Halo: Nos Venatores

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Halo: Nos Venatores
A fall from grace is an eventuality, not a possibility
Protagonist	SPARTAN-226, SPARTAN-243, SPARTAN-B042, SPARTAN-G144
Antagonist	SPARTAN-205, Numerous others that I’ll edit in later (once I think them up and make a minor characters page)
Author	User:Spartan-D042
Date Published	Started February 4th, 2015
Author's Rating	M (Violence, Harsh Language, etc)
Previous Story	A Baptism of Sorts
Soundtrack	Had Enough-Breaking Benjamin
[Source]

"We hunters"

―EPHIALTES Program motto

Plot Summary

The year is 2555 and the United Nations Space Command is expanding back out into the reaches of space after nearly three decades of war. With the new SPARTAN-IV program and the Navy’s new flagship, Infinity humanity is strong enough to not only continue rebuilding and bringing stray colonies back into the fold, but to begin making new settlements. However, there is still darkness. With the influx of new SPARTANs taken from all branches, the idea of traitors in the ranks of the super soldiers becomes far more legitimate.

Even with the likes of Simon-G294, Ilsa Zane and other isolated incidents, it was not until SPARTAN-205’s going rogue that true countermeasures were taken. A SPARTAN-II, 205 was rescued after four years of being stranded inside a Forerunner shield world, being constantly hunted by ancient constructs for the entirety. The trauma from the event rendered 205 mentally unstable and his termination was ordered, however 205 would butcher his way through his rescuers/executioners and disappear into parts unknown.

Now, with a member of the most lethal breed of soldiers ever created on the loose, ONI Section 0 authorizes the activation of the EPHIALTES Program, a unit made specifically for hunting down rouge SPARTANs. At the head of this unit, is the two man ONI kill team consisting of Marcus-226 and Jason-243, who were 205’s teammates in training and who’s supposed “deaths” played a key role in weakening his mental state. In addition to 226 and 243, CINCONI drafted numerous additional Spartan teams for use, including Strike Team A-3, which includes Codename: BOO RADLEY, 205’s younger brother.

Prologue

Harriet II, September 16th, 2300 Hours

It was the same as always, just the two of them against the world, just like it should be. Marcus-226 sat idly in the hangar bay of the UNSC I Am Your Father pulling back the slide of the MA5K carbine he held in his right hand, meticulously checking over his weapon. Before him lay a suppressor, an under barrel grenade launcher, a scope meant for a BR55, and a laser pointer, all components for the small weapon the he held like a toy, but it was his toy.

Below him lay Harriet II, a UNSC controlled world filled with law abiding citizens and soldiers who followed orders to the letter. It was a good place to be, unless you were Colonel Ellen Granger or anyone under her command. Granger was a good officer, clean cut, reasonable, and a mother once, the last part had led to her crossing CINCONI. During a recent operation on some irrelevant world falling to the Covenant she’d been tasked to defend an ONI facility, in doing so she’d stumbled across information that his superiors didn’t want anyone knowing, she’d found out about her son, her real son. No one besides ONI and the dead knew that, and soon Granger would join the latter.

“Took you long enough.” Marcus remarked aloud, not even looking up from his weapon as Jason-243, his partner approached. The two had been together for a long time, years upon years of hunting, killing, and destroying, living the life. His partner didn’t respond, ever silent as Marcus began tediously attaching the extra components to his weapon.

Jason simply unslung his weapon, a heavily modified SRS-99-AM with too many extra additions to keep up with and motioned towards the DC-77 dropship with a nod of his head. “In a second.” Marcus responded, attaching the carbine to the magnetic back plate of his armor. Jason let out an exasperated sigh as waited for Marcus to gather up his collection of IEDs as well as more conventional explosives, and the XM10 that he treasured so dearly.

With his left hand Marcus scooped up the helmet to his MJOLNIR Mark V SAPPER armor and slid it on. Within seconds his bright blue heads up display appeared before his equally blue eyes, the armor instantly brought up displays which showed his weapons, amount of ammunition, vitals, and a motion tracker with a 50 meter area of effect. Also, an error message appeared as it failed to recognize the improvised explosives as usual. He got rid of it quickly before patting Jason on the shoulder and moving towards the Pelican.

Following without a word, Jason entered behind his Marcus and took a seat near the ramp, his weapon laying in his lap, with Marcus plopping down beside him. “ANTEAUS, ZARAOFF, system check.” Ordered the stoic voice of Karl Lysander, the two’s handler and mission director. Without question, both winked their status lights green as they sat in the hull of the dropship, their faces cold and expressionless beneath their visors, not that the MJOLNIR (M) variant that Jason donned had much of a visor to speak of.

