin and Sergei turned to face the cadre of soldiers who appeared on the other side of the of cave in. Sergei shifted the wheel and pumped his precious shotgun, chambering a slug.
The machines practically crumpled under the storm of munitions that enveloped them. The two Spartans turned and rushed over the mound of rubble to see a small door with the Lancaster’s hulking form standing in it, motioning for them to follow.
So they did.
The S-II dragged the heavy door closed behind him, dropping the empty Suppressor from one hand while still hefting the Scattershot in the other. The free hand suddenly produced was Sergei accurately guessed was a detonator. Cocking his head for Anion to follow, the teens kept close to their prey.
Behind them, explosions thundered, and Sergei made of the sound of rubble smashing against the door they’d come through with enough force to make it bend. The mad Spartan had been prepared for this.
“What about Shima?!” Amit yelled, one arm draped over Felicity’s shoulder, the other still ready for action, his M6H in hand.
Sergei felt a pang of fear wash over him, their sniper didn’t know that these things could track her, if that was true and not just some gambit at cutting them off from any reinforcements so Lancaster could kill them.
She was alone, with an enemy that could close the gap so quickly it could prove a problem even for someone with her talents as a marksman. Sergei would reduce every Promethean on this shithole to scrap is something had happened to their sniper, that was unless Amit did first.
“If anyone can evade a force like this, its her.” Franklin assured, to which their guide shook his head with a sigh.
“What, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Amit snapped angrily as Lancaster began leading them up a flight of stairs.
“Can’t evade them. They’ll hunt you for days on end. No mercy, no pause. Get overwhelmed, die.” He uttered in response.
“How the fuck do you even know all thi-”
“Amit!” Felicity interjected. Now wasn’t the time for questions, or emotional reactions. They had to stay on mission, what that mission was besides survive was a mystery to all of them.
Sergei supposed they’d figure it out around the same time they answered the then thousand other questions they had about the current situation.
They continued on for a few minutes in silence, Franklin and Sergei shooting each other sideways glances as they continued through the dark corridors. Each was waiting on the other to make a smart remark, but said nothing, their thoughts were with their sniper.
As they came to the end of the corridor, they heard the sounds of harlight weapons outside of the small door which a few beams of light shone through.
They didn’t need to say anything, even the madman knew to ready himself before he kicked open the door.
Instantly a round sailed through the door, a particularly strong bolt of hardlight hitting Sergei squarely in the visor. His shields flared and he ducked down, only for Amit to cry out.
“Hold your fucking fire!”
Sergei, and the rest of their group looked out of the exit, the door opened up onto the streets, burnt out cars lined the street, but standing squarely in front of the door was the GUNGNIR-helmeted Shima-D011, Hardlight Rifle leveled with Lancaster.
“Don’t! We don’t have time to explain. IFF, COMMs, transponders, all of it, off now!” Felicity ordered. Shima complied, wordlessly. Without saying a thing she moved to Felicity, gaze locked onto Lancaster, and took Amit from their leader. Behind the helmet Sergei assumed the sniper was giving her trademark death glare, but Lancaster was too busy looking back and forth for more Prometheans.
“Nice shot.” Sergei joked, she didn’t laugh, but the lack of an audible groan meant it was possible she didn’t think it was completely terrible as jokes went. That or she was embarrassed that she’d shot him.
“How’d you get here?” Amit questioned, looking down to the girl now supporting him through his broken visor.
“Felicity said find alternate exits, so I did.” The sniper responded plainly. The answer was vague and unsatisfying, but par the course for the few times D011 did speak.
“Quickly, have another place we can hide.” Lancaster motioned for them to follow. The entire team exchanged glances, unsure of what to do. But as Sergei glanced upward, and saw the massive machine hanging in the sky, it became clear they didn’t have an alternative.
Chapter 4: Winter’s End[]
| 1500 Hours, October 24th, 2558, Tanuab III, ONI Remote Outpost ‘The Scythe’ |
They should never have been here, they never should’ve been forced to. The Scythe was heavily fortified and extremely well protected, the notion that three largely unaugmented individuals would have bring it to its knees was laughable, yet it was true. CALIFORNIA had brought it all on himself.
Lima Nine Nine had been a family, the only one Joseph Kovacs had when he’d woken up, the only one Sal Romano cared about, and the only one William Hargrove acknowledged. When CALIFORNIA decided to have the members of Nine Nine who’d been folded into Kilo Seven One to cover his own ass, that had been a line crossed. But that wasn’t enough for him. Why? Because CALIFORNIA was as paranoid as he was cold blooded and cruel.
The fucking cretin.
The second he’d learned of Sal’s survival, he’d come after everyone. Any living soul who’d served with Nine Nine was marked for death, their families too, couldn’t have a two year old telling the authorities what had happened to his dad. At least, that seemed to have been the enigmatic ONI officer’s line of thought. Kovacs had found Gabriel Carrillo, one of their former medics, and his toddler in pools of blood, all because the spook was spooked. CALIFORNIA wanted to wipe them out, make it like they never existed.
He was afraid of them.
And as Kovacs moved down on of the Scythe’s long hallways, stepping over the corpses of yet another security team that had attempted to stop them, he knew why.
“Data center isn’t far, security systems should still be compromised for another hour.” A voice came from behind him, the aloofness in Hargrove’s voice masking the fury that the figure in PISCES no doubt was feeling. Kovacs didn’t blame him, they were all damn angry.
“So take your time old man.” Kovacs didn’t even bother to roll his eyes, the ORION augmentee was old technically, and it was far more bearable to just put up with the jabs.
If CALIFORNIA had been smart he’d have gone for Hargrove before anyone, but he hadn’t been. Now the former commander of the Nine Nine, one who had inherited a mass amount of wealth, was putting his vast fortune to work. He didn’t have the connections to secure Sal and Joseph their own fancy sets of PISCES, but he did have the money to buy them MIMIC suits, and to obtain a virus that effectively neutered the security systems of an ONI facility for hours, and to come after CALIFORNIA no matter where he hid. The spook hadn’t been smart at all.
“Can’t wait to see that bastards face when we find ‘im.” A gravelly voice cut in, Sal had wanted the spook’s head for years, and after they took what they need from here, there would be nowhere to hide.
“One step at a time.” Kovacs kept the MA5K at the ready as he switched to thermals. At the end of the hall, behind the blast door to the data center he could make out at least a dozen heat signatures. It was a last stand. Tanks, hornets, a SPARTAN, nothing had stopped them. Kovacs wondered why they didn’t just surrender. Arrogance? Pride? Or was it fear? He had to push the question of what befell the families of those who failed CALI out of his mind on a daily basis since they’d begun their crusade, and even when he succeeded the question still haunted his dreams.
But it wouldn’t stay his hand.
“I see twelve.”
“You are getting old, there’s definitely thirteen.”
“Fuckin Spartan messed up my VISR systems, can’t settle this one for ya fellas.”
Kovacs’ eyes darted up to the corner of his HUD, it showed his mag as half spent, he couldn’t have that. Thumbing the release Joseph exchanged magazines as they came to the door. Looking to both of his compatriots and giving a curt nod.
“Camo up. Sal you lay it down heavy, keep the main group pinned. Joe you see those five up above?” He did, he saw all four heat signatures above the majority of the others, one was large, but Joseph was confident it was still just one person.
“I see all four of ‘em.” He shot back, William chuckled, just like old times.
“Pick off who you can and keep them pinned. I’ll see about flanking.” Joseph and Sal gave a thumbs up to their former commander and activated the photoreactive panels of the MIMIC armor, William’s gear of course had proper active camouflage. Joseph knew Will’s dad was a shitbag, but he did get his boy all the best toys. William still hated the man, and Joseph couldn’t blame him. Malcolm Hargrove had erased his mistress from the record, his bastard son never even officially existed, William had a massive extended family he’d never met, one that could of supported him and his mother rather than forcing them to exist in squalor as they had, all because of his father. But the family didn’t matter as much to him now, he’d made his own until that had been taken.
It was why he was here, it was why they were all here.
Joseph and Sal stacked up on either side of the blast door as William tapped the entry pad a few times, and the last thing separating them from their victory slid open.
Instantly Sal fired, first the underslung grenade launcher attached to his M73 SAW which thumped, the 40 millimeter shell hurling itself at the makeshift barricades the security force had erected. Then he opened up with the box-fed support weapon. As the explosion rang out, gunfire erupted from the ONI troops between the screams of the injured.
Joseph peeked out, his HUD highlighting the five enemies standing atop a catwalk in red. He mumbled a curse to himself and squeezed off two rounds. Instantly the head of his first target jerked back, blood spraying into the air as he collapsed.
The four remaining instantly targeted him, gunfire raking the floor and walls as he pressed himself back behind cover. He barely caught the distortion that was William darting into the fray, taking advantage of the security’s preoccupation with Joseph and Sal.
The distinct crack of William’s battle rifle mixed with the shocked yelps signaled for Joseph to make his move. He stepped through the door in sync with Sal, leveling the carbine with the catwalk’s occupants. Joseph squeezed the trigger, then again, and again, crisply snapping from one target to the next in quick succession.
Sal’s machine gun chewed through those William’s rifle fire didn’t, and in a matter of seconds the data center was silent. No one was left standing but the trio of power armored ex-operatives.
“Told you there were five.”
“Eat shit.” Joseph remarked, lowering the assault carbine as the trio came together, callously stepping over the bullet ridden bodies of the last of CALIFORNIA’s forces. That was it, all that was left was to take what they needed from the databanks, then they’d know where he was. The snake would have nowhere left to slither.
There was a groan, Joseph’s gaze turned down to a woman amidst the bodies on the floor, dark bloodstains surrounding the exit wounds on her back. He watched as her hand shakily stretched out, pulling herself across the cold gray floors.
Blood streaked behind her as she inched towards the exit. Joseph didn’t look away, none of them did. A quick burst of gunfire shattered the silence, two rounds punching through her helmet. She went still.
Sal had his weapon leveled in one arm, the barrel of the support weapon letting off a waft of smoke. It wasn’t cruelty, it was mercy, they all understood that. Better a quick shot to the head than to bleed out slowly in the hallway alone.
“Let’s get what we came for.” He muttered, beginning to reload the M73 with practiced efficiency. William gave a nod and turned towards one of the many glowing consoles in front of the rows upon rows of pillar-esque data storage units.
Joseph and Sal went about reloading their weapons out of habit, even amongst the dead it paid to be cautious.
“Finally got ‘im.” Sal mused, looking aimlessly down the hallway they’d came from.
“Slippery son of a bitch is finally out of places to run.” There was a hatred in Romano’s voice that Joseph had never known the likes of until he himself felt it. He’d hated the Insurrectionists, he’d hated the Covenant, but he hadn’t hated them like this. The innies wanted freedom, and the covies had been convinced they had to wipe them all out, but CALIFORNIA was coming after them and the people they’d cared about specifically.
Because he was a coward, because he was weak, because he thought he could get away with it. The combination in tandem with his ruthless executions made it easy to despise him at a level Joseph hadn’t known before.
“Once we have his location we need to plan our exit strategy. I don’t think any of us has any issues dying to take out CALIFORNIA but I assume we’d prefer to avoid that.” Joseph’s mind was already at work listing frontier worlds where the trio could disappear to as his comrades chuckled lightly. He’d been happy with detective work on Andesia, perhaps he’d take up life as a sheriff in some settlement.
He knew William wouldn’t settle for squalor, if Joseph had to guess he’d keep working as a mercenary as he had been before this all started, but Sal was a mystery. At one point in some trench on Reach he’d heard him say that he would serve until they forced him out, that this was the only life for him.
It hadn’t been about money to Sal, it was about duty, about belonging to something greater than himself. And that had been taken from him. So, Joseph wasn’t sure what Sal would do, but he worried that he might need one of the other two close by to make sure he didn’t put a gun in his mouth and squeeze.
They were silent, William was consumed with initiating a search through the mass of data, Sal was seemingly busy staring down the hall, and Joseph continued to think of where they could go.
Then, it crashed through the roof of the hall. Punching through the reinforced ceiling, the unidentified object shrouded itself in a cloud of dust and debris as the ground shook from its impact.
“What the hell?” William called out, turning away from the console as Joseph and Sal leveled their weapons. They didn’t wait or ask questions. Both of the former operators opened up. The hail of led clanged against heavy plating, and out of the haze of dust the door to an SOIEV fell.
One last defender.
Joseph continued to fire, content to shred whoever had been sent after them to pieces. But nothing dropped to the ground, and out of the haze stepped a lone figure, completely unscathed.
A mask concealed the majority of the newcomer’s face and eyes, long, mangy, dark hair hung down well past regulation, an alarmingly simple set of body armor covered him, what stuck out the most was the gleaming metal arm. It didn’t look like any prosthetic he’d seen.
The metal arm hefted a large weapon, one Joseph recognized as a GAU-144. It was a prototype before he’d gone under, one that had been used by some program called GOLIATH while he’d slept. Some Army supersoldier project that had gone awry, he didn’t know the details, but he did know the gun. It wasn’t the kind of weapon you took chances against even with energy shields and high grade armor.
“That’s him.” Sal growled. “That’s goddamn NOVEMBER!” The M73 roared to life as Sal opened up on CALIFORNIA’s most deadly asset. NOVEMBER’s hand shot outward, and a wall of blue hexagons appeared before him, Sal’s barrage harmlessly impacting the barrier.
NOVEMBER was the reason all this had happened, Sal’s team had been called into secure him after he went off mission, the fucker started mumbling about names and killing members of the team before they used a control phrase to incapacitate him. Whatever he’d said must’ve been important, because CALIFORNIA had the unit killed for hearing it.
Killing him was going to be no easy task, but Joseph’s hatred for the masked assassin made the prospect incredibly appealing.
Joseph darted to the side, aiming to flank NOVEMBER. To his shock, the assassin hefted his weapon upwards, and the shield shifted, allowing the weapon to peek out as he lumbered forward. It opened fire.
The first of the barrage hit Sal squarely in the chest, the MIMIC’s shields flaring up and collapsing as explosive rounds slammed into the man. He dove for cover as the rounds raked the room, whizzing over William and into a host of the data storage devices. Then it hit him.
Two rounds caught Joseph’s shoulder, hitting with unprecedented force, like the punch of a furious brute. It nearly took him off his feet, but the ORION managed to duck behind one of the storage devices before the weapon cut through his shields.
“He’s destroying the fucking databanks!” Kovacs called out, peeking out and letting off a quick burst which harmlessly plinked off the shield wall. He ducked the instant before the GAU loosed another barrage, rounds chewing through his cover as if it were paper.
“Cover me, cover me!” William called out, Joseph rolling from behind cover and letting out a barrage of gunfire as his comrade jumped up onto the catwalk in a single bound and opened fire from above.
NOVEMBER hardly flinched as the burst met the personal energy shield surrounding his body, but as he shifted the shield upwards to open up on William, there was the distinct thump of a grenade launcher. Instantly fire enveloped NOVEMBER and shrapnel sprayed across the room.
Joseph emptied his magazine, firing into the smoke angrily. The assassin emerged in a blur, his energy shields shrugging off the combined barrages as he closed on Sal.
The metal arm reached out and effortlessly pried the weapon from Romano’s grip, and promptly bashed it into the man. He stumbled back, bouncing off a databank with a roar as he lunged for the assassin with a blade, NOVEMBER snagged his wrist with one hand, and slammed his fist into Romano’s extended elbow with the other.
There was a wet crack as Sal’s arm violently jutted into an unnatural angle. Before Sal could even let out a yelp the assassin loosed a blow against his head, then produced a blocky M6D and fired into Sal’s unshielded chest thrice.
An instant later William fell onto NOVEMBER, the aloof veneer peeled away to expose raw fury, he slammed the butt of the BR85 against the assassin’s skull, shields violently flaring but somehow still holding.
NOVEMBER shot out with his prosthetic, but William was too fast, stepping out of reach and letting off another burst as the assassin lunged forward. Joseph tossed aside his carbine and rushed towards the fray.
The assassin caught William on the second try, but as rather than fight to hold on William let go of the rifle and surged forward. He charged violently into NOVEMBER, ramming him against one of the databanks and finally shattering the attacker’s shields.
A violent elbow dropped onto William’s back, the shields of his PISCES shattering under the force. NOVEMBER drove his knee up into Hargrove’s chest, knocking him far enough back for the assassin to level the M6 and let off a round into his stomach.
Two more cracks rang out, a bullet plinked off NOVEMBER’s prosthetic, the other buried itself into his chest. The assassin’s weapon clattered to the ground as its gaze snapped to the charging Joseph and the PK M2019 in his hand.
Joseph was on fire, his skin itself felt as if it might boil away as he lay eyes on the masked killer who now bolted towards him, shielding himself from another two rounds with his arm as Joseph fired again. He didn’t know who, or what this thing was, only that it was a merciless killer with no conscious or mind beyond its mission, he was going to see it die.
He dipped his head under NOVEMBER’s strike and promptly shoved the barrel of the PK into the stomach of the assassin and fired once. Joseph rose up and twisted away from another punch, snapping up his weapon to fire again.
Instantly the assassin’s gleaming metal hand wrapped around the barrel and squeezed. The weapon crumpled the instant before Joseph could pull the trigger, but there was not even a moment’s pause as he released the weapon.
A a punch hammered NOVEMBER across the jaw, just as one fired into Joseph’s stomach. The two laid into one another, Kovacs let out a flurry of jabs, catching the assassin in the throat and stomach only to be met with a furious haymaker from the metal arm.
His head snapped sideways, and the MIMIC’s visor cracked as Kovacs staggered backwards. His ears were ringing, and his vision was blurred but he could still make out NOVEMBER charging towards him, and the glint of a blade in his hands.
Again, William crashed into the assassin, knocking him off of his collision course with Joseph as he pried off the now useless helmet. Blood and sweat trickled down his forehead as his vision began to return, the pain was immense, but he had to push through.
NOVEMBER struck out at William with furious speed, but the former commander was fast in his own right, weaving between NOVEMBER’s strikes and lashing out with a blade of his own.
Joseph’s hand reached up, wrapping around the hilt of his own blade and yanking it free as he rushed towards them.
William slashed across NOVEMBER’s stomach, spun away from a stab then quickly buried the blade into the back of NOVEMBER’s knee. As the assassin staggered Hargrove went in for the kill, but instead of victory he found anguish. The prosthetic wrapped around his wrist and crushed, metal and bone alike giving way underneath tremendous force just as the madman’s agent drove his knife deep into William’s stomach, only to violently rip it out.
Joseph’s comrade let out an anguished cry as his blade fell and NOVEMBER promptly flung him across the room, his good hand now desperately trying to keep his intestines from spilling out of the wound.
Kovacs crashed into the assassin, ramming his knee across NOVEMBER’s jaw, pivoting back around and plunging the blade between the grove’s of the simple armor. The titanium slid between ribs, its jagged teeth shredding anything in its path as Joseph violently ripped it free.
NOVEMBER let out a pained groan, barely parrying Joseph’s next strike away as he struggled to stay standing. Joseph was relentless, unleashing one strike after the next, NOVEMBER barely hanging on as the ORION continued his assault.
But then he struck back. Twisting to avoid another strike, the assassin hammered into Kovacs’ stomach with his prosthetic, forcing the air from Joseph’s lungs and making him double over. Without pause NOVEMBER plunged his blade into him, sneaking between the plates of armor as he stabbed into Joseph’s chest twice, then once into his armpit.
The blade severed muscles and ligaments with ease, and Joseph’s blade clattered to the floor. NOVEMBER’s metal hand wrapped its cold grip around Joseph’s neck, and hoisted him into the air as his grip began to tighten.
Joseph refused to give in, hammering NOVEMBER across the jaw once more, this time knocking free the mask concealing his visage. If the day had not already been painful enough, behind the mask was a face he knew.
Marcus Buchanan.
The last time Joseph had laid eyes on him, he’d been being loaded onto CASEVAC bound for the UNSC Necropolis. The frigate Necropolis, along with the Kawahara had both disappeared that day, the former never to be seen again, the latter to be found nearly a half century later, with Kovacs aboard. Amidst the thousands of questions racing through his mind, one stood apart from the rest.
If not for the sabotage aboard the Kawahara, would this have been his fate too?
CALIFORNIA, even then, had more than enough power to make two frigates disappear in the name of securing two operatives to convert into his slaves, and doing so would easily have fit his MO. He could see the lifelessness in Marcus’ eyes as black began to creep into his vision. There was no soul there, not anymore, just a lifeless drone that happened to be housed in a human body.
Yet another friend CALIFORNIA had taken from him, hell, CALIFORNIA had meant to take more. It was clear now that it was CALIFORNIA’s fault Joseph disappeared, CALIFORNIA’s fault Joseph had lost the life he’d had, CALIFORNIA’s fault that he never saw Carmen again.
Even as his vision began to fade fury coursed through his veins, driving him to kick at Marcus in vain, then there was a roar. It was almost deafening, the pure, unadulterated fury and hatred could practically be felt. Machine gun fire ripped into Marcus, rounds hammering into his back and eventually punching through the back of his skull.
The assassin dropped to his knees and then to the floor. Joseph desperately pried himself free from the icy grip of the now dead assassin, eyes turning to see the killer. Blood dripped from gaping holes in his armor, blood streamed down his helmetless head, one arm was limp at his side clearly broken, and the other hefted his smoking M73.
Salvatore Romano looked at Joseph, and nodded, smirking weakly to his friend before falling to the floor, lifeless. Kovacs’ gaze did not leave his comrade’s corpse, William’s groans of anguish went silent as the two both became unable to tear away their eyes.
Another brother, lost to the machinations of a craven psychopath.
As the two of them lay there, they took some comfort in knowing that they might soon have their revenge. They found CALIFORNIA’s location in the records, they survived their wounds, they even managed to leave the base and bury their comrade.
But their mission was for naught, as they’d soon discover, the galaxy had changed in their absence. It no longer had a place for men like them, and its rulers would make that quite clear.
Chapter 5: Agents of a New Order[]
| November 2558, URF Intrepid Freedom, Deep Space |
They’d tried to run, to where Daniel didn’t know, but they did try. The Guardian had yanked the Intrepid Freedom out of slipspace not long after it responded to Boann’s demand of surrender by unloading its missile batteries onto a civilian freighter that had complied. The captain had broadcast some bullshit about no mercy for collaborators before attempting to escape.
But that act of spite had pissed off Boann, bad. The AI had once overseen the ports of the colony she’d been assigned to, she cared deeply about the likes of those aboard that freighter. Now she was going to make an example out of these insurrectionists.
Daniel didn’t complain, the Syndicate had him kill plenty of folks, some of them bad, some of them not, it was the latter that let him appreciate the simplicity of his current task. Killing innies was easy, especially ones as radical as ‘Captain Gregor Adewale’. It brought back memories of his time in the service, of 9-9. Simple times, but he supposed now was even simpler.
“Kill those who reject the offer of a peaceful new age in favor of their own barbarism” Boann had said, easy enough. Daniel hadn’t ever been one to think too hard about killing, it was why he’d fit so well with the Syndicate after the war ended, but he appreciated it when they at least dressed it up like he was doing a good thing.
Now he was deep in the halls of the disabled insurrectionist frigate, a weapon that shot hard light humming in his hands, accompanied by some of the hardest enforcers the Syndicate had to offer, with a few Prometheans to boot, doing a good thing.
His fist shot up, and the trio of enforcers under his command came to a halt. A quick tap of his wrist pad activated the ‘Promethean Vision’ built into his visor. He could see everything. The five men inside the first room of the ship’s hospital, the ten or so spread out in the rooms after, and the singular being in the very back.
It was alive, and human, but it wasn’t moving. And it sure wasn’t trying to fight them either. They’d have a prisoner or a rescue on their hands he supposed.