Minutes felt like minutes, 226 and 243 had long since outgrown their nervousness or the anticipation that came pre-deployment, they were the best at what they did, and they weren’t afraid. As time passed they entered the atmosphere and descended towards their target. “COMs go down in five, four, three, two, on-“ the line with Lysander cut, as did every single line of communication on the island beneath them. Everyone was in the dark, just the way it should be.

Minutes later they touched down, outside they heard the confused clamor of troopers outside. Marcus nodded to 243, stood up, and activated his drop shield. The blue dome of hexagonal figures encased the SPARTANs as all of a sudden, the DC-77 exploded around them. As flame and fragmentation spewed everywhere the two operators remained safe on the hunk of metal that had been their seats.

As the dome dissipated, the black armored figures stared out amidst the smoke and fire with icy gazes. They were not affected by the screams of agony that filled the air, or the frantic scurrying of response teams to quell the flames. Marcus simply leveled his grenade launcher and squeezed the trigger thrice in quick succession. Explosives landed dead in the center of response teams, hurling limbs as well as people about.

As Marcus waded through the fire he continued to fire indiscriminately, response teams, aircraft crews, it didn’t matter, if it breathed he shot an explosive at it. Behind him, Jason seemingly faded into nothing but a slight shimmer as his active camouflage took effect. While his partnered moved to position himself, Marcus exited the inferno, opened the drum of the XM10, slid in a smoke round, and fired.

As the gray blanket covered him, he whipped his M6C SOCOM from his left thigh and activated his VISR systems. Only now did an armed group of troopers come into view, rushing through the smoke, looking about desperately for the wounded. They still didn’t know there boots on the ground. As one drew close to him, Marcus raised the pistol up and squeezed. He missed. Miraculously the trooper had kneeled down to assist a wounded comrade just in time. He squeezed twice, this time he caught the man in the chest and knocked him to the ground. Without pause, 226 put a round through the injured trooper’s skull.

“Is that a Spa-?!” A trooper’s cry of disbelief caught Marcus’ attention, who wheeled around to face the source of the noise, only the see the trooper collapse to the ground with a hole in his head. “Mica?! Mic-?!” another dropped, then another, then another, only now did they fight back. Blinded by smoke the troopers fired off their MA37s wildly, praying they’d hit whatever hellish thing was cutting them down. Striding past them, Marcus fully extended his arm to the left and fired five times, emptying his magazine into a duo of troopers before slapping the weapon back onto his thigh and swapping out his XM10 for the MA5K and breaking into a dead sprint.

Bursting through the layer of smoke, the weapon snapped out and let out a burst of suppressed coughs, dropping a duo of troopers before they could retaliate. Another managed to level his assault rifle and let off a few shots which harmlessly struck his shield. The yellow energy flared up, but Marcus didn’t shift his carbine to nail the man, instead letting out a long burst into another group as Jason sent a round soaring into the shooter’s skull.

“Big guy, on your left, I’ll take right.” The words cut through the eerie silence inside of his helmet as partner warned Marcus of the figure barreling towards him, and Jason was right, the guy was big. And fast. And had suddenly disappeared into nothing as some sort of camoflauge system kicked into play. “What the fuc-?“ He barely had a moment to speak as a barrage of suppressed fire hit him.

Even with the shields, an M7 coming from so close was something he could feel. Was this motherfucker in SPI? Marcus activated the VISR systems in his helmet instantly and trained his weapon on the figure and returned fire and began evading. Shockingly enough his opponent was able to evade just as well as he. All of a sudden his mag ran dry with an audible click, but so did his enemies, he could hear it.

The two were but a few feet apart, and both knew what was about to happen. Marcus hit first. Lunging forward he swung for the figure’s oddly rounded face, the assailant ducked under and put a series of jabs into his side then sprinting past him. “Fuck, hit that guy!” 226 snarled, slamming a new magazine home and yanking the slide of his carbine and whipping about. Sadly, unlike his unknown attacker who’d come from the woods now to his back, he was now facing the entrance of the firebase’s hangar, and it was crawling with troopers. Was that a fucking SIII?

Despite 243’s best efforts, the tan armored soldiers had managed to set up, utilizing the base’s UH-144s for cover. Instantly he slammed his hand to the ground and activated the drop shield. Had he been a second slower the M247s now slamming his dome would’ve popped his shields and torn him apart. And the figure was nowhere to be seen. As shields began to come back up, the protective dome began to fail. Where the hell had that SIII-type guy gone? Where the hell was Jason? Four heads exploded in quick succession, answering his question.