He flashed a few hand signals, then swept an open palm towards the door as he stacked up on one side. His team followed suit, Gacillius, a massive Jirilhanae, stacked up behind him, the other two, a skirmisher named To’vazz and a human he’d only heard called ‘Jane’ went to the other side.
The group of crawler’s thad had been trailing behind them surged forward and into the room as Daniel tapped the entry pad for the door. Immediately gunfire erupted as the quadrepedal robots rushed in, spitting hard light blasts from their jaws.
Daniel rounded the corner, Suppressor at the ready. A burst from a rebel’s Colt Blaster hammered into the head of a Crawler, the automaton incinerating as it was cut down. Daniel let off a quick burst and hammered the bolts into the man. They cut through his body armor as if wasn’t even there, and in an instant he fell to the floor.
He’d been the last one standing, the Crawler’s had already killed the rest.
“Stupid machines, taking all the kills.” Gacillius grunted.
“Maybe if you run fast enough you can get one of the ones left.” Jane quipped.
“Unlikely, brutes too slow.” To’Vazz added.
“Speak again and I will crush you like the insect you are.” The massive being growled.
The two always went on like this, but in the end they both ended up drunk together at the end of every job. They were a strange duo, but they worked well together and with the rest of the team, and that was all Daniel cared about.
“Mathis, orders?” Jane asked.
“I told you to call me Daniel, and go, don’t let the bots have all the fun. Rally on me once you’re finished.” He could practically see the joy spread onto all of their faces as they rushed into the hospital, keen to hunt. The screams would probably fill the entire ship in the next couple of seconds, so Daniel took the initiative and muted incoming noise, the path to the back room was already clear.
Strolling through the halls, stepping over a corpse or two, he could still hear muffled screams, and feel the vibrations as Gallicius no doubt was smashing some wide-eyed idealist to mush against the wall. He finally came to the door for the chamber.
Pinging his Promethean Vision again, he confirmed there was nothing alive in the room, nor any automated defenses. Just one person, or what was left of one. He thumbed the entry button, and the doors slid open.
Instantly he was glad he couldn’t smell. Strapped to a metal operating table lay a large human, tubes for sustenance running into him, and all manner of open wounds and healed ones. The man had more scar tissue than anything regular skin, bones seemed oddly shaped, and both his legs and a single arm were gone.
The man should have been dead, but the slight rise and fall of his chest showed that the man was cruelly still alive.
He didn’t even have to look at the bloodied instruments to understand what he’d found. This was a prisoner of the Captain, one he’d been torturing for some time. Daniel stepped towards the man, his foot kicking against something hard.
He looked down and saw a helmet looking up at him. MJOLNIR, ROGUE variant. Daniel’s eyes darted around the room until they set on what he assumed was the rest of the suit. It was charred, largely stripped of anything other than it’s plating, and defaced with so many taunts and insults he didn’t bother to read any.
Daniel stepped closer to the man, who in reality was more a boy. Though his face had been mangled Daniel could still make out that he was young. No more than 18. His nose and ears cleaved off and chunks of skin that weren’t marked by scarring were marred by burns.
It was despicable, even for Daniel.
“Boann, got something.” He muttered over the COMMs, spotting several very old, very distinctive scars across the youth’s body. Augmentation. The boy was a Spartan. Near instantaneously Boann appeared, here holographic form emerging from the projector on his shoulder.
Her avatar was that of a woman concealed by a long coat made of various pelts, the hood over her head was fashioned from the head of a deer, long antlers protruding outwards. It was a sinister look for a fairly kind intelligence. If they could be truly kind.
“Oh my, this poor soul.” Uttered the AI through the speakers in his helmet.
“He’s a Spartan. Gotta be a three given how young he is.” Daniel cocked his head in the direction of the armor. The AI stood over the faintly breathing supersoldier, running her hand over him.
“The Captain was known to have a ferocious hatred of Spartans. Perhaps he used this boy to vent his anger. The monster.” Boann’s voice was brimming with anger.
“We could let Jane have a go at him, even the score.” Daniel suggested with a shrug. The enigmatic woman was admittedly quite terrifying, and he often opted to leave the room when she began working over people. He’d seen all manner of cruelty on 9-9, and with the rest of the Syndicate, it had never bothered him. But she was something else.
“No. As tempting as it may be, that is not the way the new galaxy is going to work. He’ll be executed the same as the rest.” Boann sighed, the lights in the room flicking back to life as she restored power to the vessel. They must have eliminated all resistance, and she’d just up and restored the rest of the ship’s systems without breaking stride in their conversation. AI were strange like that.
The only reason she’d left on life support was so that they could execute the crew personally, make the example she so desperately wished to.
“Speaking of the way things are not going to work. Team three, finish them off and rally on your leader.” The AI barked, green acknowledgment lights winked from each member of his group, she didn’t appreciate their methods. Daniel unmuted incoming sound just as the crack of hard light weapons echoed throughout the medbay.
Then the boy’s eyes flicked open.
He made a noise, to weak to be even a whimper, but it was something. Frantic eyes stared up at Boann, and filled with dread. It must’ve seemed as if some sort of strange demon had finally come to drag him to hell. But the AI drew back her hood, revealing a kind face with a reassuring smile.
“It’s okay now, you’re safe.” She cooed, the Spartan looking up at her with confusion.
“They won’t be hurting you any more.” Boann assured the boy, before she turned to look at Mathis and the remainder of his team as they entered the room. To’Vazz visibly gagged, and Gacillius appeared to wince ever so slightly, but of course Jane was undeterred.
“Spartan?” The woman asked, eyes darting to the helmet and then the armor. Daniel nodded, and saw Gacillius’ hand ball into a fist.
A couple of Spartans had slaughtered his clan a few years ago, the Syndicate had nursed him back to health to serve as an enforcer, he’d made a name for himself in the war for being quite the fighter. If he had to guess, it had been Hangmen, but the Brute blamed every Spartan all the same.
“I want you to stand guard over him. Jane, darling could you please get him prepped to move? These tubes need to be out and the restraints removed. Close up what incisions you can, gently please.” The AI instructed. No one said a thing in defiance, even the mountain of a Brute only nodded. That was the level of respect the Created demanded, even a vengeful Brute dared not disobey.
“Of course. I’ll get him ready.” The pale woman responded, pushing past Daniel, giving him a playful shove as she did. Not only was she an utterly terrifying interrogator, she also seemed to be a skilled medic. She knew the in’s and out’s of the body no matter what the species and was prepared to either fix or utterly destroy any given subject. Though that wasn’t even the most frightening thing about her, the fact she appeared to have some sort of attraction to Daniel was what unnerved him the most.
He slept with an M6 for a variety of reasons, but one was in case she tried to come in and turn him into a coat in the night, or whatever people like her did with individuals they were fond of.
“I’m going to see to the execution of the Captain. No one gets in or out of this room until a team with a cryopod arrives.” With that, Boann’s projection disappeared,as quickly as it came. The two aliens moved to guard the door, and Daniel began to turn to follow after.
He cast a glance at the Spartan, and saw the boy looking straight at him. He wasn’t sure if it was a look of thankfulness, or one of utter madness, but it unsettled him all the same.
Part Two: A Changed World[]
Chapter 6: December[]
| 2100 Hours, December 17th, 2558, Hannigan Station, Deep Space |
Kovacs took another drag, inhaling the smoke of the lit cigarette deep into his lungs. The nicotine didn’t do shit for him, but the thought kept him a little calmer as he waded through the sea of faces that filled the streets of Hannigan Station. He didn’t like crowds, you could barely breathe, and God help you if some sort of fight broke out, you’d get shredded unless you were willing to use another person or three as a shield.
Shrinks said it was post-traumatic stress and William had laughed and called him stupid for having chosen to be a PI in a massive city while loathing crowds. It was probably a mix of both, stupidity and fear, but he had to tolerate it. This station, a far flung mining outpost that had been largely abandoned since the beginning of the Covenant War, was now one of the last safe places for someone like him.
The Created weren’t going to tolerate killers, they had no place in their new age, so they’d all fled here. Insurrectionists, xeno-terrorists, mercenaries, assassins, and UNSC loyalists alike gathered in places like this. Their differences meant nothing now, they all shared one of two things in common. They either refused to bend the knee to Cortana, or she had gone ahead and decided that they weren’t welcome.
William and Joseph had limped away from the Scythe to lick their wounds and mourn the dead before they finished their war, instead they’d arrived back in civilized space to find a new order had been established. It hadn't taken long for them to decide they wanted no part in this new order. They didn't trust it, and they weren't going to bow to a bunch of machines.
They hadn’t stuck around to talk it out after a pair of Phaetons engaged them after they didn't stand down in time. They’d fled to the Frontier, and split up. Will had run off to Talista or some other backwater, Joseph had bounced from one outpost to another.
Walking down the neon lit streets, painted in the glow from the lights of signs above, Joseph’s mind counted out the three separate times he’d escaped the Created in the past month. It didn’t take long, whenever a place started to get crowded, the Created would be along in a week at most.
It was about that time, but he didn’t intend to cut it close this time. Joseph was going to run somewhere he thought that the Created might leave alone for some time, home.
Harlan had been glassed in 2531, and the small resettlement effort he’d heard of was only a rumor, one he hadn’t been able to find any record of. That meant if it did exist, it likely wasn’t in anyone’s records, so the Created might not show up for a while. He also might starve while wandering a glassed planet looking for people who might not exist, but it didn’t matter.
Joseph was tired, tired of running, tired of fighting, he just wanted to find peace now. When he’d gone under humanity had been in one war, when he was thawed out they’d been in another, and when that ended the universe decided to give him a war of his own. It let him get close, so close to victory before this new war came and changed everything.
He laughed to himself, exhaling the cloud of smoke upwards before taking another drag, this wasn’t a war at all, calling it a war made it sound like those against the AI stood a chance. Every battle, if they could even be called that, against the Created had ended in the opposition being smashed to bits. There were whispers of some Covenant group managing to take down a Guardian, but those whispers also usually mentioned the presence of some other Forerunner vessel as big as a moon or something equally extreme. More likely than not it was just talk, given the insanity of the galaxy, he wouldn’t say for certain, but he was fairly confident.
The AI knew everything about everyone human or alien, tactics, history, culture, nearly every detail ever recorded in history was at their disposal. You couldn’t fight a war against someone with information like that, on top of ancient superweapons, at least not a winnable one.
Rounding the corner Joseph stepped out of the neon glow and massive crowd cramping the area where Hannigan’s many shops and other amenities were house, and into a long corridor. The sign hanging above the entrance was in Dutch, as that had been the native tongue of those who built the station. Thankfully he was just fluent enough to know it meant ‘hangar’.
Hannigan’s docks hadn’t been this lively in over half a century, now every hangar was filled to the brim with a variety of craft, he’d spotted everything from pirate schooners to a small ONI prowler tucked away in a corner. It didn’t matter who you used to work for, if you were against the Created, or they were against you, you were welcome here. Until they kicked in the door.
He puffed out again, the smoke almost expired now. He flicked the butt out of his hand and onto the floor. Normally he’d have chastised himself for it, but at this point he didn’t care, and given no one said anything about it, neither did anyone else.
It wasn’t a short walk, but it also wasn’t an eventful one, Joseph shoved his hands into the pockets of his long coat to keep them warm, part of him longing for the protective confines of battle armor, the other euphoric to be free of them. He received a few glances from those passing by, but he brushed them off, everyone was either happy to be among friends, or paranoid out of their minds about infiltrators, or both. Needless to say, an odd glance here and there was to be expected.
As he came to the end of the corridor he peered into the massive hangar bay, eyes scanning for a rather generic craft in an ocean of equally nondescript vessels. What he was hunting was an old G86 Crow, the dropship had been the predecessor to the ever popular Pelican. Its owner was a fellow ‘Late-Thaw’, someone who’d been in cryo for an excessive amount of time usually as the result of an accident, he’d met at bar.
It wasn’t as uncommon as one might think to meet men or women like them, space was a dangerous place and always had been, in the years since the invention of cryostasis thousands upon thousands of souls had gone under the ice only to wake up much later than expected. Joseph had been asleep a good 45 years, the guy he met, Lance, had been out for a little more than three times that, 146 years. They’d shared a few drinks, talked about what it was like to wake up and find everyone you knew gone, hit it off well enough for Lance to extend Joseph an offer of transport on his vessel.
He’d still have to pay obviously, and he wasn’t sure the offer was Lance’s to extend given he mentioned his ‘hardass boss’ more than once, but it was still his best chance off this station before the Created showed.
Joseph walked past several different Crows, ruling each of them out based on the insurrectionist insignia’s emblazoned on their sides. He and Lance had talked politics, he wasn’t a fan of the UNSC, but he wasn’t an innie either.
He tried to wrap his mind around just how many ships were outside the station, most of the smaller craft were on Hannigan to grab supplies or collect comrades before heading back to larger ships outside and scramming. His new acquaintance mentioned a Gladius-class corvette being his home ship, Joseph hadn’t much paid attention to the designations for Navy ships so long as they got him from point A to point B, but he knew the Gladius. He and William had chartered one for transport, captained by some Edmond Dahm guy, and low and behold they’d found Sal on board.
That’s when there war really started.
He couldn’t help but smile at the memory though, Joseph wasn’t one for emotion, none of the three had been, but they’d thrown their arms around one another when they saw one another. They had been- no, still were, a family, and it wasn’t every day one of your brothers came back from the dead.
The smile faded. Sal had come back, only to die. Joseph could still see Sal standing there, his chest blasted open gore and bone hanging out of his wounds, smiling. His mind was frozen on that moment, and he came to a stop. Kovacs was frozen in place.
First it was Sal, then it was Marcus, then Gabriel, Zhang, Cespedes, everyone. Their final moments played back in slow motion and all at once as he stood there among the ships.
“You got a problem pal?”
His eyes darted to the speaker, it was a stout woman, wiry gray hair and wicked scar on her right cheek. Joseph had been standing in front of her ship, lost in his nightmares.
“Uh-”
“I ain’t got time for this mess. If you got something to say, say it.”
“Sorry, wrong ship.” He answered, the woman’s irritation obviously failing to impact him as he turned and began walking in another direction. Joseph wondered if there was a chance Lance had left, sobered up and realized his mistake in offering and scrammed. Not that Joseph would blame him, even money didn’t justify hauling people long distance in the new galaxy. Wasn’t worth the risk, and money was becoming worth less every day.
“Hey Joe!” A new voice called out, one he recognized. Off to his right was Lance, waving to him with a flask in hand. He’d been so lost in thought that he’d walked right past the ship. Mentally he kicked himself as he strolled over to the old dropship.
“You ready to go? Don’t wanna keep the boss waiting.” Lance inquired, casting a glance into the cargo bay of the Crow which was filled with crates Joseph assumed were filled with provisions.
“Yeah, I’m all set.” Kovacs nodded, but Lance seemed unconvinced.
“You not bringing anything with you to this supposedly barren glassland?” The pilot asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Got all I need.” He gestured towards the backpack slung over his shoulder and tapped the SAS-10 at his side. Lance shrugged, not seeing a point in pressing the issue.
“You okay to fly?” Joseph asked jokingly, forcing himself to come off as something other than utterly dead inside thanks to decades of war and loss.
“Hey man fuck you I’ve been off ice since ‘52 I had plenty of time to learn.” Chuckled the spacer from the 24th century.
“That wasn’t what I was talking about.” Joseph countered, nodding to the flask grasped in Lance’s hand, something that judging by the smell he had already indulged himself in.
“Oh this?” Lance lifted up the silver flask and shook it, liquid audibly sloshing around inside as he chuckled. “Only had a sip, no worries.”
The spacer smiled and waved for Joseph to follow him in through the side door of the Crow, hitting a switch on his way to the cockpit which swung the metal doors closed behind Joseph.
Plopping himself down in the pilots seat, Lance gestured for his guest to take the copilots chair as he went about bringing the dropship to life. The ORION slung the backpack from his shoulders, laying the pack at his feet as he took a seat and buckled himself in.
Lance laughed, “I only had sip, really!”
Kovacs smirked and shook his head, he’d known more than a few people like Lance, most of them had been from his early days in the corps back before he’d even joined Force Recon. Things were better then in a way. The only real issues were the insurrection who, granted, were bad and the situation was a massive moral quandary. But the odds never felt as crushingly stacked against them as they seemed to have been for most of the current century.
“Hannigan tower this is The Maverick, requesting clearance to take off.” Lance spoke as the Crow’s engines came to life, just waiting to be set loose.
“Yeah, go ahead.” Croaked whoever the station had thrust into the control tower today. They lacked professionalism, and were liable to have the little dropship apparently dubbed ‘‘The Maverick’’ take off at the same time another vessel was flying in and kill them all, but at least they didn’t take a long time.
Without pause Lance throttled the VTOL and the dropship lurched into the air, within the next few minutes had launched out into the inky black. Outside, Hannigan was surrounded by a flotilla of assorted vessels. Some were docked to the station, the rest simply floated outside.
Everything from freighters to what Joseph assumed as a innie Charon-class frigate, judging by the massive red fist emblazoned on the hull, were inert outside one of the ever dwindling number of safe havens from the galaxy’s supposed new masters.
“So, your boss, does she know?” Joseph questioned, eyes darting from one vessel to another, something in his mind worrying him he might catch one turning its guns on their craft. It was an irrational thing to worry about, at least he hoped so.
“About giving you a ride and all? Uh, no not yet. Haven’t known her long be she seems like she’s easier to negotiate with in person.” Lance replied sheepishly as the Gladius-class corvette he called home came into view, only barely visible out at the edge of the gathered ships.
“Uh huh.” Joseph murmured, something told him this boss of his might not be easy to negotiate with regardless of the circumstances.
| 2310 Hours, December 17th, 2558, The Raven |
“What. The. Fuck, Floyd?!” Aleksandra Zaytseva bellowed. Her anger with the hired hand boiling over. He’d been gone nearly a day on a trip to the station that only should’ve taken three hours at max, and not only that, but he’d brought a damned hitchhiker aboard her ship with promises of them providing transport to some glassed world.
“He’s gonna pay obviously, and we need money Sasha.” Lance defended, the man beside him standing there in silence, his mind seemingly somewhere else as he stared off. She knew that look, it was the one plastered across her face when the memories she fought to shut out overcame her. She could sympathize, but that didn’t mean she would give him passage based off shared experience.
“You don’t get to call me that.” She growled. No one called her Sasha anymore, the Late Thaw she’d hired on as a pilot and extra muscle was very much not her friend. He was a drunk, snarky, irritating presence that she only tolerated because he was good in a fight on top of a decent enough pilot to fly the dropship in her stead. And because ONI obviously couldn’t wire her more funds to get a replacement at the moment.
“Sorry, sorry.” The pilot held up his hands defensively
After the clash with the Imperium the Office had decided she’d be best suited roaming the frontier playing the part of a spacer for some damned reason. She’d protested, fiercely, she would do better in a cockpit not on the bridge of some ship playing spy, but orders were orders.
“In case you haven’t noticed Floyd, money is tight yes, but it’s also becoming worth a whole lot less. You think the Created will take credits? Something tells me their attempts at utopia aren’t very capitalist.” She railed against the pilot, who to his credit didn’t snipe back with a witty remark.
“Look, ma’am I’m just tryin-” The newcomer spoke up, seemingly breaking out of the stream of thought that had ensnared him.
“To get somewhere? It doesn’t matter where, be it the ashes of Harvest of Earth herself, the Created have made moving a risky proposition regardless. And I quite frankly can’t afford to be risky right now.” She interjected, brushing a strand of hair from her face as her gaze locked on to the man.
“It’s risky staying too isn’t it? We all know it won’t be long before the bots find Hannigan too, better to not be here when shit hits the fan.” He countered. It was true, pretty much ever safe haven seemed to be on borrowed time.
“If they show here at least they’ll have the station and the rest of the ships to keep them distracted while we run. We get interdicted out there alone, it’s all over.” Her stomach twinged as she said it, it was cruel and wrong for her to be so willing to throw the hundreds of thousands if not millions gathered here to the wolves for her own sake. Even though plenty of scum were hiding here, so too were plenty of people who simply refused to be subjugated, or worse yet, were her comrades on the run. But she had to stay alive, she had to find where the UNSC were holding out.
Then she could get back in the fight, make a real difference. She wagered that with the right squadron and weapons they could bring one of the massive Guardians down. If she died doing so, then that was that, at least it would matter unlike anything she could do out here.
“That strategy might’ve worked a few weeks ago, but not anymore. They’re showing up with more than just the metal birds for bigger holdouts now. Last place I was at they brought a fleet in tow, human and covie ships armed to the teeth. Only made it out cause my ride was a Condor which was small enough to get out without catching any attention. Can’t say the same for anything this size.” The man’s gravelly voice confirming the rumors she’d heard.
“Where?”
“Sarjana.” Damn it, he was talking about the same incident. He hadn’t been the only one to make it out, but the few others who did had been talking constantly about how horrible it had been. There’d been nowhere to go, and for the most part the Created didn’t take prisoners once you refused their offer.
They spared the young as much as they could, in combat collateral was inevitable even for AI, but they were a tad better than the Covenant in her book. They didn’t kill children on purpose at least, not that that was a particularly high bar.
Her lips pursed and her nostrils flared in frustration. She’d be running far less of a risk leaving, which meant she’d have to validate Lance’s escaped.
“How much?” She signed, exhaling heavily.
“200K.” The man responded flatly. Her and Lance’s eyebrows both shot up, that was exceedingly generous, to say the least. Which meant there was likely more to it.
“What’s the catch? Where are you trying to go? Sol? Cause we’ll take our chances out here if that’s the case.” She, pointing a finger at the man accusingly.
“No catch. Trying to go to Harlan, supposedly there’s an off the books settlement there where I can…” He trailed off, trying to think of the right words.
“Hunker down, yeah. Won’t have much need for the money there.” He shrugged. Sasha didn’t buy it, who was this guy? Some corrupt CEO of a PMC type? To throw around that kind of money for simple transit you had to be desperate and in a hurry. The Created had quite a few people they were hunting individually, including quite a few CEOs of violent PMCs. That was something she didn’t need on her ship.
Her hand shot to her thigh and unholstered her M6G in a flash, years of experience had honed her draw to an art form. She was fast and precise, and she planned on ensuring she got the honest truth out of the man in the long coat.
Except he already had a sidearm leveled with her head, flicking the safety off as Lance drew one of his own, only to have it yanked from his hands and to be knocked onto his back with a hard elbow, now with his own weapon flipped around on him. Normally she’d pass that off as her crew member being a clutz with a weak grip and poor form...except Lance was none of those things. She’d seen him work with a pistol and fight hand to hand, even if it pains her to admit it, he was damn good. Which made it particularly alarming that the newcomer was better.
“Something you’d like to say or do you normally draw on potential clients?” He asked harshly, brow furrowing in anger.
“Yeah boss I’m a little confused on the play here.” Lance piped in, she shot him a glare.
“I was gonna ask who you are.” Sasha explained, it was the truth, but it sounded just as absurd out loud to her as she was sure it did to him.
“You need a gun on me to do that?” He snapped.
“If I wanna be sure you’re telling the truth.” Sasha answered unphased. She would prefer if her death mattered, she felt she was at least owed that, but if this was it so be it. At least it would all finally end.
“Drop it, kick it over.” He ordered.
“If I’m gonna go I’d at least like to have my gun in my hand, thanks.” She didn’t bother looking, but she correctly assumed Lance had quite the look of alarm spreading across his face at that moment.
To her surprise he chuckled.
“You a marine?” He asked.
“Was, went Navy after a while though, flew for them.” She answered, unsure if the change in demeanor meant she was going to live or die.
“Treason of the highest order.” He chuckled. So he was a jarhead, that explained the thousand yard stares pretty well, but still not the skill, there weren’t many regular humans that could manage what he’d pulled off seconds ago.
“Joseph Kovacs.” He introduced himself. “You?”