With the HMGs dropped and the other troopers focused on spraying towards the source of the sniper fire. Slapping his carbine to his back alongside the launcher, he yanked a C6 charge from a pouch and a detonator from another. Sprinting forward and out of the dome as it vaporized, he hurled the charge into the hangar, the explosive skidded along for a moment, ending up just under the nose of one of the three twin rotor transports, and then Marcus blew it.

The explosion thundered loudly, the hangar and all craft within detonated. Fire spat out and hurled the corpses and limbs of troopers into the air. “Jason where’d it go?!” Marcus demanded as he reloaded his M6.

“Inside.” Came the sniper’s stoic response, there had been no need to tell Marcus, he already knew 243 was moving to him. Moving together towards the entrance under the pale moonlight, the SPARTAN-II hit team armed themselves for close quarters.

Scooping up an MA37 to wield in tandem with his MA5K, Marcus pressed himself against the left side of the door as Jason slapped a device to the door, hefting an M6J in his hand. There was no need for words, they’d run through this drill since they were children, true that back then they’d had Lancaster to flood the hall with lead, but still, all it took was a simple nod from Jason to signal Marcus. Breach.

The door slid open, the device attached having cut through any locks in their way. Stepping into the hall, weapons raised, to Marcus the world seemed to move in slow motion. Squeezing down on the triggers, he pumped lead into the squad of troopers kneeling at the end of the hall around an M247. Before they could strike he’d put down four of the eight, including the MG gunner, but as the soldier fell back, reflexively he pulled the trigger in tandem with the rest of his squad.

Rounds hammered away at 226, forcing his shields to dissipate with a pop. As he dove back behind cover his HUD began to blare an alarm as the blue bar above his vitals which indicated his shield strength ran empty. As he dove he caught a round in his outer thigh. As he crashed into the ground he gritted his teeth in pain, which he ignored and rose back up without a word.

Jason leaned into the hall, shouldering his acquired carbine and squeezing the trigger twice. Two troopers dropped, holes in their skull. Quickly Jason jerked back as rounds whizzed past. Outstretching a hand he beckoned to Marcus, who tossed his friend the MA37. Snatching it out of the air and exchanging it for the M6J, he fired blindly into the hall to empty the magazine. Having effectively suppressed the troops for but a moment, Marcus stepped back into the hall, and fired off the underbarrel launcher, blasting the position to bits. “Got ‘em.” Marcus remarked, his shields regenerating as a low hum sounded in his helmet.

“Didn’t you say they wouldn’t send SPARTANs? What if it’s him? Is he down there?” Colonel Ellen Granger growled, looking to her right at the six foot six titan now standing beside her, clad in SPI armor. The soldier looked down at her, staring at her from behind a polarized visor and shrugged.

There was no way for Bowen-B103 to know the answer to her question, the ex-Spartan had taken a risk back on the colony Roosevelt, joining the fight alongside the UNSC whom he’d been hiding from for years. But he’d weighed the risks, and the hacker had infiltrated the system of the facility Granger’s battalion had been assigned to defend, and within he’d found something that would bring her to his side. Somewhere within the second class of SPARTAN-IIs was the colonel’s son, one she’d thought dead.

Standing up to ONI had been a part of the plan, but he’d wanted to wait until the right time. But the Covenant were closing in, humanity was on the verge of extinction now that Reach had fallen, now was likely the only chance they’d get. He’d expected them to retaliate, but not with Spartans, God forbid SIIs. He could’ve taken an ONI kill team, while lethal the unaugmented operators could still have been bested, but these two were not a standard kill team.

Looking back to the camera monitors he watched as the SIIs slaughtered their way through the base, working their way to the command center. “Get ready. The traps won’t stop them.” He ordered, calmly removing the empty clip of his M7 and slapping on a new one. The Colonel looked up at Bowen with a raised eyebrow, evidently bothered by the twenty-something former E-5 trying to order her around.

Uncaring, Bowen continued his preparations, and the former ORION augmentee caved and began her own preparations. Flicking the safeties off on her weapons, Ellen would place an M6G on her thigh and hold an M392 in one arm, and donning the silver visored Air Assault with the other. The woman was decked out in full airborne gear, but the tan armored woman wasn’t quite done, producing an injector from a pouch on her waist she then injected herself with a Waverly-Class augmenter. A rumbledrug.