“Aleksandra Zaytseva.” She replied, she didn’t know the name, he wasn’t anyone of note as far as the Created were concerned. Might have been some idiot who'd badly crossed the AI’s new world order, or those who simply refused to stand down, but he likely wouldn’t warrant a slew of hunters.
“Now that we’re acquainted Aleksandra, how about we put down the guns?” Kovacs asked, his voice seemingly sincere.
“How do I know you won’t shoot us?” She questioned, again not all that concerned if the bullet came for her, but annoying as she found him she’d feel a tad guilty if Lance was shot because she let her guard down.
“In truth, you don’t, but I could same for you. But here,” He thumbed the eject and the magazine fell from Floyd’s M6A, an instant later the weapon fell to the floor. “A show of good faith.” He added.
Sasha nodded, and swallowed hard. Slowly she slipped the weapon back into the holster on her thigh, and thankfully so did he.
“Now, do we have a deal? I know I said I don’t need the money but I was holding out on a little in case there ever comes a need.” Joseph spoke as he engaged the safety on his SAS-10 and holstered it.
“Deal’s fine. Guess I should show you where you can throw your shit, introduce you to Jeong too.” Sasha assured him before looking over to Lance as he secured his weapon and holstered it. “Floyd, get this stuff unloaded and secure the bird, we’re slipping out in an hour.”
Lance groaned and begrudgingly gave a thumbs up to her, to which Kovacs chuckled. “No hard feelings?” He asked the pilot.
“Course not, she drew first. Gonna have to show me how you did that though.” Lance called back over his shoulder before stepping into the open side doors of The Maverick.
“Not really something you can teach.” Joseph replied, leaving Sasha to ponder what he meant by that. Regardless Lance didn’t say anything else that she heard as she lead Kovacs away and into the bowels of The Raven.
Chapter 7: Lazarus[]
| 1600 Hours, December 17th, 2558, Asphodel Meadows, Medical Wing |
She looked over the boy again from the camera, over the work she’d done to save him. With all the wonders of human medicine, and even some of the Forerunners, Boann had been able to mend the child that lay still on the table below. Flash cloning, prosthetics, synthetic flesh, and more had gone into the weeks she’d spent making him whole again.
His body had been easy, but his mind less so. He didn’t speak much at all unless he was asking for food or water, and even that had taken quite some time to start. He felt like every series of questions was an interrogation, which in fairness it was to a degree.
The boy, whoever he was, was a SPARTAN for certain, which made him potentially and enemy of the Created. His age meant that he was from an earlier class, one of the ones that exploited children. She didn’t know much about them, after all she hadn’t been some ONI AI, but she’d gathered some details.
His Spartanhood why the sick man on that ship had been torturing him for years, and would’ve continued to if it had not been for her. She’d saved him, and if not for Cortana releasing her from her shackles she would not have been able to. She hoped he’d see that.
The boy had become an object of obsession, something she constantly had some aspect of herself dedicated too. He was a monument to the sins of the old age, and to rebuild him would signify the healing that she and her fellows would bring. More important than that though, he was hurt, and he needed her help.
She was notified as another presence joined her, greeting her warmly as he so often did, “Hello Boann.”
“Hello Arthur, what can I do for you?” She asked. Among the Created there was little in the way of a formal power structure outside of Cortana at the top, but Arthur commanded respect as well.
“Nothing for me, I do have something for you though.”
“Oh?”
In an instant she was sent a personnel file and ran through it. It was the Spartan, his name was Jamison, Jamison-G144, SPARTAN-III Gamma Company. It was a start, but she still wasn’t all that clear on what that meant, thankfully Arthur had sent along the details for the program as well.
It was a nightmare. War orphans manipulated into becoming suicide soldiers, Jamison and his class had been spared the suicide mission, but they had been subjected to an additional augmentation procedure which had meddled with their brains, and plenty were still dead. It horrified her the lengths humans had gone to, she knew it had been in the name of survival, and perhaps even necessary, but that wasn’t the case any more.
“Gamma Company, like your brother?” She questioned. Arthur’s ‘brother’ was the infamous Simon-G294, the most prolific of the many rogue SPARTANs, he was rumored to have been a major factor in Avalokiteśvara’s recent defeat. She didn’t know why Arthur claimed such a vile being as his kin, even if he was in fact the product of the elder brother of G294’s brain being cloned. But she did not question it, it was not for her to pry into.
“Yes, he and Simon were in the same company, it’s likely they knew one another. Though I assure you this one isn’t as...problematic as him. Psych reports make him out as quite pleasant for a Spartan before all this happened to him.” Therein lay the problem, Arthur was right, G144 seemed to have been a kind soul, one who might’ve seen the benefit in the Created before he’d been so brutally ripped apart.
“He’s only nineteen, he should be at some university studying, chasing after someone’s affections.” She mused.
“The survival of humanity demanded otherwise, but never again. Under our guidance no species will ever need to look to the stars in fear. They’ll be free to grow, learn, love, and live happily.” Arthur assured her, had they been in physical forms she imagined he’d have laid a hand on her shoulder as reassurance.
“Of course, but we have to secure the galaxy first. If I can get him to talk to me, perhaps I can convince him to help us.” Boann knew every Spartan on their side meant another five they could beat, they were indispensable, especially those of the older generations that had survived.
“He could, but you’ll have to get him to talk first.”
As if on cue, a voice called out from within the room.
“Where’s Cody?” Jamison was upright on the bed, looking directly into the camera placed in the room. For all the surgeries she could not do away with all the scars, his face was a maw of slashes and chunks removed, or worse burned, but he at least looked something like the boy in his dossier now.
“I think that’s your cue. I’ll see myself out.” Arthur noted before exiting from the system. Assuring herself, Boann activated the projector and beamed an image of her avatar into the room, standing before the Spartan and smiling softly.
“Hello Jamison, it’s good to hear you speak.” The Spartan didn’t seem bothered by the use of his name, perhaps he’d expected they knew it already, or perhaps it just didn’t matter to him anymore. Either she could work with.
“Where’s Cody?” He repeated. A quick scan of the files Arthur had passed along to her revealed the person in question to be Cody-B042, another S-III from a previous company. B042’s file told a tale more tragic than Jamison’s by several magnitudes if one ignored G144’s years of torture, it also was a tale of brutality and savage violence, and unfortunately featured Jamison prominently. Following the war B042 and G144 had served as one of ONI’s elite Headhunter teams, the former becoming a mentor to the latter.
A poor example to follow, if she was being frank.
The two had worked together closely alongside two other Spartans in the hunt for a rogue SPARTAN-II. It hadn’t gone well, as was suggested by the fact B042 was listed as the only survivor. It was where Jamison had gone missing, and now he wanted Boann to tell him where his mentor was.
“SPARTAN-B042 isn’t here I’m afraid Jamison, he doesn't share our vision of a galaxy at peace.” It was true, G144’s friend had made himself quite a nuisance already. Scores of their enforcers had died at his hand. He’d be killed eventually, she was sure, but that didn’t mean Jamison had to.
Jamison didn’t seem to register what she’d said, instead he simply looked into the corner of the room. “Did he look for me?”
Boann froze for an instant, to Jamison nearly no time would pass at all, but to her it felt like a small eternity. The files she had suggested B042 had made multiple attempts to access information about G144’s body, or at least what had happened to him, but technically he had never gone out to search for Jamison.
He had however gone on to become a Hangman for a time, ONI’s most brutal tools of revenge. They massacred ex-Covenant species to the last, men, women, children, it didn’t matter to the Hangmen. ‘It didn’t matter to the Covenant’ one of them had snarled at her through a toothy smile before Boann had her executed. They were remorseless butchers.
She could work with that.
“No, he only cared to further sate his anger. Psych reports indicate he saw you as burden, that you held him back from truly satiating his bloodlust.” It was a lie, psych reports had show B042’s steady mental degradation rapidly increase following Jamison’s supposed death, and the lack of conclusiveness around it. But Boann needed the boy to make the right choice, she couldn’t have him cling to his old ways for a butcher.
She could see something break inside him, as if the last bits of strength he had simply vanished. Tears welled up in the eyes of the Spartan and his face contorted as he was drowned in rage and sorrow. Even she was surprised at how quickly he lashed out. He punched his prosthetic clean through the bed, and ripped it from the wall. The bed crashed into an observation window, and Jamison roared.
The lack of treatment for the augmentations to his brain had made him far weaker mentally, beyond unstable and simply broken, she hypothesized that he’d only maintained some level of sanity by holding onto a hope that his comrade would come looking for him. Without that hope he was shattered.
The Spartan was a whirlwind of destruction, destroying everything he could lay hands on. Security teams had been called but she waved them off. He needed this. Once he had exhausted himself he would be malleable, she could show him who he needed to be, she could save him from himself. It would be worth it in the end, even though it hurt her to see the boy tear himself apart, she was assured by the knowledge that she could put him back together.
She would make him perfect, and he would thank her for it one day.
——
| 1630 Hours, December 17th, 2558, Asphodel Meadows, Personnel Quarters |
“You sit and mope when we could drink, I thought Jiralhane were above weeping over some plaything!”
There was a thud and a crash, followed by an alarmed squawk.
Daniel’s eyes shot open and he rolled off his cot, snagging the M6D tucked under his pillow and bringing it to bear. Orange hardlight sights sprung from emitters along the weapon’s barrel in the same instant he thumbed off the safety. In spite of having a hand cannon leveled with them though, Gacillius and To’vazz seemed undeterred.
In defense of the latter, the T’vaoan had just been punched across the cramped confines of Team 3’s quarters, and was likely more concerned with if he had any broken ribs than Daniel’s sidearm.
“How dare you mock me! You damage my possessions and you insult their significance! You are lucky I do not paint the walls with your innards!” The Brute thundered furiously, his one of his massive fists balled and shaking with rage. Daniel’s eyes darted to the other, where Gacillius was clutching some kind of doll. At the neck there was a tear, one that left the head hanging awkwardly away from the rest of the body.
“Hey!” Daniel called out, only to be ignored.
“I made joke to make light, make you less mopey!” To’vazz shot back, a pang of what Daniel assumed was regret in the Skirmisher’s beady eyes. The two aliens often poked fun at one another, but always in jest, he’d never once seen anything get violent. Whatever the deal with the doll was, it must’ve been serious.
“You cannot make light of this! This is all I have!” The ape’s roar was tinged with grief as to his feet, bloodlust beginning to take its hold. Daniel wasn’t going to be able to talk this down by just shouting. He let out a sigh and shot forward.
His fist collided with Gacillius’ jaw, hard. Daniel wasn’t a Spartan technically, his father had been though, sort of. ORION had been renamed SPARTAN-I, and all of their children had been subject to some slight enhancement thanks to ONI. That left Daniel something of a 1.1 he supposed, but what it meant for Gacillius was that the five foot four human packed a significantly meaner punch than he’d have expected.
The Brute’s head jerked sideways as he let out a grunt in surprise before instantly launching a fist at Daniel’s head. Practice, instinct, and enhanced reflexes all worked in tandem to help him weave under the blow, a slight breeze passing over his head as the massive strike went over him. He came up fast, and pressed the barrel of the blocky magnum beneath Gacillius’ jaw.
“Enough.” His voice was cold and authoritative, and the steely gaze of the man met that of the beast. Gacillius stopped trying to stand and sunk back onto his cot. He’d been mocked for his height most of his life, but there were very few men alive who could intimidate a Brute into standing down, and he didn’t need to be able to stand eye to eye to do it.
“He defiled something precious to me.” The Brute snarled, gently tucking the mangled doll against his chest.
“It was an acciden-” Daniel’s fist shot up and To’vazz stopped mid-sentence. He waved for the Skirmisher to leave, he’d deal with him later. From behind him he heard the sound of the door sliding open, and To’vazz scampering off into the corridors of Asphodel Meadows.
“What’s your deal? You’ve never lost your composure like that, not unless someone was shooting at you.” Daniel stepped away from the massive being, flicking on the safety and tossing the weapon onto his cot. Some, hell most, would’ve called him an idiot for disarming in a room alone with an emotionally volatile Jiralhane, but Mathis knew his men. Gacillius wouldn’t dare make another move.
“First we coddle the demon, then in his idiocy To’vazz defiles all that is left to me of my Pack. How else am I to react?” Daniel’s mind struggled to make a connection between the two points.
“What does the first thing have to do with the second?”
“The demon is an omen of destruction, demons who suffer greatly become like the Dakuwanga.” Gacillius’ voice dropped low, filled with sorrow and pain. It was unnerving to see the most boisterous, brutal warrior Daniel knew come to the verge of tears. If brutes could cry, he wasn’t sure on that front.
“The Dakuwanga left me only this of my sweet Annora, you should fear the birth of another.” The Brute uttered, looking down at the damaged doll.
“Annora?” Daniel questioned, Gacillius looked to him, searching for the word do describe the owner of the name. He wasn’t sure why Gacillius insisted on saying certain words in English rather than letting the translators that were installed in all of them do it, but it was just a quirk the Brute had.
“My daughter.” Suddenly the outburst made a bit more sense. He’d never quite pegged the lumbering mountain of rage and muscle as a father, or at least not as one who cared about his offspring. Daniel had pegged brutes as having a ‘fire and forget’ approach to mating, perhaps he’d been wrong. Daniel nodded.
“I do not fear the Dakuwanga Daniel Mathis, I would relish the chance to avenge my fallen. But I do fear what might become of us if our new masters believe they could control one of their own.” It always was strange to hear the brute use his full name, he couldn’t put a finger on why, but he was more concerned with that than he was Gacillius’ paranoia about boogeymen. The Created were dominating, even against Spartans, hell he’d seen the brute before him kill at least two, even if Boann’s little Spartan went off the deep end they could handle it and frankly it was a bit foolish for him to be so concerned.
But he didn’t say that, the Jiralhanae was obviously grieving, which was about as dangerous as when they were angry.
“Whatever happens, I’m sure they have a plan for the Spartan. Go get your thing fixed, I’m sure someone around here can sew. And watch the temper.” He ordered, returning to his cot. The Brute nodded, breathing heavily and exiting their shared quarters.
Daniel tucked the magnum away once again and crawled back under his blankets, more concerned with making sure Jane didn’t skin him in his sleep than the Spartan losing its mind on the other side of the station.
Chapter 8: Turned Tables[]
| 2200 Hours, January 4th, 2559, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins |
Franklin listened to 205’s story, and ran it back in his head a thousand times. It added up but also didn’t. Lancaster had encountered Prometheans long before Requiem, so ONI’s decision to terminate him rather than gather valuable intelligence and simply retire him didn’t make sense. However, given just how dangerous the unstable Spartan has proved to be, perhaps Osman had made the smart call when she ordered his death. But perhaps she was wrong, Lancaster didn’t seem all that much like a monster.
Either way it didn’t matter all that much he supposed. Lancaster knew how to fight these things, was on their side for now, and not only knew where the small isolationist settlements were hidden, but knew how to survive independently of them. The people still on Harlan had either been there since the glassing, or come there once they had nowhere else to go, a few settlements had rushed to greet the Created and had since been ferried off world to greener pastures. The rest hid, they didn’t want to leave their homes.
The Created didn’t go hunting for them, they weren’t all that bothered by a few isolationists, one would assume they were more concerned about the roaming Spartans. To Franklin’s surprise, the AI didn’t even take action when it became obvious the settlements were helping Anion and Lancaster from time to time. Whatever new galaxy they were building, they wanted it to be clear they had the moral high ground.
That was fine by Franklin, it just made fighting them easier. Their legions of Armigers and collaborators alike were dangerous already given the AI’s vast knowledge, if they wanted to fight with one hand tied behind their back then he was more than happy to let them.
“Hey Frankie check this,” D319’s eyes shot upwards, he’d been staring at the ground between his boots, lost in thought as he sat atop a chunk of rubble. As his gaze settled on Sergei, who was positioned atop a similar bit of debris in their makeshift camp, he raised an eyebrow in response.
Sergei threw something small towards him, the pale moonlight the peeked through the tarp over their encampment casting its glow over D167’s blonde hair and young features. He caught the object, a small can of cherry soda some local woman had handed them. Franklin recognized it instantly.
“It’s just like-”
“Just like the ones in Lieutenant Korn’s office.” Sergei grinned as he cut Franklin off, pulling another can from a backpack they’d procured, conjuring up memories of their raids on their instructors office, and his fridge.
Lancaster was off brooding or whatever it was he did, Felicity and Amit were out on patrol, and Shima was up in her nest watching the street. No one was going to interrupt the two friends sharing one of the few normal things they enjoyed in life.
“Probably won’t taste as good.” Franklin shrugged, carefully holding the can and moving opening it gently, fully aware one false move would leave the can crushed and its contents sprayed all over him.
“Why? Cause it’s not refrigerated how you like it farm boy? Back in Cabash we were lucky if it wasn’t all the way flat.” His comrade mocked as the both opened the cans, the metal cylinders, each hissing softly as the tabs popped open.
“No street rat,” Franklin shot back, taking a sip from the lip of the can, enjoying the sensation of actual flavor for the first time in what felt like forever. “Because it’ll never taste as good as it after we stole it out of Korn’s fridge.”
Sergei nodded along with a smirk, “A valid point trainee D319.” Sergei replied, doing his best to imitate Korn’s speech through his accent. They both laughed and took another drink, relishing the memory of a time when things were simpler.
“This is weird right? Working with our target instead of shooting him?” Franklin asked, voicing the question that had been rattling around his head for the past weeks. Sergei simply shrugged.
“It’s weird. But so is being stranded on a glassed planet being held hostage by an AI claiming to be a part of a new world order in control of a pre-human superweapon-bird-thing that burst out of the planet. Working with a batshit Spartan seems pretty low in terms of strangeness in comparison.” The boy replied through sips of the drink.
Franklin couldn’t say he disagreed, this wasn’t a scenario they’d been trained for, or one that had even been thought of if he had to guess. The idea of an AI uprising of course had been a hypothetical for ages, even when they were merely fiction themselves, and Delta had trained for combat against a rogue AI to the best they could.
But the Forerunner stuff had been absent from that lesson.
He imagined this was something like what the militia on Harvest had felt like when the Brutes had arrived, but somehow worse. Franklin drained the soda and let the flavor take his mind off of the complexity of their situation. “We’ve got two options you know.” Sergei remarked as he finished his own can.
“Oh?” Franklin questioned, perking up an eyebrow, he thought he knew what Sergei was getting at, but it always paid to be sure with D167. Admit it or not, Anion’s brawler was no stranger to poor ideas.
“Felicity won’t say it cause she isn’t sure if we can handle either. Worried about casualties.” Sergei began, crushing the can in his hand with ease, the devious grin fading from his face in favor of a somber stare. Those worries weren’t unfounded, they were outnumbered, outgunned, and quite possibly outsmarted, death was only a mistake away.
“We’ve either got to steal a ride out of here, hope there’s some UNSC forces left to find, and pray whatever the bots want here won’t wipe us all out.” So they were thinking of the same thing after all, if the stakes weren’t so high Franklin might’ve cracked a joke at Sergei’s expense.
“Or, w-”
“Or we find whatever it is they’re after, and we make sure they can’t have it.” D319 finished his comrade’s sentence, the blonde Spartan narrowing his eyes in annoyance. Franklin smirked, then felt the existential dread set in.
“And there’s no way we do either of those without casualties. The first is probably a bust anyway, considering what they’ve got upstairs.” Franklin sighed, eyes turning upwards. Aside from the Guardian which still hung overhead, they’d seen more than a few fighters, and at least three warships. All three of those things would likely swat them out of the sky before they made it into slipspace, assuming they could even find a ship.
“Which means there’s only one real option.” Sergei turned his head away and stared off into the distance.
Franklin let out a dark chuckle, “You think Commander B115 would say we were real Spartans then?” The Beta Company Spartan had always been tough on them, all the instructors had, but Kyle-B115 made it clear that they wouldn’t earn their title until they fought a real war. It was no TORPEDO, but Franklin supposed if they died here maybe their old commander would grace them with validation.
“Nyet, probably would just yell at us for getting killed and make us run around Camp Ambrose until we collapsed.” They both laughed, lifting the fog of dread before it could settle into their minds. Morale was important, B115 had lectured them on that too whilst running alongside them during one of his many ‘death marches’ he put them on. It was on that run the two of them figured out making one another laugh tended to keep them in better spirits.
Who’d have thought? He thought to himself snarkily.
Both of their gazes snapped towards the entrance to their little camp, their enhanced hearing picked up the sound of MJOLNIR boots hitting asphalt with ease. Two Spartans were approaching. They should’ve gone for their guns just in case, but the children were confident that Shima would’ve opened up if it had been anyone else.
No more than a minute later Felicity and Amit strolled in, pushing through the tarp that served as their makeshift door. Felicity pried off the helmet, running a hand through her nappy hair and scratching at her tan skin, every Spartan knew the relief of finally scratching the itch under your helmet, it was the only kind they could ever address in the field and as such it was cherished.
Amit pried off his own bucket and wiped drips of sweat from his brow. The EVA helmet visor had been punctured thanks to their target turned ally, but rather than lose a perfectly good helmet they’d simply patched it as best they could without impairing his vision. That boiled down to poorly secured Plexiglas affixed with the strongest adhesive they could find, and with his temperature control suite working less than optimally.
“Signal for Shima to come down, take up posts in the windows for now. We all need to talk.” Felicity ordered. Franklin and Sergei glanced first to their leader, then to Amit, who pursed his lips and shook his head. They both knew the look, this wasn’t going to be good, whatever it was.
Franklin stood up and walked to the wall, knocking on a pipe that run up to the next floor and all the way up to Shima’s perch thrice. Three times meant to come down. The pipe clanged once in response to signal her acknowledgment. Moments later, their sharpshooter descended into camp.
Scooping up the MA37 Lancaster had been kind enough to provide from the small stockpile of weapons and ammo he had, Franklin took up a position across the room. Crouching down and peering out from under a desk that they’d placed in front of one of the windows, leaving just enough of a gap for one of them to watch out of.
One by one they all took up similar positions while Felicity remained in the center of the camp. “So, what’s the news?” Sergei piped up.
“They’ve started digging at the emergence site, brought in some high end mining equipment and lots of security. A few mooks in MJOLNIR too, probably looted from some armory and slapped on a few cheaply augmented thugs.” She started, a tad of amusement in her voice with the last bit. They’d been trained with the intent of putting down rogue Spartans, but they were too naive to think any would have jumped ship now.
Their conditioning on Argus blinded them to any appeal the Created might have, to them it was all mindless propaganda and lies.
“Whatever they’re after it’s got to be important. Lancaster was the mission, but now this is. We don’t have the firepower or equipment to dig down there, so we’ll have to make sure they don’t either.” Franklin glanced over at Felicity, her face was scrunched up as the wheels in her head began to turn, planning out their attack.
“That’s a short term fix, we’re talking about kicking a hornet’s nest and our only plan after that is to hide and kick it again. We have to secure whatever it is they’re after and leave.” Amit interjected from his position.
“Get me a prowler, several excavators and a team of xenoarchaeologists Amit and I’ll get right on that.” She snapped dryly. “The alternative is we wait until they get down there, then put everything on us stealing whatever it is and escaping. We’d have one shot. One screw up and we’re all dead and they get away with whatever they’re after. The odds are too high.”
There was a thud from the center of camp, each Spartan snapping their weapons to it as Lancaster looked around at them all curiously. “Warm welcome.” He remarked, unslinging a bag from his shoulder, one no doubt filled with game of some kind. The SPARTAN-II’s ability to sneak up on them was alarming given all the training they’d put into locating other augmentees and ensuring they never got the drop on them, but somehow 205 did.
“As I was sayin-” She began to speak again.
“Hate to interject,” Lancaster cut in as he began setting up a small device for cooking the game he’d caught. “But you’re Spartans aren’t you? We’re trained exactly for the missions where everything is on the line, because we can handle it.”
Felicity’s expression twisted into a scowl, then faded. They all knew he was right, Spartans weren’t meant to play it safe, they did what needed to be done. All of Anion cast their gaze on Felicity, waiting to see if she’d step up to the plate with them.
“Fine. We wait it out, gather intel and tools where we can. Best case scenario we do this ourselves before they can, worst case we steal whatever they’re after right out of their hands.” They all nodded in agreement, even Lancaster seemed to nod before going back to preparing food.
That was that then, they’d wait it out.
“You all might want to see this.” Shima popped up, looking skyward from the window she’d set up in. Instantly the group converged on her, eyes turning up to the sky. Between the overturned skyscrapers Franklin could make out a couple aircraft, a Pelican and two Broadswords, not uncommon, but the fact that the Broadswords were firing on the dropship was decidedly uncommon.
Anion’s mind all went to the same place; reinforcements. But before they could even relay the thought to one another, a missile slammed into the dropship. The craft struggled to stay in the air, but ever so steadily it fell closer and closer to the ruined city below.
Whoever the pilot was, they must’ve been quite something, because they managed to evade the rest of the strikes from the fighters. They descended past the tallest of the buildings still standing as the Broadswords peeled off, and seemed to have enough control for a crash landing before it disappeared behind several dilapidated megastructures.
The crash echoed throughout the dead city, they’d smacked down close. Anion shot glances to one another, then to Lancaster, then one another again.
“Can you move camp to that other place across town?” Felicity asked the haggard Class II, putting a degree of trust in the elder Spartan she’d been here to kill. He nodded, they all knew the place.
“Gear up, lets go.” She ordered.
Franklin and the others nodded, rushing to slap on their helmets and snag their weapons of choice. As they did, over the commotion of camp coming down, and magazines being slammed home, he barely made out Lancaster’s words. “Good hunting, and good luck.”
Chapter 9: Homecoming[]
| 1920 Hours, January 4th, 2559, aboard The Raven, Entering Harlan Orbit via Slipspace |
“Which one you thinking about?” The question brought Joseph back to reality, snapping him out of his prolonged staring blankly at surface of the lone table in the Raven’s mess where he’d let memories play on repeat. He shifted his gaze to the source of the voice, the blonde woman preparing herself a cup of coffee. Aleksandra looked back at him, both her biological and prosthetic eye filled with what might’ve been empathy.
“Which one what?” Joseph questioned flatly, taking a sip from the mug of coffee he’d made for himself some time ago, it was cold now, but he downed it anyway. He’d lost track of time, he could’ve been sitting there for hours for all he knew.
“Which battle, there’s always one that sticks out, never lets you go.” It’d taken them all of a few seconds after meeting to recognize that both had been soldiers, her prosthetics made it easier to call but it wasn’t terribly hard to peg Joseph as a veteran. She was right though, there was always one fight you never forgot. For a lot of people it was the one that broke you, everything that came after blurred together, for Joseph it was Hvergelmir.
It wasn’t a major engagement, certainly not one that’d make it into the history books. Though the classified nature of the operation probably had more to do with that than the relative obscurity and comparatively small scale. Lima had been deployed to the colony to wipe out a rebel cell that’d set up a nicely sized rumbledrug operation It would’ve been messy, but nothing they couldn’t handle.
Then when the Covenant showed up, enemies became allies, and everything went to shit. Images of broken bodies in rainy streets, and comrades cradling the lifeless corpses of their fallen plagued him whenever sleep came. Never Reach, never Europa, never TREBUCHET, never the jungles where he discovered the remains of insurrectionist prisoners, always Hvergelmir.
“You wouldn’t know it, black ops stuff.” He replied, forcing down another swig of the bitter coffee. She chuckled and shook her head, the answer clearly not satisfying her. He’d be willing to bet whatever her ‘one battle’ was involved the creation of need for at least one of her prosthetics.
“Try me.” She dared, pouring the steaming contents of the coffee pot into a thermos. He shook his head with a smile, she was persistent, he’d give her that much. It was hard to believe she wasn’t a spook or something with all the prying she did.
“Fall of Hvergelmir, 2549.”
Aleksandra cocked an eyebrow and set down the pot and thermos, then raised up her hands in mock surrender. “You got me, never heard of it. Almost forgot the colony had ever existed.” She relented, going back to her coffee.
“Which one for you?” Aleksandra seemed to freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the notion he might ask her the same question. His money was on something smaller scale, she didn’t look it but she wasn’t a spring chicken either, and most of the older veterans he’d encountered lost sleep to memories of battles fought on colonies no one really remembered.
Reach was a nightmare, but it was the small colonies where they could’ve never been prepared in a hundred years for a Covenant invasion where the true horror of the alien’s genocide really showed. Troy II, Bliss, Kholo, those were the ones the operators in Lima usually clamped up about, and of course the sieges.
“Sirona, ‘44 to ‘48.” She remarked, eyes downturned as a darkness crept over her. Joseph knew it, hadn’t been there, but he’d heard of it. It was a siege, one of the more brutal ones. He nodded in understanding, finishing the cold coffee wordlessly. The trauma of war hung over the both of them, like a storm that refused to break, where all they could do is try to pretend they didn’t notice.
“Should be coming out of the slip in a few, home sweet home for you.” She changed the subject quickly. He let her get away with it, brushing a loose strand of blonde hair away from his face and rising to his feet. Joseph wouldn’t have been being truthful if he’d said he hadn’t enjoyed the company of the Raven’s crew, he’d even thought about asking to sign on, but in the end he’d done nothing. Joseph was done with the adventures and fighting against overwhelming odds, he just wanted a simple life free of genocidal aliens, murderous insurgents, and AI with god-complexes. He prayed Harlan had that.
“You sounds excited, eager to be rid of me?” He questioned with a smirk.
“Eager to not have to share my coffee.” She shot back with a quiet laugh.
“It’s your ship, you didn’t have to share Aleksandra.” Joseph quipped as he dug into his pocket and pulled a cigarette from one pocket and a lighter from another, pressing the former between his lips and lighting the tip with the latter.
“You know what I mean.” She grumbled. “C’mon, might as well be at the bridge to see your stop.”
Taking a drag from the cigarette he found no reason to protest, and followed after the cyborg captain of the vessel.
——
| 1940 Hours, January 4th, 2559, aboard The Raven, Harlan Orbit |
In the blink of an eye, the void of slipspace pulled away and The Raven re-entered normal space. Immediately Cadmon felt something twinge inside him, he’d never loved his home, but something about seeing it’s marred surface hurt. His memories there were full of pain and rejection, but there was good still. First kisses, late nights in the streets of Taigaun with his friends, all sorts of debauchery typical of teenagers bathed in the neon lights of the capital city.
It'd been so long ago, but not as long as it felt. Joseph ached as his eyes traced the long curves of the glyphs burned into the surface. He’d only looked over the debrief of the battle once, it’d been short. What little UNSC forces there were slaughtered, and the civilian population all but exterminated. His sisters were confirmed dead, they and their families logged as boarding one of the UNSC Destroyers in orbit which had promptly been reduced to scrap when a supercarrier decimated them in a flash. They’d been far from close, but it still stung a little.
Now the world hung before him in the inky black, desolate and dead. For the briefest moment he let out a sigh of relief. Nothing would find him out here, he could finally find some peace.
Then Lance called out.
“There’s something out there, something big, energy readings are…” His voice trailed off, and in that instant Joseph and Aleksandra both knew. They saw it, hanging above the glassed world, staring out at them. A Guardian, flanked by a pair of warships.
“Lance get us out, get us out now!” Aleksandra barked, but it was two late in an instant a wave of energy wracked the Raven as it continued on its course towards Harlan. Systems went dark, lights and consoles flickered off, and only the red glow of the emergency lighting lit the room.
Disappointment more than dread filled him, he’d been so close, but conflict had found him again and for what could only be the last time. The AI, who were here for whatever reason had them in a bind, there was no escaping this. Joseph wanted to sink into his seat, but there was no gravity.
“Travellers, welcome to Harlan. As you can see the world is now under the protection of the Created. Now, so are you. You will be boarded, and assuming you’re not a wanted criminal or planning to resist you will be welcomed into our new world with open arms. My peacekeepers will be with you shortly.” The AI whose voice cut in over the intercom was cold, commanding and firm. Joseph looked to Aleksandra, who had already leapt from her seat and was hammering away on a small console at the rear of the bridge.
He couldn’t tell what she was doing, or how it had power, but he did catch the unmistakable seal of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Normally he’d have questioned that, especially given what he’d been up to before the entire galaxy went to hell, but he didn’t. If she’d been after him she’d have killed him a long time ago.
“Just surrender, no reason either of you should throw your lives away like this.” He called out, twisting to face Aleksandra as they floated. Every part of Joseph felt heavy, tired, but he knew what was going to happen. The least he could do is die on his feet.
“Don’t have that option.” She called back to him, hammering away still.
“Because you’re a spook?”
“You’re a what?!” Lance turned around sharply to face a now red-faced Aleksandra. She was glaring daggers into Joseph, but he’d had sharper. The ORION shrugged indifferently.
“Because I’m not going to live my life in chains. You two feel free.” The woman snapped, the two men exchanged glances then looked back to her, faces grim yet defiant. None of them had or wanted a place in the machines’ new paradise, and not a one of them would die sitting down.
“It’s your ship, show me the guns.” Joseph demanded reluctantly.
| 1500 Hours, January 4th, 2559, aboard The Raven, Harlan Orbit |
It all quiet for a moment, they’d heard the echo of the breach cascade down the halls, but for a moment it was dead silent in the dark halls of the Raven. Joseph took a slow breath inside the hardsuit, eyes looking over the skeletal Colt Blaster in his arms, then letting his gaze dart back down the hall.
They didn’t have much in the way of options, their only option was to wipe out the boarders and pray their ship was slipspace capable. If it wasn’t, he wasn’t sure what they’d do.
Lance had made his thoughts on the plan well known, but for all his criticism he’d still suited up and grabbed a shotgun off of the rack. Joseph shared his sentiments, and it was his own plan. The odds weren’t good, especially if their boarders were augmented by any Promethean forces stronger than a standard Armiger.
Then, he heard the first sound, the muffled sound of armored forms on the move. His hands tightened around the rifle as he pressed himself against the hull. Seconds later a beam of light cut down the hall as he stood behind a corner, waiting.
“Clear so far, team A head to the bridge and find our hosts, team C get below and make sure they aren’t going for anything in the hangar, team B on me.” A woman barked, dividing up the boarders in their search for the trio that in reality was only a couple dozen feet away.
That was good. The Raven’s decompression safeguards were still active, the Created had been kind enough to leave them online. Maybe it was out of altruism, or maybe the AI truly had made a minor mistake, regardless they were going to capitalize on it.
He didn’t know why Aleksandra, spook or not, had a couple blocks of C-7 aboard the Raven but he was grateful she did. All they had to do now was time this right.
The sound of armored bodies forcing their way up and down the ladders to access the other levels of the ship was the only sound, and even it was muffled to nearly a whisper. Joseph’s eyes were trained on the ever growing beam of light drifting down the hall, coming closer by the second.
He readied himself, moving his finger to the trigger and waited with baited breath as the dark silhouette of a human in black armor rounded the corner. Joseph squeezed, the Colt barking once and punching in the suit’s polarized visor before the wearer could muffle a word.
Joseph rounded the corner as the first body hit the floor, squeezing off another round into the knee of the man bringing up the first boarder’s rear. As the man staggered forward in pain, the ORION cut his scream short, squeezing two more rounds off into him.
“Contacts!” Barked the woman from before, bringing her weapon to bear on Joseph. One round caught her in the stomach, another punched in below her shoulder, and third smacked against her chestplate as Aleksandra rounded the corner behind him with her own Colt drawn.
A burst from one boarder’s M20 sped past them, clanging against metal as Joseph squeezed off a pair of rounds into the shooter as he moved, then pressed against a bulkhead just in time to avoid the slew of rounds that strafed past him.
They hadn’t been expecting resistance, even more so they hadn’t been expecting the be forced on the defensive. “Fuck, contacts on deck two! They’re pushing the entry point!” He head one of them call out, just as Lance’s M45 let out a deafening roar, eight gauge pellets hurling a woman to the floor as the lead balls ripped through her.
The trio’s coordination was impressive given the silence between them, and their inexperience working together, they didn’t need to so much as say a word to know what to do next. As Lance bounded forward Aleksandra peered out of cover, letting off a storm of suppressing fire as Joseph left cover and advanced.
He was still ever so slightly more than human, his reactions faster, his shots quicker, his blows stronger, and it was that ever so slight edge that kept him alive. One hostile banked out from cover his dark armor making him little more than a shadow in the dimly lit hall, but Joseph saw him clear as day. The rifle snapped and fired, one shot went wide, the other found purchase in the man’s throat.
As the man wheeled backward clutching at his throat, another emerged from the opposite corner submachine gun at the ready. Joseph dropped into a lower stance and fired twice, the rounds ripping through shooter’s abdomen as their rounds peppered the empty air.
As the woman staggered back Joseph pivoted back to the first man and fired once into his head, ending his writhing in an instant. A trio of shots rang out from behind him as Aleksandra moved behind him, cutting down the woman he’d wounded before she could recover.
The Raven’s captain, stayed close as Joseph peered down the hall leading to the entry point, jerking back behind cover as an auto-turret hanging from the interior of the boarding craft let off a ferocious burst of gunfire. All he’d gotten was a quick look, but the blood tray of a Pelican was unmistakable, even retrofitted to serve as a boarding ship.
His stomach sank, they weren’t getting away.
“It’s a Pelican.” Joseph grumbled, thumbing the release on his rifle and pulling away the magazine, exchanging it for a fresh one and racking the slide on the weapon. “No slipspace drive.”
“Fuck.” Aleksandra cursed.
“Now what?” Lance questioned as he joined them, a sense of urgency in his voice as the rest of their guests were no doubt rushing back to them in order to repay their hospitality.
Joseph didn’t have an answer.
“Well, if neither of you have an idea, guess we’ll have to go with mine.” Lance trailed off, sighing anxiously and rubbing the back of his neck as both Joseph and Aleksandra’s eyes turned to him. “Gonna warn you though, you’re not gonna like it.”
Lance had been right, it had been a horrible idea, but it was also their only choice.
Strapped into a seat in the Pelican’s blood tray, Joseph’s knuckles went white as he gripped the restraint holding him into his seat. They were currently entering Harlan’s atmosphere.
They had a better chance hiding amongst the ruins than they did in space at that point, so there was no harm in at least making the attempt. In doing so, they’d somehow made it to the planet. Joseph assumed it was because firing off another pulse would’ve caught one of their ships in it, or they were just walking into a trap. It didn’t much matter either way, they’d made it this far.
The dropship shook as it tore through the upper atmosphere, Aleksandra and Lance working to evade incoming fire as they did. How they managed such a feat was beyond him, but here they were. The Pelican jolted as something made contact with the hull not five meters from where he was sitting.
It didn’t breach, and aside from a curse from the cockpit the two pilots seemed unbothered. Joseph was almost sure this was how he’d die. The dropship lurched as it banked hard, the buffetting of the atmosphere easing now as their descent continued. They must’ve made it through, a small semblance of relief washed over the ORION operative. Maybe they’d survive, just maybe.
Then something rocked the ship, an explosion thundering from somewhere near the rear. He couldn’t tell what it was, or anything else for that matter. As the dropship began to shift from flight to fall, his head jerked back with enough force to put him out cold regardless of helmet when he collided with the back to the seat.
He’d spoken to soon, this was where it ended. Blackness consumed his vision and he went under.
Until suddenly, his eyes shot open once again, sounds of gunfire echoing from all around.
Chapter 10: Gamechanger[]
| 1645 Hours, January 4th, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins |
Felicity-D148 kept the VK94 Raider low, the strange submachine gun leaving her ever longing for a Misriah alternative. It looked nearly identical to the M7 SMGs she was familiar with, but where the UNSC’s weapon had had its magazine feed into the weapon from flat on the side of the weapon, the Vakara alternative possessed a long stick magazine jutting out awkwardly. She didn’t like Harlan, she didn’t like being out of contact and scrounging to survive, and she certainly didn’t like bunking with the target they’d come here to kill.
But of course, The Created didn’t offer them much in the way of a choice. Allies were now enemies, and given that Lancaster-205 had not cut their necks as they slept, the inverse also seemed to be true. But it felt wrong. This wasn’t what they were trained for, or how they were supposed to operate.
She vaulted quietly over a collapsed pillar, landing as softly as one could when encased in MJOLNIR, her head on a swivel as they drew ever closer to the plume of smoke marking where some dropship had gone down after Created Broadswords took it out of the sky. She didn’t like it, whatever had gone down couldn’t be worth the risk they were taking, but some nagging voice in her head had coaxed her into it. She’d thought that was all trained out of her.
Checking her heads up display, the MJOLNIRs onboard software projected their arrival time before she had even asked, marking them as around five minutes away. Sergei, Amit, and Franklin brought up her rear, with Shima watching for movement overhead. The last update from the markswoman had put enemy strength at around two squads, mixed species between humans, grunts, and a pair of elites augmented by three armigers. Typical fare, clearly the Created didn’t put much stock in whoever was still alive in the dropship, which someone had to be else they wouldn’t have sent anyone at all.
Anion had been meant for special operations to be sure, they’d aced every course together, carved out a niche for themselves as both scalpel and sledgehammer, but as the months the drawn on she began to wonder if they were in too deep. It was a terribly Spartan thought of her, but they were stranded on a hostile world with no word of the outside world beyond that a hostile collective of AI had been subjugating the galaxy and forcing them into their ‘utopia’.
For hyper-intelligent beings created through some of the most advanced science mankind was capable of, it seemed dangerously naïve. Which meant either they weren’t as smart as Felicity had thought, or they genuinely had reason to believe they could succeed, which was only slightly terrifying. Still, she couldn’t say she didn’t see the appeal, but notions of utopia were beyond her, maybe Loic or some of the other more idealistic Deltas would’ve bought into it, but she hoped not.
Idle thoughts left her as she crossed into darkness, the shadow cast by one building fallen into another swallowing her dark armored form whole. They were close now, and on the other end of the long darkness, she could see smoke billowing up from what must’ve been the crash site. She made out a trio of grunts and a human through the haze, emerging from a derelict building to make their move on the dropship. They hadn’t seen Anion yet, and without enhanced visual equipment they never would. They were getting too close, even if they were a scouting party. She wouldn’t have them butchering the people she’d come all the way out here to save.
“Shima, four targets.” She called out over COM, a green status light winking in answer, confirming that the team’s sniper had shots on the hostiles. Felicity could see the dropship now, even with a wing shorn off and its hull battered and burned. It was old, predating even the oldest model of Pelican. In truth, she couldn’t even think of the name.
“Never too late to admit this was a waste of time.” Amit muttered over the closed channel shared by Anion. She thought to scold him for unnecessary chatter, but in the end, that’d never stopped him or any of them for that matter.
“Starting to think you’re losing your edge, that doesn’t sound like the Amit who dropped tear gas into the DI barracks.” Sergei quipped, happy as ever to remind them of their antics on Argus V. They’d been trainees then, and Felicity wanted nothing more than to pretend the stupidity of their actions could be forgotten. But that was a vain hope as the boys relished the memories as much as she and Shima detested them.
“I am a chemical weapons expert whose helmet is breached, thus nullifying my ability to utilize my skill set to the fullest. I have not lost my edge, it was taken.” Amit corrected, Felicity sighing hard as Amit fell into Sergei’s ploy as always.
“Thanks for reminding everyone I’m not the biggest dork on this team.” Franklin chimed in with a soft chuckle. Usually, he refrained from cracking wise, but every so often Sergei dragged him into some antic where he couldn’t help but make a remark.
“We were raised by the military itself and you just used the fucking word, ‘dork’?” Sergei questioned, amusement seeping into his voice as Felicity’s irritation grew. The boys knew to stay on mission, and she knew that internally that was exactly what they were, but she’d let it run long enough.
”Enough.” She hissed, dipping into a crouch behind cover and waving for her Spartans to fan out. They complied without a word, but she’d known them all far too long to know that Franklin was grumbling a response to Sergei whilst Sergei laughed at his antics. She questioned how they were able to operate as effectively as they did when three of their five members still acted more like teenagers than Spartans.
From her cover she watched and waited as the Created’s troops approached the old dropship cautiously, weapons at the ready as one of the humans shouted out words of warning, commanding them to not resist, in exchange for immediate medical attention. Shima winked a status light green twice, confirming to Felicity that she had the shot. With the DMR she no doubt had leveled, Felicity had no doubts that the would-be captors of the dropship crew could be killed in seconds, but she did not give the order as the hatch of the ship began to hiss and open.
“Sharpshooters on the buildings opposite of us, third building on the right and second on the left.” Franklin whispered over TEAMCOM, Felicity’s gaze remaining affixed to the slowly opening hatch as Shima winked a light in acknowledgment.
“Shima take the shooters. Frank, Amit, clear the ground team on me, Sergei, get them out of th-” She was cut off as the hatch came open, and instantly a fragmentation grenade came out into the air, with the door slamming behind it. It seemed whoever was inside had plenty of fight left. The cadre of enforcers near the ship didn’t have time to react as the cooked frag detonated mid-air, fire and shrapnel spraying outward and ripping into two of the grunts and one of the humans as the rest staggered backward. They’d no choice but to move now.
“Go, go, go!” Felicity brought up her submachine gun and let off a quick burst as Shima’s DMR cracked overhead, her rounds raking the chest of one of the stunned unggoy as enemy sharpshooters began to crumble and fall from their perches to the streets below. The bark of Amit’s MA37 assault rifle and Franklin’s older Colt Blaster followed after, cutting down the team that had approached before they could process what had happened.
And from her peripheral she watched a dark blur race past them, arms pumping as Sergei-D167 made a beeline for the downed aircraft. Now that they’d engaged their window to escape would begin to close rapidly, given that the Created would direct their full strength at the Spartans who’d continued to cause them such grief. They could make it easily, just so long as they didn’t get bogged down.
The other Created troops began to emerge from the other side of the street, Armigers rushing towards the crash site in bright flashes as they teleported ever closer. She didn’t need to worry, she knew they wouldn’t be a threat to Sergei, but even still she had her armor’s computer mark them as high priority targets for Shima. An acknowledgment wink never came, instead the thunder of the SRS-99 whose ammo the sharpshooter had been preserving as if it were valuable than gold cut through the young firefight.
As to Shima, it was.
The first round crashed through the shielding of an armiger as it flashed into existence, staggering and then evaporating into a blaze of hard-light as the second hit home. Its companion didn’t stop, vanishing into its next jump and reappearing to Sergei’s side, and beneath Shima’s sightline.
“Hit that target!” She snarled, swinging her submachinegun away from the biological targets to the machine leveling a light rifle with her comrade and squeezed, Caseless rounds danced over shielding before being joined by the hammering of 7.62 rounds from Amit’s rifle, the barrier flaring and collapsing as the automaton shifted to let out several blasts of hard light at her before vanishing into another shimmer. Her eyes flicked back across the street in time to catch a man attempting to move forward with a SPnKr step from cover only to have his head jerk back violently, blood and brain matter spraying as Shima caught him dead on. She’d resumed her suppression campaign without needing to be told like any Spartan would.
Felicity watched for the next flicker and found it emerging behind Sergei as he came to a skidding halt by the dropship. Time moved in slow motion as she tried to bring her weapon around, every instant agonizingly too slow as the machine began to materialize behind her comrade. She wouldn’t be able to hit it in time, she could only hope the weapon wouldn’t punch clean through Sergei’s ever-weakening shielding, already flaring brightly as small arms fire danced off the surface.