Bowen on the other hand, loaded his M6C and sheathed his knives. In addition he lifted a rugged old M45 shotgun, which seemed to barely being held together by a series of jury rigged parts, much like the battered SPI he wore. His armor was covered in pockmarks, dents, burns, scratches, and the like, it was a miracle he’d kept the photoreactive panels operational.

Suddenly explosives rocked the halls nearby, Bowen and Granger snapped up their weapons, waiting for but a moment until the door began to slide open.

“Hit ‘em!” Marcus burst through the door with his comrade, spraying wildly with his carbine as Jason brought up his rear with fire from his MA37. Instantly the target and her accomplice, who was almost certainly an SIII (if the SPI in itself hadn’t enough, the faint “B103” on his chest solidified the theory) ducked into cover and returned fire.

Taking up cover in the hall and peeking around the door to fire, the SIIs pinned their opponents behind the command table, hurling lead through the holographic projections hovering above the table. While the rouge III remained in cover, firing blindly over the table with his M6, the target, Granger, moved. And she moved fast.

Marcus trained his sites on the woman and let out a burst at her, narrowly missing as she dived behind a console, and hurled something overhead. Flashbang Marcus and Jason’s visors fought to polarize quick enough to shield their eyes, but the play had served its purpose, even if for a second, Jason and Marcus were distracted.

Surging across the small room, Granger barreled into Marcus, bringing the assassin to the ground. Before Jason could dispatch her, Bowen had loosed a hail of buckshot at him. Turning his attention to the SIII, Jason moved in.

Meanwhile Marcus raised his arms to block a series of surprisingly fast punches then snatching the woman’s arm as she tried to draw an M6 and fire. With a quick twist and yank he broke her arm, then smashed her helmet with a punch which threw her off him and onto her back.

Jumping to his feet and then at her, he made a move to put his hand through her skull via her now shattered visor. But a swift kick to his chin changed things. She caught him again, and again, and again. Suddenly his visor cracked and depolarized, allowing to woman to see a distorted version of his face. The kicks stopped, she froze as he tossed aside the helmet and glared down on her with his cold eyes. “Marcus?” She questioned.

226 froze for a moment, somehow she knew his name. “Marcus, it’s me, it’s momm-,“ She was cut short when he leveled his M6 and fired once, striking her in the head. He’d cut her down without a second thought.

“YOU SICK FUCK!” Exclaimed a battered Bowen-B103, who as Marcus now saw, had a knife to Jason’s unshielded neck. “SHE WAS YOUR FAMILY! AND YOU KILLED HER!” The SIII roared. Marcus’ face remained cold and stoic as he simply nodded to Jason. Instantly 243 elbowed the smaller Spartan in the gut, knocking the breath out of him as well as putting a dent into his armor, then Jason grabbed the traitor’s knife hand, and pulled him over his shoulder, slamming him onto the command table.

Grunting in pain, Bowen began to raise himself up, only to be slammed back down by Marcus, who then pulled one of the rouge’s knives from its sheath then rammed it into its owner’s throat. As B103 clawed at his own neck, pointlessly attempting to save himself, Marcus looked down on him with indifference. “He,” Marcus began, pointing to Jason who looked down on the III as well. “He is my family.” With his statement finished, he wrenched out the knife, then rammed it through the SPI’s visor and into Bowen’s skull. The SIII went limp.

The rest of the op went exactly as planned, Jason and Marcus rigged the base with IEDs and the like and brought the place down and made it look like an insurgent attack, plain and simple. They would be picked up and returned to the ONI owned Marathon-Class cruiser, and they would not discuss what had occurred on that night, or who Granger may have been to Marcus or who the traitor SIII was, until now.

Chapter 1

Induction

UNSC I Am Your Father, August 5th, 2555

“Why the hell are we even here?” Asked Jamison-G144 for the third time as he leaned back in his chair around a long table inside the conference room of the cruiser. His partner, and mentor Cody-B042 simply shot the younger SIII a look, he’d answered the question in some form or another twice already. He. Didn’t. Fucking. Know.

Rolling his eyes at Cody, Jamison returned to looking over his datapad boredly. Cody simply would enjoy the (ironically enough) solace that came from the peacefully quiet room. Around the table was a sea of largely unfamiliar faces, largely SIVs, but a few appeared to be SIIIs, and the massive duo at the far end of the table had to be SIIs. All of them wore ONI garb, which suggested whatever was going on wasn’t going to be something that was made into propaganda posters. Then again, nothing he’d ever done had been.