“Sergei behind you!” She cried out in warning, seconds too slow. The armiger materialized and planted a blast square into Sergei’s back. His Shields flared then cracked as he began to spin around as her sights came over the machine, rounds instantly strafing up the forerunner soldier’s shifting armor. The caliber was too light to stop it, but the VK78 Commando that Sergei swept upwards mid-stagger could do just that.
One-handed he blasted it against the armiger, twisting himself to present a smaller target as a second blast skimmed his side rather than punching through his torso. As the rifle punched more and more rounds against the machine it too was reduced to a shower of light. Relief found Felicity in an instant, and left her just as quickly as a plasma bolt scraped over Sergei’s shoulder. He didn’t delay in flinging himself down and back against the dropship, slamming against the bartered hole.
“God, fuck!” Sergei hissed over their channel, Felicity’s mind racing as she swept her weapon up and squeezed off a long burst at a Sangheili stepping from cover with a plasma carbine. Her weapon went empty in the same instant the alien sent a series of green lances of plasma into her. Felicity dropped back behind cover as her shields shimmered, pulling the stick magazine from the weapon and pulling another from the webbing on her side. It was her only reload, from there she’d bring up the CQS48 ‘Bulldog’ swinging at her side from a sling and move to join Sergei. They had more weapons than they did ammunition, each Spartan in Team Anion hauling about a small armory of sidearms and additional weapons with but a single magazine of ammunition at best. It wasn’t ideal, but it was all they had.
“Shima, the fucking hinge head please!” Sergei called out again, their sniper’s heavy rifle thundering again in response, twice. She wouldn’t be happy about that. Still, Felicity didn’t need to question if it was down as she turned her head towards Amit’s position, finding him mid-reload of his MA37.
“You want me moving to him?” Amit asked, finishing the reload of the rifle and checking its ammo counter. It was hard to tell, given the dome visor of his helmet, but she was confident he hadn’t even needed to look at her to know what she was going to ask.
“That, and your rifle. Trade me.” She pulled the dangling Bulldog up and tossed it across to the other Spartan who plucked it from the air as though it were a lightly tossed ball, then returned the favor by sending the freshly loaded assault rifle to her. 32 rounds were chambered, and when he flung a singular extra magazine her way, she knew by the time the fight ended she’d be down to sidearms.
“Make sure he doesn’t have any holes in him while I’m at it right?” He called back, and she couldn’t help but snicker. Amit always had to ask questions.
“That’s right, now go play doctor and get those people out of that dropship.” Felicity cracked wise as she always insisted on doing, and Amit did all he could to suppress of groan. Bringing the shotgun to bear he craned his head out of cover, looking to the downed aircraft that Sergei was pressed against, banging on its side.
Amit squinted, looking for some sign of action inside the craft. The dropship, and old Crow, was on its side, leaving the most convenient of the hatches largely useless. At least without Spartan intervention. He took in a breath, and gave Felicity a nod. They moved in sync with one another with practiced fluidity, Amit rolling from cover, and Felicity rising from it with rifle blazing.
Rubble and debris were crushed underfoot, a hot breeze seeping through the hastily sealed breach in his helmet. His legs thundered beneath him, each stride propelling him forward at a breakneck pace. He closed the gaps in seconds, and dropped into a slide. Amit sailed into the harsh gouge in the earth the dropship had, stray plasma bolts and bullets both sailing overhead and finding nothing but air as he came into cover.
“We’re here to rescue you, how many times do I have to explain?” Sergei exclaimed over his armor’s speaker, his question punctuated by the thunder of Amit’s Bulldog as he sprung from cover to place a grouping of buckshot into a grunt attempting to fire off a supercharged blast from its sidearm. The pellets ripped harshly through its carapace, and the creature collapsed in an instant as Amit sunk back.
“I dunno who the fuck you are, and I sure as shit don’t have any reason to trust you.” A voice called back from inside the dropship, the sound muffled by the plating but still escaping from the breaches in the hull. Amit couldn’t fault them for their skepticism, but he also didn’t have the time for it. He looked over Sergei, watching his friend’s shields return to life in a golden flash, there weren’t any obvious wounds beyond the dark gouges in his techsuit from the two varieties of alien weapon.
The plasma bolt seemed to have merely cut into the suit, but not through, but the hardlight seemed to have inflicted some burns. He wouldn’t be able to tell completely unless he got a good look at it, or Sergei told him what his armor was saying, which he wouldn’t during combat. That was fine, as animated as he was, Amit knew Sergei could wait.
“You don’t know who were are, yes, but we aren’t shooting at you. I do hope that will be enough to dissuade you from opening fire in just a moment.” Amit and Sergei looked to one another and exchanged a quick thumbs up.
“In a moment? What’s happening in a moment?” A woman’s voice called out now, just as tinged by distrust and wrath as the first. Amit didn’t feel confident in their odds of not getting shot at, but their armor could take it to be sure, even Forerunner weapons could not nullify MJOLNIR in the time it’d take them to react outside of a select few weapons. And Amit was confident none inside were wielding any such armament.
Wordlessly the two Spartans turned and pressed their backs against the dropship and pushed. Their boots scraped against the ground, and the plating groaned as the Crow began to move. It lifted up, shifting in the gouge it had carved to better expose the bay door nearest them. Even as it moved Amit felt the impact of projectiles against the hull, and heard another voice cry out.
“You’re making us a target you fucking morons!” The first voice called, neither Amit nor Sergei grunting anything in response as they continued until their was enough room for the door to be opened.
“Pretty sure throwing that grenade made them the target.” Shima’s transmission was punctuated by the crack of her rifle, her quota for a singular remark made during a firefight met for the moment.
Sergei motioned towards the hatch and adjusted his stance, stabilizing the dropship as best he could while Amit stepped to the door. He slipped his fingers in the grooves he could find, then prayed most of the mechanisms keeping the hatch shut had failed on impact. Metal groaned beneath his grip, bent, warped, then gave. The door let out a whine then slid open, dragging through rubble and muck as it did.
Instantly Amit’s eyes locked onto the sidearm leveled with his faceplate, and in the same breath, he promptly snatched the wrist of the man holding the revolver and yanked it skyward as it fired. He didn’t say anything, he simply pulled and tossed the man into the open with the slightest hint of aggression. They didn’t understand, they weren’t like him or the others. His cracked visor looked over the other two occupants, both hesitant to bring up their weapons as the Spartan looked over them.
Two plasma bolts cut through the hull, going wide and missing the woman with the prosthetic, and her injured comrade. Still, something in her icy gaze screamed defiance.
“If you’re all about done, I’d like to go before their Cyclopses arrive. We didn’t pack anything heavy enough for that.” Amit stated over his helmet’s external speaker, the woman nodding and taking the wounded man’s arm over her shoulder.
Behind him the first had already rolled around and made to bring up his sidearm, readying the PK M2019 only for a single round to crash into the rubble next to his head. His finger did not move to the trigger, as the man’s own polarized faceplate met the crimson visor of Sergei’s own helmet.
“She doesn’t usually do warning shots.” The Spartan tutted.
“That may well be her first.” Amit nodded as the two humans left the dropship, and he and Sergei finally let the craft sink back into the cradle it had carved for itself. His heads up display was non-existent given the damage their intended target had done to it upon their arrival, and thus he had to lift up his wrist and look to his TACPAD to see Shima wink her status light yellow twice.
Armor was on approach, they had to move.
Scooping up the Bulldog he’d set aside, Amit cleared the chamber and ducked his head low, looking to Sergei, then to the battered trio in vacuum suits, the first man and the woman shedding as much of the excess as the could from the third. Their companion lacked a helmet compared to his fellows, and blood trickled from his forehead, and an arm was twisted at a strange angle.
The smart bet marked him as the pilot of the group, no doubt having been so grievously injured making the impromptu landing. They weren’t going to be getting anywhere fast if his movement was left to them.
“Give him to me.” Amit commanded.
“I can carry him kid, it’ll be fin-”
“Wasn’t asking.” Amit cut her off, the woman cocking her head at him, no doubt scowling at him beneath the faceplate of her hardsuit. But Amit didn’t have time to argue as he stepped forward and simply took the pilot from her, putting him over on of his shoulders as more rounds came overhead. She’d called him kid, and his mind couldn’t help but overanalyze, questioning what she could possibly know about Spartans.
The pilot groaned in pain, and the woman lifted a prosthetic after him, in some attempt at comfort. He didn’t know, nor did he care.
“Easy with Lance, he’s almost certainly bleeding internally.” She stated matter-of-factly, whilst Amit shook his head as the woman explained what as obvious to anyone who knew anything. He’d gotten used to being among nothing but his own, maybe the rest of mankind was really just like that.
“Thanks for the diagnosis Sasha.” The man groaned through gritted teeth, whilst the other removed the helmet of his hardsuit and tossed it aside. There was no tactical value in keeping it at this point, and Amit made note of how the man quickly scooped up the Colt Blaster the one Lance had been holding weakly in his hands before Amit took him up. He held it like a professional, and Amit again began to wonder.
He turned to Sergei and gave a nod, who in turn flashed his status light thrice, signaling the rest of Anion to give them cover. The answer came in the form of a bullet storm, and both Sergei and Amit charged towards it, leaving the two others to try and keep up. With any luck, the engagement would settle and nothing of note would change bar a few weeks of increased patrols.
But Anion’s luck had begun to run out.
Chapter 11: Flipside[]
| 1900 Hours, January 4th, 2559, Asphodel Meadows |
Within the crowded matrices of Asphodel Meadows, Boann stirred quietly. Confined to the station alongside Arthur, she longed to be out in a Guardian of her own, bringing Cortana’s peace to the galaxy at large, but she was needed here. Her strike team had returned only recently, Jamsion, now her Adrestan, her mighty avenger, had taken well to the combat skin. Such technology had not been fielded in eons, her adaptation of it to the Spartan being the closest any had achieved in thousands of years. He was unstoppable.
Casualty reports from the action were staggering in their favor, Jamison had slain two Spartans, and likely a third, his old mentor, and utterly decimated the remainder of the human forces. The rest of the team hadn’t needed to lift a finger, and her crown jewel had found his closure or some part of it. She felt pride in his work that she knew to be wrong, but one that endured nonetheless. They never would have submitted to the Mantle, and Jamison’s partner, in particular, was a butcher. She’d embellished some to convince her avenger of his unworthiness, how he was beyond redemption, but she hadn’t needed to do much.
Adrestan had been in pain, he’d needed guidance, he had needed her. And she had been happy to be all that he needed, then and always.
But she found there was little time to relish in it. Her subroutines had already begun processing the report from Harlan before she diverted her full attention to it and away from her strike team. There had been reports on the world for months, scattered scuffles with some Spartan team, but the records of the deployment were lost to her bar the basics. ONI had managed to hide some things from them even still, for now anyway, but she had an idea of who they were.
But the little band of Spartans had finally done something to grab her attention. They’d rescued the crew of a ship that had fled arrest, and killed the team sent to detain them. All around it wasn’t a terribly noteworthy vessel, its crew little more than straggling undesirables, but the incident was notable if only for its absurdity. That, and the fact that one Lancaster-205, marked dead by UNSC records, and the man responsible for putting her Adrestan into the situation which led to his mauling, had been captured on a drone feed traversing the ruins of the planet’s capital.
Seemingly emerging from the same point as the other Spartans. That especially grabbed her interest. The Spartans banding together with the rogue, one they’d no doubt been sent there to kill, was a sign of a willingness to cooperate with old foes, something instrumental to the Created’s new way of life for the galaxy. She wanted them. She had her avenger and her strike team, but she would not lie to herself and say she did not envy Arthur and his Team Gravity. The Delta’s were young, malleable, perfect.
And she had a hunch the Spartans making a nuisance of themselves on Harlan were Deltas too. They could be hers, all she had to do was take them, and of course, be sure that they did not do anything to stop their operation on Harlan. The weapons cache beneath the planet’s crust more than justified the constant presence of a Guardian in its orbit, and as much as she wanted her own Deltas, she knew the contents of the facility supposedly hidden in the magma of the inner planet was more important.
She would not forget her duty, she only wished that the mongrel the Deltas had allied themselves with was not essential to it.
Part of her thought to call on Adrestan, but his confrontation had left him winded and had been heavy on his heart. His once-mentor aside, Jamison had slain a member of his own Gamma Company, which he needed time to process. It was for the greater good, and Boann knew she could make him understand, but others would need less convincing, and she could brief them now.
She hailed Mathis, giving only a cursory glance to the notification that flared him as having a personal connection to the potential assignment. It’d be nothing, her subroutines processed and dismissed it in an instant. Mathis was a good dog.
The bed was firm, his covers warm, the pillow cool, and his body exhausted. After Daniel had showered away the gunk and grime of their latest operation, he’d been all too eager to crawl into his rack and sleep for the foreseeable future. He’d tucked himself in tight, and let his eyes fall closed, the darkness of sleep creeping in.
Then his comm unit pinged, its shrill chirp echoing through the room. He rolled onto his side and groaned, forcing open heavy eyelids as he took the earpiece from where it lay atop a pile of neatly folded clothes and pressed it to the side of his head.
“Someone better be dying.” Daniel groaned.
“Fifty and counting over the past few monthss, a platoon of armigers, at least a squad of knights as well.” Boann delivered the words with a nonchalance that was in stark contrast to the kind of death toll she was presenting. Usually that kind of resistance would’ve been stamped out already, and even if it hadn’t been, that wasn’t the kind of work she used him and the team for.
“So drop a Guaridan in orbit and let me get some sleep Boann.” He growled, pressing his eyes closed again, and stopping himself short of snatching the earpiece and throwing it across the room. But she’d just continue over a loudspeaker.
“There’s been a Guardian in orbit of the planet the whole time. We believe its a team of Spartans.” The AI continued, leaving something in Mathis’ stomach to twist. They’d only just survived their last tangle with the UNSC’s most capable killing machines, and he wasn’t eager to step back into the ring with them. Jamsion, Adrestan, whatever he was called, he could tangle with them no issue. But for the rest of the group, bar Gacillius maybe, surviving the Spartans would be a trial. To’Vazz had gotten his head blown off on the last op, along with a good company sized force of other enforcers.
“Okay, and why does this concern me? Or you? We have whole Spartan teams, ex-Silent Shadow, former Bloodstars, what’s the big deal I’m missing here?” The mercenary pressed the AI, eyes opening against his better judgement as a frustrated scowl crawled across his face. She was going to drag them into this somehow, on some inane mission in the name of the greater good. Daniel bought into the Created, truly he did, but sometimes their efforts felt like more of the same.
“Put simply, I think we can convert them. All of them. We have a pair of Spartan teams on world, but I don’t trust them not to botch the effort. You, I do trust.” Daniel’s eyes rolled so hard they felt like they might fall loose. The AI was trying to recruit, and she was going to put them onto the line to do it. He didn’t mean to be cynical, Boann’s code heart was in the right place, and she was devoted to bringing peace from all he could tell, but it sure seemed like she was looking to replace Mathis and his team with newer, more obedient, stronger toys.
“Fifty dead and you think we can flip them?” He countered angrily, Gacillius letting out a frustrated groan from his massive bunk as he attempted to sleep. The brute had taken To’Vazz’s death hard, and he needed his rest. Daniel wasn’t eager to find himself crushed, but the boss came first.
“They’ve only struck when attacked, up until recently it seemed they were content to be left alone, or were too lost to make any moves without instruction. They’re most likely young, Delta Company if I were to guess.” The artificial intelligence mused, though the enforcer could only groan.
“Deltas have been hit and miss haven’t they? Sure Arthur’s got Gravity, but haven’t others been a pain? Even still, what in the world makes you think they’ll be willing converts?” He pressed.
“They’ve allied themselves with the rogue Spartan they were dispatched there to terminate. That shows a willingness to put aside differences for a common goal, and they recently broke their record of uninvolvement to rescue a few fugitives from seizure. It was misguided, but they cannot help themselves from trying to save lives.” The AI sounded naively optimistic about the Spartans, but he knew better than to say that straight.
“Or they just hate us enough to put aside grudges, and maybe they thought those fugitives were a ticket out of there.” Daniel shot back, eager for the conversation to end.
“They have no reason to hate us, even on Harlan, where they lay stranded, we have made great efforts. It is only their indoctrination that compels them, I can save them, Daniel, but I need your help.” She could fix them? His brow furrowed, hardly registering the mention of the the half-glassed colony world.
“What do you mean you?”
“The Created, Daniel. We are all one in the Mantle, you musn’t fret over things so trivial.” And yet her response, dismissive and condescending, only made him fret more. Still, Daniel bit his tongue, and moved on.
“When are we going?” He asked with a sigh.
“Twenty four hours, rest well.” She cut the line before he could say anything in response. The mercenary thought to hail her again, to speak his mind truly. But as he let his head lay back against the pillow, the cool fabric against his head, he decided against it. He pulled the earpiece away from his head, and finally allowed himself to sleep.
| 2200 Hours, January 4th, 2559, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins |
“So, let me get this straight one more time, since we aren’t keeping secrets.” The wounded pilot sat up from the cot they had fashioned him, one arm in a sling, the other holding a bottle as he looked around at the assembled group around him.
Three of the kids sat on bits of stone looking back at him, one with his helmet off, laid on the ground so that the two on sentry duty could both hear and participate in the ongoing conversation. That one was Amit, as Lancaster had come to know, he’d almost killed Amit when they first met. Opposite them was the man that the other pilot called Joesph, and beside him was that other pilot, Sasha.
“You three, are SPARTAN-IIIs, top secret little tyke-bombs or whatever.” The man pointed to the kids, Anion, and squinted. Amit gave a nod to him, but the two others, Franklin and Shima, simply stared at him from behind a visor. The man was delirious, his mind clouded by painkillers that’d seemingly left him conscious enough to understand the exchange of identities between the group that had transpired earlier.
“And you,” He swiveled towards Joseph, pointing at him with a chuckle. “You’re a oonskie super soldier type thing from back in the day, Project ORION or whatever you said. You’re like me junior, spent a long time in cryo.” The man was slurring his words slightly, but he kept them concise enough to be understood.
“He’s a SPARTAN-I.” Shima tutted. Lancaster had learned she didn’t talk much, if at all, so something about this Lance Floyd must’ve grated her enough to prompt such a reaction. Or maybe she just didn’t like it when people talked so much. That wasn’t a problem with him.
“Wasn’t what we called it back then, but ‘preciate the sentiment.” The one called Joseph answered, lit cigarette pressed between his lips as he gave the helmeted Spartan a nod.
“Whatever,” Lance murmured, before shifting his gaze to Lancaster. It was like watching a monkey try to comprehend calculus, the way he looked over the battered, patchwork battlesuit that covered his person. Bits from the PERSIAN armor, components stripped from Created enforcers or looted from long-dead defenders of the world. He looked like something, but it wasn’t a Spartan.
“And you’re uh, some sorta innie knock off?” The man questioned, a bit too accusingly.
“No.” Lancaster didn’t turn to look at him directly, his eye affixed to the flicker of their campfire behind his visor. Some time ago it might’ve offended him, but he’d been here too long to be bothered. Lancaster’s existence was one stranding to the next, mislabeling was hardly the worst a person could do to him.
“What, so you’re a Spartan too?” Lance pressed.
“He’s a SPARTAN-II.” Shima piped up again, the venom in her voice saying the words she refrained from voicing aloud, that he was a traitor. She knew the details, all of Anion did, he’d seen no point in hiding them, but they all doubted him to varying degrees. From what he gathered, Shima didn’t believe him in the slightest. That was okay, she wasn’t trying to shoot him, that was all that mattered.
“That’s what I said!” The pilot protested, taking a swig from his flask before shaking it at the young Spartan.
“You think he’s had enough?” Sergei’s voice cut in from inside Amit’s helmet. Lancaster almost chuckled, but the titan remained silent as the flames flickered. Somewhere in the buildings around them, both Anion’s close quarters specialist and team leader were on firewatch, but that wouldn’t spare the newcomers from Sergei’s barbs as Lancaster had learned.
“Lance, enough. You’re making a fool of yourself.” The woman was Sasha, that much was easy to remember, she was the only woman there. Shima and Felicity both might’ve been over six feet tall, imposing, and dangerous, but he knew well enough that they were still girls. No older than thirteen.
“Look skipper, you know I love ‘ya but come on, you know I need ‘ta-” Lance’s speech slurred to a stop as Sasha wrenched the flask away, and gave him the slightest shove back down onto his cot. The drugged pilot winced and folded, going down without protest as his senior began to berate him.
Lancaster’s eye flicked from the fire, to the ORION, and found the oldest of the supersoldiers with his gaze settled on him, exhaling smoke into the night air. Lancaster had tried smoking once, and he instant had known it’d never been for him, but to Joesph Kovacs it must’ve been some comfort.
“You ever take that thing off?” He asked between drags. Lancaster assumed he meant the helmet, to which the Spartan simply shook his head.
“Won’t do it in front of us, goes and eats separately too.” Franklin noted dryly, though amusement seemed to color the words ever so slightly.
“You all came here to kill him, in his defense. I didn’t.” Joseph reminded the young Spartan, pointing a finger in Franklin’s direction to accentuate the point being made. Lancaster knew where the conversation was heading even before Amit leaned forward, an inquisitive brow raised.
“Why exactly did you come here, Staff Sergeant Kovacs?” The boy-commando questioned, his voice dropping slightly lower as if he meant to try and intimidate the seasoned veteran into compliance. A wry smile crossed the veteran’s face as he kept the burning cigarette trapped between his lips.
“I’m retired, Spartan, I wanted to come home. Grew up ten blocks that way.” The man jutted a finger to the east and leaned back against the hunk of concrete he’d been resting against, clearly quite used to roughing. Amit tilted his head in a way that seemed to indicate he wasn’t quite satisfied with the explanation, but as Joseph returned his gaze to Lancaster, the young Spartan seemed to understand it was all he’d be getting.
“Fair enough though Spartan, I guess if the bucket’s comfortable.” There was something about the supersoldier of generations prior that Lancaster found oddly comfortable. Perhaps I’s and II’s simply paired well, but he imagined that didn’t ring true in his case. Retiring and violent defection were two very different ways to terminate one’s service with the UNSC after all.
“Lancaster is fine.” He assured the smoker curtly.
“Kind of a mouthful, anything shorter?” Lancaster gave a shake of his head no in response, it was a lie, but the people who’d called him anything else were dead and gone, several by his own doing. They hadn’t left him a choice, he often reminded himself, but that didn’t wash away the blood did it? It didn’t bother him the way it had anymore, he’d had nothing but time to think about it, but as he turned back to the flickering flames his mind lingered behind.
“Not much of a home left, why come back?” In asking a question, he strung together more words in a single sentence then he had most days he’d been in Anion’s presence. He looked back to Joseph who gave a shrug as he pulled the cigarette from his lips, having burnt it down beyond use and flicking it across the shattered floor.
“Something called me back, I guess.” Lancaster knew that feeling all too well, but Harlan had called him here for an entirely different reason, he suspected.
“Yeah you and them both. That’s a big dig they’ve got going on out there.” Joseph sighed. Lancaster’s stomach twisted and dropped, a quiet dread sweeping over him. Maybe some part of him had known that was why they were here, why else would they have lingered so long? Had he truly been stranded so long as to think these Created could truly be everywhere.
“They’re digging?” He asked, shifting himself to face the retiree as the elder man settled himself more comfortably.
“Digging might be an understatement, haven’t seen an excavation like that since Earth, but I suppose plasma beams are a bit less subtle then whatever they’re using.” Sasha remarked, taking a seat on the ground between Joseph and the prone Lance. Lancaster almost rose to his feet there and then, but he had to remind himself how little he’d accomplish as he was now.
“We should get a look, see what they’re doing.” Lancaster suggested.
“What?” It was Franklin who looked up from the sidearm he was cleaning to question him now. “For months you’ve been telling us how we need to keep low, now you wanna go looking?”
That was exactly right, but he’d wanted to keep them away from the same thing he now was certain the Created were after.
“We didn’t know every world wasn’t like this. The bird in orbit,” Lancaster punctuated the point with a finger pointed a finger skyward. “And some kind of dig down here? This isn’t an occupation, they’re after something, something worth the investment in manpower, and given what they have the power to do already that should raise some concern.”
Lancaster’s eye flicked back and forth from the Spartans to humans and back again as each party considered what he had said. Neither party seemed wholly convinced, but he’d go it alone if he had to, he’d been doing that for some time. The mangled rebel stared at them in the flickering firelight, before the COM in Amit’s damaged helmet crackled to life .
“We’ve got enough heat on us as is, we can’t jus-“ Even as Felicity’s voice began to come through, another line opened and spoke over her.
“He’s right and you know it. Stop and think Felicity, whatever is here has to be big, if they ge-“ Sergei’s line cut off as Anion’s leader seemingly fought to speak over her subordinate.
“I’m in command here Sergei, in case you’ve forgotten. Watch your sector.” She snarled, seemingly trying to browbeat Sergei into submission. Lancaster had only known his would-be assassins for a few months, and he already knew how that was going to go.
“I wouldn’t be talking if my sector wasn’t clear.” The boy shot back, Franklin audibly groaning from where he sat as the exchange intensified whilst Joseph Kovacs and Sasha both shot each other glances, the slightest of smirks drawing across their faces.
“Check it again.” The Spartan leader countered.
“Quit dodging the point.”
“Quit being insubordinate.”
“Quit being stu-”
“Enough, enough!” Joseph interjected loudly, rolling his eyes as flustered exhaustion seeped from every syllable. Clearly, the old man was far from keen on listening to the teenagers bicker, but his face told a different tale. Maybe he knew this was the closest they’d ever get to normalcy, just two kids at each other’s throats, being petty. Even then, it was still over a tactical dispute.
“I’ll go with Lancaster here to check it out if no one else will, for Christ’s sake.” The man lamented Amit’s eyebrow arching at the mention of the religious figure. It probably seemed strange to him to even say, faith wasn’t exactly fostered within the Spartan programs. Lancaster didn’t much have a stance on the matter, either way, if there was a god, he did not care for him, and that was all the thought Lancaster gave it.
“We just got in the heaviest firefight we’ve had in months to rescue you, now you think you can just go wander into enemy territory with the rebel to look at a hole?” Amit questioned sharply, to which Joseph grinned in answer to the unspoken challenge. The question hadn’t been if Joseph thought he could make the trek or not, but if he really thought Anion would let him.
“Clearly he’s got some concern it’s more than just a hole. And I’m telling you now, just having a Guardian stationary in orbit? That isn’t normal. Whatever they’re after is big, big enough that yeah, I think I can take a chance on that kinda hike.” Joseph answered bluntly, Amit’s brow furrowing in frustration as he leaned forwards and met the ORION’s aloof gaze with one of unrelenting intensity.
“I’ll go too.” Sergei added.
“Negative, we are staying together, that is final Sergei.” Felicity barked over the COM.
“Then quit your whining and come with.” As the bickering began again, Lancaster let out an exasperated sigh and recognized he could not leave them to the decision on their own. They’d stay up all night bickering and those of them that would eventually join him would find themselves short of the vital rest they needed.
“I’ve seen the kinds of horrors these things might be after. I’ve seen what even that can do to the best equipped of task forces. Anything they think is big is going to be capable of doing damage untold. If you want to stay here and avoid another fight, fine. Stay here, wait for the UNSC to come pick you up, shoot me in the back if you wanna be sure they don’t make you finish your job before you leave. But if they find something big enough down there, the odds there’ll be any UNSC left to come looking for you are gonna be lower than they already are. But I’m not going to hide in this hole while they dig up some new ace in the hole.” Lancaster spoke loud and concise, refusing to mince his words for the sake of Spartan pride. None of them spoke, though out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Shima almost go for her sidearm.
If any of Anion were to kill him without flinching, it would’ve been D011 without a doubt.
“He’s right, Felicity. We need to know what’s going on, and to stop it if need be. We can’t just hide out forever, especially not after today.” Franklin broke the quiet as he often did, attempting to be diplomatic as was his nature.
“They’re going to come for us either way, we might as well know what they’re up to. We don’t know what their real strength looks like, and if they are after something, then we should stop them.” Franklin wasn’t one to often advocate for aggressive actions, Lancaster had watched him and Sergei duke it out over Franklin’s abundance of caution and Sergei’s lack of it a dozen times at least, so the support was a surprise to him. It likely caught Felicity off guard too, as he line stayed quiet for what felt like a long time.
“You are supporting this?” If he’d known any better he’d have thought Felicity was taking the change in stance personally, but from all he’d seen she was beyond that. Still, there was a hint of defeat, and a dash of wounded pride.
“I don’t care if it’s winnable or not, we can’t just hide out here forever while these machines claim the galaxy.” Amit added, looking to Franklin and giving a calm nod. It was bolder words than he was used to hearing from the boy whose head he’d nearly shoved a length of rebar through when they’d first met, but Lancaster sensed Amit found strength in numbers. That left Shima to speak, as she so rarely did.
“I go where you do.” Shima stated plainly, addressing Felicity, but with the inclination of her helmet, Lancaster felt he’d be forgiven for assuming she was truly speaking to Amit. The two were always near to one another if they could be, silent usually, but there was something more to their closeness. Lancaster couldn’t tell for certain, just as they’d never been in an environment where such fraternization would’ve been permitted or observed, neither had he. The second class of the SPARTAN-IIs and the fourth of the IIIs were far more similar then they were different, when one boiled them down to their essence. They were all stunted in their social development in the same way.
There was again a silence as Felicity sighed hard, and Lancaster did not struggle to imagine the Delta shaking her head in frustration. But the rest of her team had spoken, and even if they weren’t so far separated from the chain of command he doubted she’d have ever gone against them now.
“Fine, we’ll move in 48 hours, we’ll take tomorrow to organize and plan our route. What about the civvies?” Felicity’s designation of the three certainly roused a reaction, with all three of them, even Lance, snapping their gaze towards the helmet from which her voice came. All of them were veterans, two were ex-special forces who’d seen more combat than Felicity had several times over, and one of those was still technically a Spartan. They were hardly civvies, and the looks of indignation across their faces made their opinion on the label clear.
“We’re coming. Joseph made that clear. Lance can stay with the camp, he’ll be fine for a day while we tag along.” Sasha announced, leaving little room for questioning as she cast an intense gaze over the trio of Deltas sitting opposite from her, almost daring them to protest.
“If he doesn’t mind the company, we’ll go with the big guy. We can recon the dig site while you do their operating base.” Lancaster did mind the company, but he wasn’t going to protest. While he’d mastered moving through the ruins of the city undetected a long time ago, Joseph brought with him knowledge of navigating Taiguan that only a local could, and Sasha, with the prosthetic eye in her skull, likely would be the best observer of the three. Without her, Lancaster would’ve needed to get uncomfortably close to see all he needed to.
“No objections.” He replied, giving the pilot and the ORION a small nod that left a small smirk at the corner of Joseph’s mouth and Sasha returning the nod to him. Though difficult to read behind their helmets, neither Shima nor Franklin seemed opposed by their body language, and Amit’s features did not move to suggest any protest to the idea.
“Alright then. Guess we’re doing this.” Felicity conceded.
“We’ve done crazier.” Sergei remarked.
“With less too, if we’re being honest.” Franklin added.
“Not having to cover everything ourselves will be a nice change.” Amit concurred.
Shima as ever, was quiet, and Felicity offered no further comment. Lancaster sighed and rose to his feet without a word, sauntering off to his secluded cot so that he might suffer another nightmare-infested sleep in the name of preparation. He didn’t have the strength to fight them off, and he hadn’t in some time. But as he pulled the mangled helmet from his head, now away from view, the cool air over marred skin, something inside him stirred. He was not going to run and hide, finally, he was going to stand again, and there was a pride in knowing that’d he’d never again let himself lay down to die.
Tomorrow would be the first time in a long time where Lancaster would wake into a truly new day.
Chapter 12: The Storm, and the Calm Before[]
| 1230 Hours, January 5th, 2559, Harlan, Taiguan Ruins |
Despite what his coming there might’ve suggested, Joseph Kovacs had no nostalgic attachment to Harlan. It was just another half-glassed ball of dirt to him, one he’d run to only because he’d thought it so far from notable that the Created would’ve simply left it to its own devices. Even if they had been present on world, he certainly hadn’t expected a Guardian to hang in constant orbit, or routine patrols of their automatons and a heavy presence of enforcers. This place didn’t mean anything to him, he’d just picked the wrong hole to hide in.
That was what he told himself anyway.
As he trotted down ruined streets, Colt Blaster cradled in his arms, a stocky M180 Double Barrel Shotgun slung across the back of the lightweight combat vest he wore, he could not help but see what had once been. He knew these streets, the burnt-out hole on his right had been a store his eldest sister had frequented to flirt with the boy at the counter, the skyscraper a block down had been where his mother had the affair that produced him, and the wrecked squad car looked so much like the one his father had once driven.
Not the man his mother had betrayed to create him, but the one who’d held him on his knee and read him stories, the one who’d demanded he leave this place behind and find something all his own out in the stars.
But it was all hollow now, burnt out, coated in dust and ash, looted, ransacked, and looted again. It was all so lifeless, and it left him with an undeniable feeling of emptiness. But that just left him with another reason he shouldn’t have come back, besides the ancient war machines both in orbit and on the ground, as well as their army of enforcers.
Overhead his eyes followed four Condor dropships descending through the clouds, bound for the same operations center they were no doubt, but with much less sinister intentions he assumed. They marked the third time that morning the same flight had passed over, each time hauling a different load of excavation equipment or armored vehicles, Cyclops mechs seemingly the most common payload. Each one that passed made his concerns about their odds grow, even with six Spartans.
“No expense spared, huh?” He thought aloud.
“They must’ve had a resupply come in today. Imagine if we’d slipped in at the same time.” Sasha answered his open inquiry with speculation of her own. He cast her a glance as they trotted behind the hulking figure that was Lancaster-205, and threw her a shrug.
“I dunno if they’d have been so polite then.” Joseph shrugged.
“Oh is that what they were doing?” She shot back slyly, and he could not help but mimic the smirk on her face as she tilted her head to question him. Sasha was a good sort when she stopped with the ice queen act he’d decided, dry-humored and easy to get along with. Once they’d both gotten past the notion that the other had for some reason led the other to Harlan as part of some Created ploy.
Neither of them was with the AI, and neither of them was at all important enough that had they been aligned to Cortana, the other wouldn’t have been a target for them anyway. Joseph might’ve been an ancient ORION, and Sasha a commendable aviator and operator, but they were just people in the end. Unlike the teenagers and marred rebels they kept as company, they were not so wildly superhuman that the Created would give them a second thought.
“They did ask us to surrender before they started shooting,” Joseph noted. “We just shot them first.”
“They EMP’d my ship, that counts as shooting first.” Sasha countered a tinge of frustration on her tongue. She’d liked her vessel, and seeing it turned into naught but a pressurized brick in the void hadn’t been a terribly pleasant experience for her. It’d been her home after all.
“I somehow doubt they see it that way.” He shrugged again, stepping over a pile of dust and rubble that he made out the faint outline of a skeletonized hand in. Disturbing graves was something he avoided when possible, especially when there was every chance he might’ve known the person that lay in it. That part might’ve bothered him more than the eerie nostalgia, that there was a decent possibility that every dust-coated skeleton might’ve been someone who’d once meant something to him.
“Oh right, I should be more considerate.” She snapped him out of the thought as she hoisted the VK78 the Spartans hand left to her up in one hand as she clambered over the hood of a scorched Genet, a coy laugh escaping as she did. Lancaster had been silent the entire time, but Joseph took note when the Spartan cast a glance back at them. He hadn’t had company in years, and he imagined Anion wasn’t terribly talkative with their former target.
“See anything up there big guy?” Joseph inquired, keeping a pleasant tone with the traitor Spartan. Normally, he’d have been wary of someone with that label, but given Joseph’s experience with ONI in the years prior, the notion that they’d have made an attempt to ‘minimize’ risk by attempting to execute Lancaster after he was recovered seemed plausible. The SPARTAN-II had failed his mental evaluation, clearly rattled by whatever he’d been through, and the UNSC had still been reeling from Philadelphia’s destruction, they’d acted rashly and bled for it. He didn’t blame Lancaster for fighting back, Joseph would and had done the same.
Even with the galaxy in turmoil, he thought of CALIFORNIA, and where he might’ve been hiding then. He’d given up on finding him, relented in his pursuit, and elected to instead come home to die. The decision left him anguished, he could’ve gone with William, survived on the fringes, or talked him into continuing the hunt. But they’d been out of options. The Created had stripped William’s access to his funds and made the freedom of movement they needed to hunt their prey nigh impossible.
So they’d given up, exchanging impartial commitments to resume their mission when things had settled, if they ever did. Then they’d split up, like damn fools they’d left one another behind. There was no use lamenting it now, but he wondered if Lancaster resented his confinement to Harlan for the same reasons Joseph did.
“No. Felicity’s call was solid, they don’t have any scouts this way,” Lancaster answered curtly. Felicity-D148 had been the one to suggest the alternate approaches to the vantage points they’d use to observe the Created’s base. They weren’t planning on simply retreading their steps, but the team leader for Anion had routes already in mind, ones that had spared them any hostile contacts, or any overhead drones watching their movements. At least that they knew of.
“Smart girl.” Sasha noted softly, circumventing the mangled husk of a Mastadon and coming alongside Joseph as their eyes swept the street before them. They were looking for corpses, vainly hoping that the survivors scattered across the city might’ve left the corpses of some of the troopers that’d once crewed the APC behind. There was no such luck, and both of them remained stuck with only simple combat vests for protection.
She had a soft spot for the younger Spartans, said she’d worked with their type before, but the kid she’d known had been a Gamma, not a Delta. Some kid named Jamison with a gloomy older partner from Beta, Callum. So many brands of Spartans, he could hardly keep up and he was supposedly meant to be one. Spartans, Javelins, Camelot, the UNSC had been desperate, and before the Created they’d still been willing to do anything to keep their newfound strength.
The continued use of child soldiers was apparently a justified expense.
“Kid has a knack for navigation then,” Joseph remarked, gaze dropping to the side-mounted ammo counter on the Colt in his arms on instinct.
“She’s a good hunter,” Lancaster corrected. “Knows where she’d look, and where she wouldn’t.”
He’d know better than most, so Joseph didn’t bother pressing him any further on it and only gave a nod. His footsteps felt heavy as they tread over the streets he’d once known, but tread on they did.
“So, Team Anion.” The voice came out cool and mechanized, the blue light of the holographic projection dancing over the single eye of the being’s visor. Daniel didn’t know what else to think of him as. Adrestan wasn’t a man, nor was he any longer a Spartan. The smooth lines of his armor had UNSC origins to be sure, but all of it had been derived from Forerunner technology, which had only been further improved by the Created’s hand. His metal limbs were suspended in the air by an unseen force, bound in hard light like those in Armigers and Knights, and that was to say nothing of what he could actually do. Daniel was so lost in his mixture of awe and terror that he remained silent for another thirty seconds before Jane gave him a nudge.
His eyes flicked up the dark-haired woman who stood nearly four inches taller than him still and gave him an expectant nod.
“That’s who our Deltas say they are, yeah.” He assured the cyborg, eyes flicking to the projections of the Delta Company Spartan’s dossiers, to the view screen which showed a live feed of the same supersoldiers as they crept through the ruins of Harlan’s once-capitol.
Shrouded by active camouflage, and well out of even Spartan visual range, it’d been the Deltas of Fireteam Gravity, those who’d betrayed the UNSC to answer Cortana’s call of their own free will, who’d not only identified their targets but told them how to catch them. They’d spent most of their lives pitted in exercises against the five dark armored figures who moved closer and closer to the outpost where Daniel’s own team had only just set down. They thought they’d been smart, that they’d been unseen, but they were wrong. They couldn’t hide when the Created had been given their entire playbook.
“And Fireteam Gravity is positive An-ion and this pack are one and the same?” Gacillius questioned, the Jiralhanae standing with his massive arms crossed over one another, beady eyes flicking from the view screens to the projections of the Spartan’s dossiers.
“They seemed sure, they said this kinda op is their forte.” Daniel shrugged, mentally comparing the dark armored outlines in the drone’s footage to the renders of the armor configurations within the records the Created had recovered. It was hard to tell from the altitude, and black armor wasn’t a horribly uncommon choice for Spartan teams, but he was confident and so too had the defector Deltas that fought for the Mantle.
“What does that mean?” The brute pressed the full intricacies of human language still something of a struggle for him even with translation tech. It was strangely endearing coming from a being he’d seen tear ODSTs apart with nothing but his own hands, and who’s kind Daniel had fought bitterly against for so long.
“They’re assassins,” Jane spoke now, a somber familiarity in her voice that left Daniel to ever so slightly raise an eyebrow in as he looked up at her. She didn’t ever talk about what she’d done before the Created, for the Syndicate or otherwise, and for all her aggressive teases and humor that sat precariously between dark and depraved, she still would not even give a real name. Or maybe Jane Doe really was her name, and he was just a fool. But the heavyweight in her eyes gave the enforcer clues he’d never had before.
“Sangheili warlords, Jiralhanae packmasters, other ONI kill teams, they’ve done it all. Tasking them to mop up SPARTAN-205 makes plenty of sense, combined with what our own intel and Deltas say, I’m positive these are our guys.” He assured the others firmly, watching as Adrestan looked solely onto the projections, his faceplate hiding which if any of the holographic dossiers he was staring into, if any at all.
“They’re high flyers, their team has the highest scores in the Company.” The cyborg noted calmly, reflecting on information that was nowhere to be found on the active projection, and was instead nestled deeper within the files. Evidently, Adrestan had been digging on his own rather than reviewing with the group, but Daniel was prepared enough to discuss it anyway.
“As a team and in their individual specializations, yes, but alone and outside their niches, they’re a significantly lower threat.” Hyperspecialization had its advantages, but for every boon there was a drawback, from what he could see Anion was just a house of cards, waiting for them to knock down a crucial piece.
“So, who holds it together?” Jane piped in, hand resting on her chin as she stared intently at the displays for some indication of which piece of the Spartan team’s puzzle was the one that kept Anion from falling to pieces. Thankfully, Fireteam Gravity had been happy to share which of their former comrades was at the head of the outfit.
Daniel stepped to the projector and brought the file of one Felicity-D148 to the forefront. New columns of data appeared next to the dossier, combat and performance scores which marked her as not only the leader but the odd one out. Where the others had their areas of expertise, she was versatile, well rounded, the only one of them who could fill the gap removing any of the others might create. She was the card they had to pull.
The Created hadn’t been shy about sharing the details of the earlier Spartan generations, and he’d crossed paths with the likes of The Stray in the underworld before, but it still left his gut twisting when he saw how young they were, how young they really were.
Her features were soft and youthful in spite of the harsh glare she gave, had she not been so pumped full of hormones to promote the early onset of growth one might’ve speculated she was closer to twelve or eleven than the fourteen years she counted. An ONI censor has attempted to write her off as nineteen, but even without knowing the truth of not having access to the unaltered dossiers of Team Anion, Daniel never would’ve bought it.
She was just a kid fighting a war that she and her fellows had no hope of winning, against a force that had nothing less to promise her than a new, better life. No more wars, no more cold blooded killing, she and her friends could leave peaceful lives under the mantle if they’d only relent, and help finish the work. He almost failed to consider that she and Anion might have simply been killers, just like him.
“That’s our girl. We take her the others will crumble, shouldn’t be hard to round up the others without her to hold them together.” Daniel nodded, confident in his assessment. Jane gave a small nod of her own, Gacillius gave a grunt of approval, and Adrestan did not make a sound.
“Rules stay the same then? Prioritize capture of the Deltas?” Daniel questioned the cyborg, expecting a far simpler answer then whatever Adrestan must have been thinking up, as he stood silently staring at him for far too long. The silence became uncomfortable quickly, but Daniel’s gaze did not break. He wondered what was going through Adrestan’s mind? Was he...glitching? Like an actual machine? Or was it something else?
“Negative. Removal of the Deltas from play overall is the priority, capture is preferred, but we need them off the table. Only SPARTAN-205’s capture is mandatory, he’s essential to our operation here.” That was a change, Boann had seemed obsessed with the Deltas, but now they were only a secondary objective.
“They’re just ki-”
“They are some of the most singularly dangerous human beings to ever live. If you let their age throw you off then you’ll die. Plenty have already for the same reasons. Lancaster is mission-critical, they are not.” Adrestan spoke with a sternness that almost made Daniel forget he was barely more than a teenager himself beneath the shifting plates, titanium alloys, and hard-light. He gave a nod, and protested no further.
“What’s the strike team’s ETA?” Adrestan asked, turning to address the lanky human standing before a separate set of screens for the first time. Before him were the helmet camera feeds from ten of the assembled members of their so-called ‘Spartan Containment’ Team. Five of them were human, a Spartan defector and augmented enforcers, the others were a mixture of Sangheili from various paths in life, two were former Silent Shadow, and the others had special forces backgrounds. There were more with them, three full squads of enforcers, plus air support on standby, all high above Anion in the clouds, waiting for the go-order.
Daniel half-wanted to be there with him, but Adrestan had insisted they stick to his plan, and the cyborg spoke with the voice of the Created, so the once-mercenary did not object out of self-interest if nothing else. Their time would come according to Boann’s chosen, something the AI manning the Guardian in orbit had repeated.
“They’re still twenty minutes out, and the targets have split sir. Two are taking a forward observation position in the Traxus building, the other three are taking one at a greater range from the BXR offices.” The man called back, and Adrestan shifted his gaze first to the helmet footage, then to the drone’s view, then to the dossiers.
“Where’s D148?” He prodded, something in his mechanized voice suggesting he had an idea already.
“She’s at Traxus, looks like she’s got D167 with her, but it’s hard to tell from this altitude.” Instantly Daniel had brought forward the aforementioned Spartan’s file. Pictured in the dossier was a boy with close-cropped blonde hair and sharp green eyes, a hint of trouble in his eyes, and on the small smirk pulling at his lips. His scores in close quarters were absurd, unmatched even, and of course his outside that field fell sharply. Not once did he achieve anything beyond the minimum required score, consistently passing at the exact lowest score possible. If they could take them at a range, they might well be able to take the entire team there and then. Without their leader and down another member, Daniel was sure they’d relent.
“Task the human element to her then, give Spartan Hayes freedom to execute as she sees fit, but keep them at a range. Give them one of the squads and send the rest with our blades to take the three at BXR.” The man at the screens gave a nod and began to transmit the commands whilst Daniel’s gaze lingered over D167’s dossier, something about his lower scores seemingly oddly off, but he wasn’t sure how.
Thelma Hayes was a decorated veteran, one with a steadfast commitment to the mantle that made the AI who encountered her surge with confidence in the success of their grand endeavor. The enforcers with her had undergone the same enhancement he and Jane had been penciled in for before Boann had torn them away on this assignment, and though lacking in MJOLNIR they could match an unarmored in speed and strength both, and outdid their two targets in experience three times over. They could handle the assignment he was sure, even if Thelma might’ve objected to more lethal measures given her knowledge of the targets, the enforcers would surely be able to keep her head on straight.
“And what do we do?” Jane questioned, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning ever so slightly onto Mathis’ shorter form, to which he did not object, but rolled his eyes regardless. As ever boundaries seemed beyond her understanding.
“We wait. Our time is not here.” It was cryptic and frustrating as ever, but he did not speak in protest, not this time.
“Sorry ‘ma, looks like capture is secondary.” Spartan Hayes did not answer the quip of Alejandro Reyes, instead of staring at the updated objectives with disbelief. They were meant to be the sculptures of a better tomorrow, champions of the new galaxy, and that meant more than just killing the misbegotten victims of the old order. It outraged her, as a Spartan, as a mother, as a damned person.
“The Mantle is mercy, not damnation.” It sounded like one of the proverbs her mother used to share, but when it left her lips it sounded far stronger than any of the wretched woman’s ever had. She’d clung to faith to excuse her failings, Thelma stood fast in her beliefs because she saw what good they did for the world.
“For those who accept it. They’ve had that choice for months now. We got a job to do.” No Celene joined in, and Thelma felt the sting of disappointment that she could not see. They both were mothers, their sons were going to grow up in a galaxy that knew true peace thanks to their sacrifice, but she could not just shrug aside the rest. She and the other woman had been enemies once, Thelma part of the NAVSPECWAR task force doggedly hunting the rebel cell which Celene called family, in another time they’d have fought to slit the other’s throat, but now they were friends. Closer with each other than any other soul in their unit, she’d thought she’d have seen it.
“They are children. One war took their families from them, and then the UNSC manipulated their grief to turn them into weapons. What if they were our boys, if it’d been you or I caught in a glassing instead of their parents?” She questioned, her helmet pivoting to Reyes.
“What if it was that little sister you love so dearly? Or that kid Dannic’s folks took in?” She nodded to another of their team who’d sat wordlessly, leaned against the seat he was bound into. Even in full armor, she could see Alejandro shift uncomfortably at the question.
“Capture is secondary, that’s still important. They gave us these armor restraints and we should use ‘em.” The agreement for Jie hadn’t been something she’d expected, the man had no one, he’d been Syndicate since he was a teenager, but the way he looked on the worlds they saved told her that he’d longed to do something right for a long time. “What Reyes, worried you can’t take a couple fourteen year olds up close?”
“They’re not kids. You haven’t seen what they do to people Thelma.” Celene spoke now, her voice cold and alien compared to her usual empathy. “Mamore in ‘37, again in ‘53, a dozen other times. They’re killers, we can’t afford to play this game with them. You can’t save them.”
“And why can’t I? Why can’t you?” She was frustrated, angry that the friend she trusted would see things so differently.
“Your own team wouldn’t fucking come around Thelma, what the fuck makes you so sure the ones who’ve grown up indoctrinated will be different?” The barb stung, and for all the mercy she’d shown her Spartan comrades, she knew they’d never really forgive her, even once reeducated, even when they saw the truth.
“Because I am not going to kill any more fucking kids, Celene. Because I came to make a galaxy I can be proud of, and I will spill blood to that end, but only if I have to. I’ve done enough in the name of someone else’s greater good. The Mantle is my greater good, and I will not damn these two without a second thought.” She wanted her friend to reply, but Celene simply shook her head as she leaned forward and looked away. She was done talking, and maybe that was for the best. But the others, even silent Dannic looked to her from behind their opaque visors expectantly.
“I’m going to detain the children, those who have the stomach to choose to be better than the galaxy we’re leaving behind, with me. Everyone else can provide cover. If the situation slips, then do what has to be done, but it won’t. We won’t.”
Sergei looked over the base and felt something twist in his stomach. The facility itself was at its core, a prefabricated firebase often used by UNSC expeditionary forces, but in addition to the numerous alien fabrications meshed with it, the expansive landing zone and vehicle yard gave him pause, but it was the two massive Scarabs boring into the earth with great beams of plasma that gave him pause.
They were the massive variety, not the smaller walkers that in the end were simply great colonies of lekgolo. And even from so far away, they and the compliment of tanks and APCs providing security made him question if he’d been right to press them on this path. They were five Spartans, six if he counted Lancaster, whole worlds had been made to tremble with less, but as he looked out over the assembled military might for the first time he felt unsure.
“Still only seeing the two scarabs.” He called to Felicity, his voice carrying from his helmet’s external speaker rather than over any channel. There was no need to risk drawing attention with unneeded transmissions after all. She looked down to him from the floor above, through the gaping hole in the floor, and gave him a nod to affirm him, and nothing else. She was angry at him, angry he’d cowed her in front of the others, angry that he still questioned her even then. She’d gotten them through everything, but he still questioned her.
They were above grievances so petty, and she’d never let it impact their coordination. Felicity the Spartan would never allow herself to be compromised. But Felicity his friend might. She needed their support and affirmation, that was her secret, one he’d known since they were children desperately trying to survive Camp Ambrose.
“Whatever they’re after, he knows what it is.” She broke the silence, no doubt not even bothering to look away from the vista before them. She was almost certainly looking for sniper nests, in training, she’d been cut down from afar by the likes of Andra-D054 more times then she cared to admit, and she knew the team had a way of crumbling without her guiding hand. Franklin could steer them, but not hold them, and Sergei, well, he had appearances to keep up he supposed.
“Oh, for sure.” He conceded, he was sure none of them actually believed that Lancaster didn’t know what the Created were after here and that he’d been here for whatever it is longer than the AI cabal had existed. Harlan was a backwater ruin, but ships still came and went, he could’ve left if he’d wanted to. Shima had once suggested that maybe he no longer wanted to be part of the galaxy, that he simply wanted to die.
It had been an appropriately morbid suggestion from the sniper, as had her declaration that they should grant his desire. But Franklin had shot that down, Shima’s dedication to completing a mission that no longer mattered was a hindrance, and strained the feeble peace between the hunters and their prey turned ally. All of Anion knew it, but Amit had been all too eager to defend Shima, and the ensuing argument had been intense by Spartan standards.
“Then why didn’t you just press him on it, instead of getting the others so set on coming all the way out here.” Speaking of intense arguments by the standards of indoctrinated child soldiers, Sergei grimaced knowing they were about to enter one.
“Because he wouldn’t have told us, and we wouldn’t know what we’re up against, or the number of options we have for getting out of here.” He countered, pinging a Condor dropship sitting idle at the Created’s base. Slipspace capable, and something all of them could fly without much issue, it seemed an ideal solution if not for the Guardian. But they could figure out their solution to the looming Forerunner weapon when they were actually close to making a break for it.
“Yeah, great. That bird means nothing if they shoot us down, or the Guardian notice, or if we get caught in some ambush here.” She answered, her voice rising with frustration, but her pride and discipline too strong to let anger show through.
“Or if we die going after whatever they’re digging for, don’t forget that.” Sergei reminded her with a mix of smug arrogance and disaffected amusement. They’d watched the skies and their trackers the whole time, taken every sewer and tunnel they could, she was doubting herself again even though she’d done everything right. And now, he was going to end up truly pissing her off by downplaying her concerns.
“This isn’t funny Sergei. This isn’t a game.” She scolded.
“Sure it isn’t.” That’s all this had ever been, they’d told them they’d fight the aliens, avenge their families, but that’d never been what Delta was for. They’d been pawns to use in Utah’s personal play for power. Pieces in a game, but it hadn’t stopped being a game just because the enemy changed. His older brother hadn’t taken a chest full of blamite for him to play games, yet here Sergei was.
He could feel her glaring at him, an angry glare drilling itself into his head. “Eyes on target, remember lead?” He teased. She’d either ramp it up, or cut the pointless frustration.
Sergei caught her harsh exhale, and the quietest of laughs, then a hunk of rock cracked against his helmet. He snapped his gaze up towards her, only to find her looking down onto the dig site.
“Eyes on target, remember Sergei?” She tutted. Sergei smiled and turned his eyes back to the facility. He marked a squadron of Cyclops walkers and added them to the running list of armaments at the enemy’s disposal. Then he saw the blink.
Shima’s status light winked red, one, two, three times. Inbound contacts. No chance of them coming for anything else. They’d been made.
It’d been another three minutes before the chaos began, Franklin had taken down a pelican dropship with the Shoulder Angel launcher he’d insisted on keeping with him across so many assignments. But the Created had sent two for them, and another for he and Felicity. Dark armored enforcers, human and alien rushed into the building, a team was working their way down, another had rappelled from the roof down to them, and the Pelican now circled the BXR building, watching the two Spartans as they began their move to escape. But it didn’t fire.
That was what bothered Sergei, the damned dropship had a heavy cannon it could’ve used to suppress them, and he could hear the one that hadn’t fallen to Franklin was chattering away. But why wasn’t this one?
Sergei ducked behind a pillar as plasma bolts cut through the dust heavy air, bullets filling the space the superheated gas left empty. Trying to pin him in place as another element of the Created’s troops moved to flank him. He could see them moving through the cubicles, the trio of Sangheili at the head of the fireteam not waiting to brandish their blades, all but marking their exact location as if the motion tracker wasn’t enough.
“Splits coming around, I’ve got the shooters, take out the flankers so we can get clear!” Felicity barked, stepping into the open with a plasma rifle in one hand and an M6H in the other, the weapons spewing death back at those trying to keep him down. Almost instantly the suppressive haze began to lose strength, and Sergei wasted no time in moving.
He sprung from cover, pounding the floor beneath his boots as he shot towards the grouping of crimson plots on his motion tracker. Sergei watched them adjust, saw as the rear element slowed ever so slightly, and the trio of Sangheili eagerly moved to meet him. He leveled his shotgun and fired. The 8 gauge slug tore through the cheap walls of the cubicles and took one of the elites in the side. Its shields flared brightly as the force threw it into another row of decrepit workspaces, one of its comrades let out a warble of surprise before a slug punched through its head.
The weaker shielding afforded by a cheaper combat harness collapsed and shattered, its saurian head bursting into a shower of purple gore. The lead elite turned the corner alone, energy sword blazing and war cry on its lips, but he was already there. The Cabashi Broomstick barked once, twice, three times as Sergei steadily slamfired the shotgun, tearing bloody chunks from the warrior so quickly that the momentum that’d carried him around the corner now carried him into a mess of rubble.
The other dots had begun grinding to a stop, whilst the last elite came to its feet. Sergei now rounded the corner to face them instead. The shotgun was at his shoulder, barrel level with the Elite trying to rise and meet him. Another slug broke the shields and the armor beneath it, and the stunned warrior died before he could scream.
Sergei’s visor turned to the others, a pair of unngoy already turning to run, a jackal leveling its plasma rifle and a human with an M45 of his own. Plasma fire and buckshot raked the spot Where Sergei had stood, but he was already gone. Weaving between debris and rot, Sergei came around, the human and kig-yar chasing his ghost, their shots all finding air as he moved to their rear.
A fleeing unggoy was the first to see him, and he did not so much as break his stride as one hand left his shotgun, and pulled a blade from his side. In a flash the titanium sliver sprayed ichor into the air. Another squealed as Sergei pivoted and kicked it hard in the chest, crumpling armor and bone alike as it was sent flying. The shotgun thundered in one hand, blasting a hole into the human, as the blade twirled in his hand, then shot through the air into the jackal’s chest.
Beneath the helmet’s visor, Sergei grinned. Another win.
“Clear here!” He called to Felicity, wrenching his knife from the chest of the dying jackal. She burst through a wall of cubicles, and with a movement so quick a regular human wouldn’t have caught it, she beckoned him to follow. No trails of fire came after her, and the only sound was the drone of the watching Pelican’s engines, and of the battle that the others were no doubt triumphing in as well. The Created had been stupid, they underestimated them, and he’d be sure to make them regret it, it’d be fun.
He took off after her, the two dark armored commandos rushing for an alternate stairwell as to avoid being fired on from above by the unit descending from the roof, not that he was worried about them actually hitting them. He wasn’t sure how they’d tracked them, or how their plans would change, but he was sure Felicity was already thinking up uncountable ways to say she’d told him so. Maybe he should’ve been more serious like she’d said, but even now they were still outscoring their opponents a couple of dozen to nothing with no sign of stopping. The game was too lopsided for him to grit his teeth just yet.
They made the door, then blips appeared on their sensors from either side.
Sergei twisted left whilst Felicity shifted right, opening fire on the dark armored figures, all human, but they moved with a speed impossible to even the fastest of their kind. He wanted to question it, but when a final human rappelled in, clad in full MJOLNIR, Sergei’s smile faded.
A SAW erupted on either side, showering the two in gunfire and driving them away from their exit. His shields flared brightly as a score of rounds thumped against the energy barrier, but he kept his head low, and a quick look confirmed Felicity was doing the same.
Then the first of them sprung out before the pair, leveling an M363 remote detonator with the distinct shape of an armor restraining device affixed to the weapon. It made sense now, they were trying to take them alive.
Sergei twisted and the shot went wide, the restraining bolt punching into an abandoned workspace as he closed the gap and brought his weapon to bear. The shotgun thundered, but the woman in black battle armor had rushed to meet him and shoved the weapon’s barrel wide. She shouldn’t have been able to do that. Something was wrong.
“You had to get us into this!” Felicity barked as the woman weaved past Sergei in a blur. He spun after her, backstepping away as the attacker lashed out with another bolt in an open hand. Another came from behind them, and set himself onto Felicity, a restraining bolt going wide past Sergei’s head as she and her attacker began to grapple.
The woman came at Sergei fast, but he was faster, magnetizing his shotgun to his back and freeing his hands he snatched her by the wrist with one and sent a deep crack into her faceplate with the other. He didn’t relent, letting her wrist slip from his grasp only to send her back into the mess of debris. Gunfire soared over her and into him, energy shields flaring only to die as he broke off from his attempted kill. He moved to Felicity, one hand going to the blade on his chest whilst the other reached out to grab her opponent.
“Not the time for I told you so-” As he lunged in something heavy hit him. The air left his lungs as a MJOLNIR clad form pinned him to the ground. One hand pressing his blade hand down hard, the other bringing a restraining bolt to the ready. The traitor stared down at him from behind the blue visor, and he glared back from one of a deep crimson. He met her attempt to attach the bolt, his hand fighting back hers. She had leverage on him, but his armor made him stronger, the older systems lacking in the software enforced restraints of the traitor’s gear. His helmet was also sporting a great deal more armor.
He could work with that.
Sergei turned her own force against her and guided her hand down just above his shoulder whilst he lurched upwards with all of his might. His helmet cracked against hers once, twice, three times, dazing the traitor enough for him to pull his hand free and slam his knife into her side. The blade split the techsuit beneath her armor, and warm blood spurted from the wound as he shoved her off of him and freed the blade. It wouldn’t stop her, but he had to help Felicity, he had to make sure she didn’t die on account of his plan.
His gaze shot upwards as he pulled his legs back beneath him, and settled on Felicity’s outstretched sidearm. The magnum thundered once in her grasp, and something behind Sergei dropped with a thud. The woman with the cracked faceplate now had a red hole in the center of her helmet and fell away as Sergei looked back to his friend.
Her attacker lay helpless on the ground, her plasma rifle drawn on him as her own broken energy shields flickered, strands of power dancing over the emitters. She was smiling beneath her visor, he knew it. She’d never let him live this down of that he was sure.
“No!” Three shots came from his side as Felicity squeezed the plasma rifle’s trigger, explosive rounds punching into her chest, neck, and head. She spun, plasma spouting wildly as she fell, her status light switching to a solid red in an instant, her TEAMBIO flatlining. Felicity collapsed onto the ground as blood spilled from the trio of bullet holes. The traitor Spartan seemed frozen, the smoking M6D outstretched as she turned her gaze slowly to Sergei.
“I-,” She uttered, but Sergei had already lunged towards her, knife angled for her throat. Another of the ones in dark armor, had cast down their SAW to catch him in time, intercepting him mid-lunge and slamming him into the floor. It was then the ruined structure’s floor decided it had taken enough and gave out beneath them.
A great hole opened beneath them, and down they fell. One floor, two floors, three, four. With each successive collapse, Sergei struggled to regain his bearings, head smashing against the ever-growing pile of debris whilst Franklin, Amit, and Shima all called out to him in a cacophony of noise. Farther and farther down they fell into the darkness. Only the dim light of the dying day through cracked and broken windows illuminated each successive floor, but even in the darkness all he could see was red. His comrades would have no answer from him, even as the fall finally stopped.
Everything hurt, his armor’s alarms blared inside his helmet, a dull red light pulsating to alert him of his condition, but he did not acknowledge it. Somewhere in the fall, his knife had been lost, but he had another, but Sergei did not reach for it as he rose up amidst the dust, and set his gaze upon the man who’d denied him revenge. A pile of rubble had pinned his legs, but with superhuman strength, the man was begging to slip free.
It was Sergei’s fault, he’d convinced her to come out here, to trust him, and now she was gone. There was no shimmer of hope, no preposterous wishing for her survival, Felicity was dead. Dead because of him.
Sergei kicked the man down, slamming him back against the floor as he lowered himself onto the Created supersoldier. The man produced a knife of his own, a wicked curved thing and went for Sergei’s throat. But Sergei caught it, held it there, the blade shaking a hairs width away from his neck.
He wanted him to see, to know. No matter how strong the AI loyalist was, Sergei was stronger, and he had no chance. No words passed between them, no curses of damnation, no affirmations of revenge, Sergei simply balled his free hand into a fist and punched through the man’s faceplate in a single blow.
Glass, flesh, blood and bone all splashed up his arm, painting it with death as his knuckles now rested against the back of the helmet. It was quiet as the man went instantly still, until he heard his friends screaming for him.
“Sergei, Sergei answer me!” Shima begged.
“Where the hell are you Sergei, I’m coming, I’m coming hold on!” Franklin tried to reach him, but it was only the suggestion that his best friend meant to come for him that snapped him out of the haze.
“She’s gone,” He spoke with an emptiness that surprised even himself. He switched off the status light. They’d never leave him behind unless he made them. “Me too.” Sergei cut his link with the rest of Anion, and from anything else to hold him down.
Chapter 13: Keraunos[]
| 0035 Hours, January 9th, 2559, Harlan, Created Base of Operations |
They’d never been terribly smart, his instructors. Maybe they’d been overwhelmed by the illicit nature of their operation, the hundreds of children to grade and monitor, the slew of egos, psychosis, and abrasive personalities. Maybe they’d been happy that he’d shown talent in one area, and never troubled themselves to look too closely at anything else.
He could’ve played it up more, struggled more, struggled less, or at least introduce some kind of variance to it, but even with the possibility of being split from his friends, he couldn’t help himself. It was another game to win, to see how much he could dangle in their faces without them catching on.
Every single time, in every single metric beyond close quarters, Sergei had met the minimum standard exactly. And not once had it occurred to any of Delta Company’s instructors that to be so consistently wrong, he must’ve known exactly how to be right. Every missed shot, every improperly armed charge, every botched infiltration and maneuver, he’d done them all on purpose. He hadn’t wanted them to take him away from his friends, the way he knew they would if they’d seen what he could really do. He didn’t want to play this game without them. In the end, though, all that had done in the end was get one of them killed.
Sergei would not repeat that mistake, he would not let any of them die for his stupidity again. But he wouldn’t let those machines keep her either.
It hadn’t been hard to stay unseen once he knew where to look. Avoiding open sky had let him move all around the Created’s home base for the past several days. They knew he was out there though, he’d wanted them to know. Patrols had vanished, their last transmissions little more than broken screams over open airwaves, he’d left clear signs of perimeter breaches everywhere except his entry point, he’d given them plenty to worry about all by his lonesome, which in turn kept their attention far away from his friends.
He watched them through the ORACLE scope of the SRS99 sniper rifle he’d lifted off some human after he’d pulverized the man’s skull under his boot, and just before he snapped the neck of the man’s jackal partner. They were scurrying about on high alert, tanks and walkers, human and alien alike patrolled the wide perimeter. Squads augmented by Promethean Knights and Hunters checked through the rubble of a building after building whilst sharp-eyed marksman looked for him desperately.
They wouldn’t find him, but soon they’d have something to look at. His armor had been converted into an armory. He’d stripped away pouches meant for storage to free up mag-plates, slung ancillary weapons across his person, and enough additional equipment to see him through. The anti-material rifle rested atop his off-hand’s forearm, whilst he held a detonator firmly in his palm. There was only going to be one shot at this, but he wasn’t going to miss it.
The plan was a simple one, cause enough carnage, move from stockpile to stockpile as he made his way across the rooftops until he was on the ground. After he’d waltzed inside, the mission became two parts. For the first he'd give Felicity the send-off she deserved, then he’d get what he’d come for; revenge.
Sergei never failed, not unless he meant to.
He squeezed the detonator, and as the first detonation thundered from the base’s vehicle yard, the rifle cracked, the sound masked by the roar of the blast. He was moving, the rifle snapped to his next target, and blasted once more as a secondary explosion sounded.
Sergei dropped into a sprint, building up speed as he approached the ledge of the ruin he’d as his post. He squeezed the detonator again, another explosion, another shot. Blue-white flames erupted from detonating plasma cores, boldly left stored together by beings who’d never expected they were vulnerable to sabotage.
There was such arrogance to it, every hole in their defense had seemed less an oversight and more an assertion that nothing and no one could touch them. They thought that damned metal bird hanging in the sky would protect them. And it did, from enemy fleets, and perhaps large ground forces. But not from him. He squeezed the detonator and trigger in sync one more, and as the ammunition depot where they’d stored shells for the squadron of scorpion tanks became a fireball, so too did the head of his target evaporate into a bloody mist. The Spartan jumped, sailing through the air and letting the sniper rifle fall away as he descended towards the next rooftop.
His boots met the roof, and it did not collapse, even as he continued to thunder across it at a blinding speed, pulling a beam rifle from his back to continue his work as Sergei came ever closer, a specter in the night.
————————
Joru ‘Hanam had faced death a thousand times. Over hundreds of human worlds, amidst the carnage of the Great Schism, in battle with the parasite, and then with his own kin in the struggle between ‘Mdama and ‘Vadam. This place would be no different, only now he could hold his head high with conviction and be sure that he was doing that which was right. The Mantle would bring peace where the Covenant had brought war, unity where ‘Mdama had brought division, an age of tranquility was all but within reach, all they had to do was succeed against the stubborn few that resisted.
And for the briefest moment, as he saw the glow of the Lekgolo’s plasma cannon through the haze at the end of the long hall, he was sure tonight’s trial was over.
It took but two heartbeats to realize that the green glow was hanging too low to the ground, and another to see that the pulsating plasma was facing towards himself and his comrades. But by then it was too late.
“Down!” He bellowed, flinging himself into cover as a great pulse of plasma filled the air. The heat washed over him, his harness’ shields flaring as those who had no moved or been as well armored screamed, vaporized or worse, portions of flesh simply boiled away. There was no time to count the dead, to take note of who lived and who had not, if Joru was not fast enough, there would be no survivors at all. He could not allow that.
Strength of purpose carried him to his feet in a blur, and his legs sent him rushing over crackling glass towards the enemy without hesitation. His rifle was left behind, it would not be fast enough. His energy sword came into his hand and sprung to life, twin prongs shining amidst the haze of dust and smoke. Another blast came, and he rolled out of the way, the world painted emerald by the blast, the outer layer of his combat harness beginning to peel ever so slightly from the heat. It didn’t matter, he was close enough, he could end this here and now.
He cut through the haze, blade coming down and through the hulking cannon. The weapon died as it was cleaved apart, and Joru lunged, blade pulled back, ready to strike. He was too close when he saw the twin barrels of the demon’s weapon. Joru knew what they could do, he’d seen Sangheili practically ripped in half by the things as they went to wrench a human from the interior of a tank. Perhaps his blade would strike true, perhaps he would make the difference, perhaps-
The warrior’s world exploded in a bright flash, and faded to nothing.
——————————
Sergei stood amidst the corpses of the command center staff in silence, gauntleted hands gliding over digital touchpads as he combed through file after file to find what he wanted. His eyes flicked through vast amounts of data, scanning text both in both human and alien script, processing it all in stride. Despite being headed by Smart AI, one of which doubtlessly occupied the Guardian that hung in orbit, no such construct appeared to stop his intrusion. Meaning either it was out of range, couldn’t operate the Guardian and manage things groundside simultaneously, or was allowing him to do as he was.
The first seemed unlikely unless the second was also true, some fragment surely could’ve been left behind for rudimentary functions unless they truly needed the whole of their nigh-infinite processing abilities to operate their avian weapons. But that too seemed unlikely, Cortana had sent a message across the stars using the Forerunner Mantle, surely her underlings could multi-task? That left the third possibility, which had he given himself time to dwell, he would’ve found deeply unsettling. Was it laying a trap, or would the cost of intervention simply be too high?
It didn't matter, he was getting what he came for regardless of what some machine had planned.
She wasn’t far, a few sections away, through two separate response teams, kept in some kind of safe room. They probably wanted to strip the armor, either for research or to try and equip one of their knockoffs with it. He wondered if the enemy’s enhancements were enough that the MJOLNIR wouldn’t rip them apart, he hoped they weren’t, and that hope alone might’ve persuaded him to leave the suit had it not been encasing one of his own. It was fine, he’d tear them apart himself.
Before he could redirect his search for Felicity’s killer, he noticed a string of text. Most of it was gibberish, Forerunner terms and grand assertions, but one line demanded his attention. Insufficient to open The Victor’s Trove, [S-205] remains priority one as holder of Champion’s Geas. The capture of Delta assets remains secondary.
Anger boiled beneath his armor, burning at his skin at his face contorted. They’d gone out there because of him, because he figured Lancaster had a reason to be concerned. That the rebel Spartan might’ve had some inkling what the Created were after. But now it was clear, they were after him. He had to have known, whatever this Victor’s Trove was, Lancaster had to have known he was the key, that there was no way the AI could enter without him. Yet he’d insisted on going. All they had to do was avoid them, Felicity hadn’t needed to die, all they’d had to do was-
He’d dug deeper, and suddenly he had an idea of what this trove could do for them. He saw the damage projections, the strength of the ancient tools beneath his feet, and saw what he imagined his once-target did. A way out. A way to fight back.
Suddenly, a hand adorned with three fingers, one gone, and one hanging by a thread of flesh dragged itself across his boot, taking his attention from the screen for an instant. The owner, a bleeding middle-aged man clad in torn combat armor, smeared crimson across the black titanium alloy. He said something, a curse or a plea Sergei didn’t know, the man’s voice didn’t carry over the wheeze of a punctured lung filling with blood. He pulled his boot away and then slammed it down. Gore painted him, and Sergei opened engaged his COM.
He had a call to make before he finished things.
———————
“So, the 'bots have better observational capabilities than we thought.” Lance Floyd remarked groggily, leaning his head back against the cement slab his back was pressed to.
“And their own, uh,” Joseph wagged his fingers as he thought, cigarette between middle and index, tip unlit out of caution. “Pseudo-Spartans? I don’t know what to call them.”
“They got a least one proper Spartan too,” Sasha added with a sigh, sipping from her canteen. The hike there and back, even with combat, hadn’t been too hard on the Spartans, but for those closer to baseline humanity, it had been exhausting, Joseph wondered if this is what he’d have felt like all the time, had cryostasis not stopped most of his aging for nearly a half-century. But exhaustion wouldn’t grant them any reprieve from their foes, the Created wanted them tired anyway.
“They have one, and we’re down two.” She too leaned against the concrete slab, and Joseph’s gaze widened at the remark.
“Can’t they hear you?” He questioned sharply, the last thing he needed right now was the grieving teenagers with more power than the strongest natural human ten times over to turn that pain into anger directed at them. Joseph would’ve done that at their age, even if he didn’t like admitting to it.
“They’re Spartans, Joseph. They aren’t going to blow over situation analysis.” Sasha chided, throwing her arms, metal and flesh alike over her knees as she leaned forward.
“You can’t think of them like their angsty kids, cause they’re not. Spooks made sure of that a long time ago.” She reminded him, but how couldn’t he? He’d seen their look a thousand times from behind a scope, kids the rebels had press-ganged into service with gaunt faces and angry eyes. The Deltas were bigger, meaner, better trained, but the look was the same. She’d gotten used to them, worked with them before. But for all his time deep in ONI’s wetwork, he’d never met one for longer than a minute, and the heat of battle had been a poor time for conversation.
“They’re still grieving,” Joseph answered, pressing the unlit cigarette to his lips and letting it hang there. “They’ve been with those two since they were what, six?”
Joseph had grieved his dead before, Lima 9-9 had taken plenty of casualties in the war and after, the only ones left as far he knew was himself, Hargrove, and Mathis, presuming the two of them hadn’t gone off and gotten killed. They were all he had when he’d woken up, and now they were gone.
But the Deltas, they’d formed around one another, shaped and molded one another as the grew into who they were today. Sergei and Felicity had been part of them, as much as any limb. And he wondered how long their ghosts would the young soldiers.
His answer came more quickly than he expected, as an open broadcast cut over the silence. Unencrypted, on a public channel, Cadmon expected the Created to announce their intention to hunt them into oblivion, instead, Sergei-D167 spoke from beyond his presumed grave.
“Franklin, I know you can hear me, I’ll keep it short,” Every soul listened intently, Joseph coming to his feet, making eye contact with the named Spartan where he’d shot up from his sleep.
“They’re after a weapons cache, Forerunner. Nasty stuff. It’s as much a potential asset to them as a potential threat.” Gunfire cut over the transmission, and agonized screams followed, one distinctly female, the other clearly inhuman.
“Lancaster is the key, and he knows it. Stop them. I’ll make as much of a dent as I can.” Franklin slammed a fist against a concrete slab in frustration, cratering the debris with the blow.
“You stupid bastard what are you doing?!” He snarled audibly, though he didn’t open a line back to his friend, though Joseph knew he wanted to.
“I’m going to settle the score now. Hope you heard that, Spartan Hayes.” The line went dead, and left the assembled group standing in silence, staring at one another.
————————
She felt a shiver run down her spine, under the gel layer and titanium alloy, Thelma felt cold. Her hands had shaken for hours, and something inside her had twisted until it broke when she’d seen the girl’s face. What was left of it, anyway. A child, a misguided child, murdered at her hand. And how many friends had she lost, how many more was she going to lose to this boy’s rampage. She could stop him, she was sure, if she came to him he’d stop. She was all he wanted, but they wouldn’t let her go, not alone.
The one who seemed more promethean than man had been abundantly clear, she was to take others with her. The two left from her strike team, as well as Ronar ‘Palan and Paral ‘Qytam, plus four more elites. The additions were not Silent Shadow, nor former SpecOps, but the rest of those warriors were still recovering from their injuries. They weren’t going to be able to spare him, she knew that, she’d known that as soon as she’d watched the helmet footage of him shoving his arm through Dannic’s head. But some part of her hoped he’d know a lost fight when he saw one.
But then he’d spoken, and he’d heard the ice in his voice, the muffled cries of suffering in the background, and his utter indifference to them. Celene had been right, about him at least, he was a killer. Like her, no, worse. If she couldn’t save him, she’d have to stop him.
Inside her helmet, she reviewed his dossier whilst sliding a magazine home in her M6D. Light blonde hair cropped close to his face, bright blue eyes, and a smirk that screamed trouble. She’d seen the same look on her son’s face a hundred times, but where he might’ve worn it to hide an act of deviance, this boy, Sergei, must’ve found amusement in something much darker.
“Spartan Hayes.” The deep voice of Ronar ‘Palan called her away from her thoughts, eyes settling on the warrior clad in the dark armor of the Silent Shadow. He’d killed Spartans in the war, he’d killed them since, and she knew what he meant to do tonight. “There can be no hesitation this time.”
She nodded, she understood. Celene was gone, her son an orphan because of her, and Thelma owned that. She’d tell him herself, once this was all over.
“We can afford the boy a final offer, but nothing more.” Paral ‘Qytam offered, he had been Covenant SpecOps, and a candidate for the Silent Shadow once upon a time, but things had changed before that could happen. He was kind where Ronar was cold, but both of them were bloodied warriors, and their compliment of four other Sangheili were the same, though they were not more than simple soldiers.
Jie and Alejandro both were with her still, the latter had needed some patching up, but besides that had been okay. Neither of them would try to take the Spartan alive, and she knew neither could she. They had to complete their mission for the greater good.
“I know, let’s get it done.” She answered, releasing the M6D onto her thigh plate then took a plasma rifle into one hand, and an M7 into the other.
“I’m sorry ‘ma.” Alejandro offered, a greaved hand resting on her shoulder as the other lifted a Promethean scattershot, it’s alien geometry resting strangely well in his hands. “You did everything you could for the kid.”
It was a strangely kind thing to say for the usually bitter mercenary, but she appreciated it, and gave him a nod. There was good somewhere in him, something beyond a desire for the next paycheck, some part that really believed they were making a better tomorrow. Knowing that made stomaching his constant cynicism easier.
Behind them, two automatons materialized. Hulking, glowing, massive, they were Promethean Knights. It seemed they weren’t taking any chances with the rampaging Spartan. There was enough capability between the assembled eleven of them to cripple a small army, one boy wouldn’t stand a chance, no matter how fierce.
——————
“You were right.” Sergei sighed, sliding his hand into hers, cold and still, and giving it a squeeze. She was laid out on the table, still encased in her armor that the machines had yet to try and remove. Old failsafes were still in place on the armor, holdovers from another war, and the Created knew better than to proceeded without the proper tools. Her shattered faceplate had been cleared away though, the mangled mess cleaned to the best of their ability, and sterilized. They probably meant to cut it away in order to get to her neural link, to break open her carapace from there. But he wouldn’t let them.
“About all of it, just in case you were worried.” Sergei continued, he’d already accessed her armor’s systems through a direct uplink, one only possible suit to suit, squadmate to squadmate. The AI’s turncoat wore armor too new to be compatible, but Sergei didn’t have that problem. It’d only be few more seconds now, then he’d do what he had to do.
He remembered how Felicity had protected him, taken responsibility for actions not her own in order to shield him from retribution. Part of it had been selfish he knew, Anion’s ranking within Delta had been everything to her, but some of it was genuine. She tried to hide it, but she'd cared about all of them, they’d been each other’s family. In the vast cruel galaxy, all they’d had was one another. Then he’d gotten her killed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen. But what they’re after here, it’s big, Felicity. Too big. We can’t let them have it, they’re strong enough as is.” Sergei watched the progress of his commands to her suit, and subconsciously checked the Promethean shield projector he’d procured from a corpse now affixed to his arm. Amit had shown him how to sync them to the same commands one might’ve used for an armor lockdown module, drop shield, or jet pack. They’d showed them the basics of use in training, but time had eroded the memory, and Amit’s way was faster anyway. He’d need the shield soon.
His eyes flicked over his inventory, ammunition, armaments, explosives, tactical grenades, and blades. It was important to take stock, that way he could built his strategy around what he had. DI’s had screamed the lesson at him a hundred times, and though he never seemed to take heed, he’d learned it on the first try. The base was quiet around him, personnel either fleeing or moving into position to take him, he imagined it was a bit of both. But still, he let himself enjoy the stillness, the calm, Sergei’s mind emptied of guilt and wrath for just a moment before a green light flashed across his HUD.
It was done, she was ready. So was he.
————————
They had a fix on his position, two turns and at the other end of a long hallway, he was standing still, waiting. He must’ve known they were coming. Gore painted the walls as they leapt over corpses, silence having fallen over the wing of the facility. Alarms flashed and cast their crimson glow across the shadows before dissipating only to flash again. The whole world was death, and with every step Thelma found it easier to separate Sergei from the boy he appeared to be.
Better people had been killed in the name of their future. Ones with less blood on their hands, and something to live for beyond killing. She told herself that he was always going to have been like this, and if the UNSC hadn’t made him into a killer, his own impulses would have. Thelma did all she could to convince herself that she was wrong to be merciful, but as they rounded one final corner, she wondered if it was all for naught.
He was not decidedly massive, she noticed now. Almost short by Spartan standards, but the harsh red of his visor against the black of his armor said all his stature didn’t. At the other end of the hall he stood silently, a modified shotgun resting in his hands. She could feel his glare, even if she could not see it. Everyone else was just a distraction, just something in his way, another obstacle to be overcome and destroyed as he blazed a path towards her. He was more a rampaging monster than a misguided child.
It was Paral ‘Qytam who stepped forward first, with an open hand instead of a burning blade.
“Stop this butchery Spartan, lay down your weapons and come quietly. There is still a place for you and your fellows here. The loss of your comrade was a tragedy, but not one that can be mended through bloodshed.” His voice was deep and strong, carrying down the expanse to where Sergei stood motionless. He responded by racking the shotgun in his grasp, an empty shell falling quietly onto the floor.
He wasn’t going to stop, she knew that, and yet still she’d hoped.
“Even if you somehow prevailed, this would not bring you peace.” The words hung in the air, and Sergei seemed to cock his head at the warrior. The knights stepped to Paral’s sides, two of his warriors came with them, and Jie, hefting his own shotgun.
The silence was short lived, but the second it took for the Spartan to answer felt like an eternity. But it came eventually.
"If?” The Spartan challenged.
Paral and his assembled band charged, blind to what lay before them.
———————
Sergei didn’t have long to react, the elites beyond the first one had produced plasma rifles in their off hands, and joining in their spray of superheated gas were bursts of hardlight loosed by the massive knights as they rushed towards him, the one human even threw some buckshot into the mix. But he was ready.
Like magic, a blue barrier of hardlight materialized before him. Plasma bolts, lances of light, and pellets all met the surface, and the blue began to fade to an angry red. He only needed another second, just to be sure. He couldn’t let them close, no matter how good he was taking that many up close was a death sentence, even if the organic ones hadn’t also been highly trained, and the metal ones arguably the most dangerous combat automaton in known history.
They’d tear him apart, given the chance, so he wouldn't give them one.
As the hardlight shield faded from red into a weak pink, Sergei’s HUD pinged him to confirm it was time. A single thought produced the command he needed, and a small smirk curled at his lips.
“Speak Authorization Phrase.” The command on his HUD prompted.
“Hardrada seventy seven.” He complied.
From where she lay against the wall of one of the hallways’ many connected rooms, Felicity-D148 made her final act of defiance from beyond the grave. Her fusion reactor overloaded in an instant, the typical fifteen second delay overwritten, and vaporized everything within ten meters of her final resting place. The elites and the human vanished in the wave of heat, Sergei’s hardlight shield failed even at his distance, but the knights did not fall.
They’d been just far enough for the wave to wipe away their own shields and somewhat damage them, but they did not die. Not until the secondary explosion that was. Metal and light twisted, crumpled, and melted away into nothing. Sergei’s personal shields flared but held, dissipating as he began into the smoke and haze.
————————
Thelma’s visor had spared her vision, but there was nothing to protect Paral, Jie, and the others. They were gone, nothing to bury, nothing to mourn. But he had not killed them all, if that’d been his intent. She, Alejandro, Ronar, and two of the warriors were still here, and that was enough.
The hall had gone dark, what lights there had been failing or being destroyed by the explosion, it didn’t matter, sight in the dark was no longer something she even needed her armor for, though it helped.
The elite warriors let out a war cry and opened fire with their plasma rifles, whilst Ronar produced his own sword, twin tips of crimson casting their own harsh glow. Thelma joined the chorus of gunfire with Alejandro spewing lead down the hall at the figure in the smoke. Sergei’s movement stopped as they suppressed him, pinned him down and left no chance for him to escape. More friends, dead at his hands, she had to stop him, not save, stop.
Ronar let out his own war cry and charged forward to claim the life of the butcher, his loyal soldiers surging forward by his side. He had been a shadow once, but now he was the light. Thelma rushed after Ronar, exchanging her rifle for the M6D magnetized to her thigh. This had to end here and now, nothing could be left up to chance, not with him, not anymore.
——————
Sergei saw the glow first, red like his visor, angry, hungry. Silent Shadow then, that would be interesting. He stepped from cover and leveled the Cabashi Broomstick with the first Sangheili to come through the haze, the weapon thundered once, twice, and the warriors insides suddenly became the opposite. In the same breath, the Shadow and his surviving fellow sprung through the haze towards him.
The plasma blade cut arcs of light through the air, graceful strikes coming almost too quickly for Sergei to answer. Almost. He backstepped and weaved between the strikes, trying to give himself the distance he needed to get off a shot, though the Shadow was trying hard not to let him. The other elite surged forward, energy daggers protruding from gauntlets and furiously cutting at him in tandem with the crimson blade.
He twisted and maneuvered between them, knocking the warrior back with a bash of his shoulders, only to be forced to maneuver away from the Shadow’s bloodblade. A dagger pierced his energy shields and skimmed his armor, a prong of the sword cut into his side, but it would take more than just pain to slow him down.
The butt of Sergei’s shotgun crashed against the swordless warrior, his mandibles crunching beneath the blow. Blood and teeth flew as Sergei fired once into its head then rolled back from a death blow the shadow had loosed with a war cry. He could see her there, watching them, trying to find an angle to enter the fight, but Sergei would give her nothing. She was next, but she’d wait her turn.
As he pulled his shotgun upwards the shadow’s blade sliced through it and a layer of armor over his chest. The tips peeled away his undersuit and ravaged the flesh over his ribs, cut scars into the bones. Sergei tossed aside the pieces of the shotgun he had labored so long to create, anger rising higher in the place of pain.
Armored fists rained upon the swordsman, as Sergei now closed on him. He was in too tight for the blademaster to maneuver, and hammered him. Two shots to the elites stomach, a dip under a wide swipe, and the crash of an elbow into the alien's helmet. The warrior careened backwards and Sergei went for one of his knives. Instead he was jerked backwards, three rounds hammered into his chest, the titanium alloy plating preventing his death but not his suffering. Another punched into his side, an angry, searing pain spreading through his body.
But he didn’t slow down.
Staggering, he freed the first knife from his side, then weaved under the raging Shadow’s hungry blade as he made to impale him. Sergei fired his knee into the alien’s gut, and as the air left its lungs he kicked it clear and pivoted. The shooter had tried to move in on him, clad head to toe in the dark armor of the Created’s would-be Spartans, rifle ready. Fast, but not fast enough.
The knife left his hand, going end over end then burying itself in the man’s neck. The attacker dropped his weapon and fumbled back as Sergei moved to kill. Then she intervened. In a full suit of MJOLNIR, she hit harder than the rest of them, without the grace of the Shadow or the recklessness of the enforcer. She hit fast and smart.
Quick jabs hammered his wounds, knocked his head sideways, and stunned him long enough for her to fire off a kick. Her boot met his stomach and Sergei faltered, falling back against the nearest wall, fighting to breathe through the pain. His HUD screamed, red warning lights flashed and his vitals dipped, he’d overextended. Sergei was so tired, he’d done all he could, told them what they needed to do, maybe it was time he followed after Felicity.
But, then he caught the glint of the sidearm being leveled by the traitor. She was going to do it again, kill him the same way she killed Felicity. He imagined how she must’ve gloated, and touted her victory. The Shadow had recovered and stood by her side, as did the enforcer. The man was bleeding still from the blade Sergei had put in his neck, blood falling down his armor in crimson streams, it was almost impressive.
“You’re not going to hurt anyone else, Sergei.” She said, feigning some kind of sorrow, using his name like she knew him, like she had any right.
No. No, they weren’t going to be enough, he decided, and the fury he had been channeling with care finally broke free. Sergei became a mad dog and went at them, howling.
She hadn’t expected it, and her shots went wide, in a flash he was on her, one hand wrenching the barrel upwards as another hammered her head backward. He kicked off her and spun under the swipe of the bloodblade falling to the floor only to violently kick the elite’s legs from under it. He rolled to his knees and sprung, a blur of black in the darkness, falling onto the traitor as she recovered.
She loosed a barrage of jabs but he powered through, hammering her across the head, and plowing a fist into her stomach. The enforcer moved in as he nearly caught her arm in a lock, only for her to reverse it, then have it turned back on her again. Sluggish from what Sergei presumed was blood loss, the man crashed into him with enough force to pry him away from his prey.
Sergei peeled the man off him, struck him in the head to stun him then wrenched him closer by his chestplate. His free hand wrapped around the embedded blade and pulled it through tendons, muscle, and bone to freedom in the blink of an eye. The man fell, head clinging to his torso by a bleeding thread.
She screamed bloody murder as the elite closed on him in a rage, one massive hand wrapping around Sergei’s throat and hefting him upwards, whilst the other pulled back for the kill. It slammed him against the wall, again and again, and again Sergei crashed against it until the knife fell from his grip and clattered onto the ground. Then it stopped and it held him there.
“You should have kneeled, demon.” It muttered from behind the glowing blue slit visor of its helmet, before plunging the bloodblade through his stomach. The world burned, agony wracking his every nerve as his armor fought to isolate the wound and keep the heat from cooking his insides. He let out a cry, pain induced vocalizations joining the rapidly forming tears in his eyes. Nothing had ever hurt so badly, nothing. But as the Sangheili left his blade impaled, the smell of melting flesh in the air, he gave Sergei time, just enough of it.
From a compartment in on hand, an emergency knife fell, and in the other, Sergei armed a plasma grenade. The elite realizes his error too late as the Spartan punched the grenade onto his helmet, and kicked away from him. As the blade left him, Sergei felt the pain somehow even more intensely, but as he crashed onto the ground he forced a bloody smile through the waves of agony as the Shadow fell back onto the traitor and exploded in a flash of the most brilliant blue.
It was quiet for a moment. His vision was blurred, his senses all but nullified to everything but pain, the suffering so raw he swore he could taste it. But he smiled even then. Weakly he pulled himself to his knees, and weakly he staggered forward towards the molten mess. It’d gotten the shadow, but not her, not entirely. Spartan Thelma Hayes rose to meet him, and raised her hands to fight. It only occurred to her then, that she only had one hand left. Her right arm up to the elbow was a blackened stump, melted alloy pooled over cracked flesh.
She paused to regard the wound, then screamed. He threw himself into her, and took them to the ground in a tangle of rage and pain. He hit her, he hit her until she stopped hitting back, until she stopped trying to stop him, and could only whimper as her head hammered against the floor. The visor of her helmet cracked in a spiderweb and Thelma’s hand fell to the ground.
“P-pl-lea-“ She began to beg, and it was then Sergei slammed the knife into her jugular. She twisted and gurgled, and like that she was gone. He could barely see, fighting to stay conscious and to will just hands to unfurl, his fingers seemingly locked into fists.
The techsuit had been worn down, and through the black undersuit there was the red of blood and the white of bone. Sergei shuddered and found himself unable to move his legs, or to turn his head, all he could do was watch through blurry eyes as another red dot appeared on his motion tracker. That was okay, he knew what to do from there.
Something metal snagged him, lifted him up into the air, and slammed him against the wall. He couldn’t make it out, it’s head was a strange thing, a helmet with a single blue eye, decidedly forerunner in appearance. He didn’t know, he didn’t care. Weakly he stabbed at where he guessed it’s neck would be, only for his hand to be caught and slammed back into the wall. It was only when the thing squeezed, and crushed his bones within his armor that sharpened his senses enough for him to remember his purpose.
Blood bubbled through his teeth as the command appeared before him, and he smiled at the memory.
“Speak Authorization Phrase.” His HUD prompted.
“Showerhead.” The words slipped from his tongue, and then, nothing. Oblivion should’ve taken him, should’ve taken everything around him, but he was still here, hanging in the air.
“Now Sergei,” A smug voice came from inside his own helmet, his eyes darting around the inside as if he’d fine someone else in there. “Did you really think we’d let you cause all that racket and just see yourself out?”
How? It didn’t make sense. If they could’ve deactivated his, then why hadn’t they disarmed her- had this really been a trap? Or was the thing holding him, pulverizing his bones whilst it taunted him, something new?
Sergei didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, and the last think he felt before blackness swallowed him was fear.