Looking down on his own datapad, he continued reading over a series of dossiers on Remnant commanders. A group known as the Followers of the Righteous Path had been the target of the last four of his and Jamison’s missions. They’d done a good job, the organization was largely in shambles and besides M’dama’s Storm Covenant no other Remnant cells had been active in quite some time, so this wasn’t about that. As for the innies, they were running amuck, but standard units of the IVs took care of them largely, so what in the hell were they really here for?

Cody felt his question would soon be answered as the door to the long room in the belly of the ship slid open and a man with a Commodore’s star entered, flanked by two Spartans clad in ENFORCER armor. Standing at the very end of the table, the man cleared his throat. “Spartans, I assume you are all curious as to why I brought you here?” The Commodore questioned, his voice oddly warm and friendly for a spook.

Besides a few instances of “Yes sir” the table was largely silent. They were Spartans, they might’ve questioned things among themselves, but orders were always orders, especially when from the lips of a superior. “Well, none of you know why, if you knew prior to being in this room you’d either have an admiral’s stars or would be six feet underground.” The officer shrugged, once again the room remained utterly silent, patiently awaiting instruction.

A smirk formed on the commodore’s face; they were ready to listen. “As you all know, in the early days of the SPARTAN-IV program, Ilsa Zane along with several others defected and betrayed the UNSC.” The man began, eliciting some murmuring from the SIVs some of whom had known the psychopathic experiment gone wrong, but the SIIIs and the pair of SIIs remained silent.

“Prior to her, G294.” The officer continued, his mention of the traitor of Gamma caused a stir amongst the SIIIs to whom Mamore and G006's kidnapping was still fresh in mind. Jamison’s eyes narrowed in anger as he was once again reminded that the worst preforming Spartan of Gamma had betrayed his brothers and sisters. Cody’s thoughts however, simply consisted of taking on the rogue. Like that would ever happen.

“And they are by no means the only ones. Whether by choice or by circumstance, enough Spartans have gone rogue for it to call for the formation of a special unit.” The officer finished. Acknowledging the confusion amongst the dozen or so operators, the Commodore took a sigh and prepared to drop a metaphorical bomb. Raising a remote, he turned on a holoprojector and began to play a feed. On the screen, a hulking figure armed was engaging a RECRUIT armored SIV who made a move to stab him, at an alarmingly fast speed, even for a Spartan, the titanic man caught the strike and twisted the blade free, then in the blink of an eye rammed it into the SIV’s neck. The man scooped up the fallen Spartan’s MA5D and began firing on another SIV who desperately was trying to get the video to transmit. Even with the ORBITAL helmet covering up her face, those in the room could sense her fear.

In an instant her shields flared and died, and as the man rushed her, now coming into the light, she turned to face him. A savage blow from the butt of the rifle slamming her to the ground and forced her helmet to emit an audible crack!. But whoever the madman was, he didn’t stop, hitting the woman over and over and over until there was a wet crunch.

Slowly, the man drew back and looked into the camera. His face was covered in scars and blood, none of it his own. His attire consisted of a tattered bodysuit and what appeared to be MJOLNIR Mark V components completely fused to his skin. For but a moment the figure glared hatefully, then sent the transmission.

The screen dissipated as the holoprojector powered down and all eyes but four turned to the commodore. “That, Spartans, is Lancaster-205, a second class SPARTAN-II and the reason for the formation of the unit you’ve been called to join. Welcome to the EPHIALTES program, I am Codename: HANGING TREE, I will be your new CO.” The ONI man informed them rather bluntly, his disturbingly cheery disposition remaining.

While most in the room were shocked at the prospect of a rouge SII, Cody included, the two actual members of the program itself hadn’t taken their eyes off the spot on the wall where the screen had been, a look of complete shock spread across their faces.

Cody arched and eyebrow curiously as his kinder nature kicked in. Maybe it was just the shock of a member of their breed going rogue, but the SIIs were hard sons and daughters of bitches, and something in the SIIIs gut told him there was much more than just that occurring. Cody was very sure the two SPARTANs identified as Codename: ANTEAUS and Codename: ZARAOFF knew this Lancaster-205 quite personally. From what he knew of the two, which wasn’t much, they’d always worked together, they’d never suffered the loss of a comrade, until now. They looked the same way he did when he watched Sarah’s pod smash into another as they fell towards Pegasi Delta.

It was him…he was alive…and he was rogue.

Jason couldn’t force his mind to stop racing as he desperately tried to process what he’d just seen, yet all he came up with was memories of himself, Marcus, and Lancaster darting through training exercises as children. The man they’d just seen, was that really their brother? Was that the same quiet little boy who’d been terrified to talk to them on the first day of training, the same one who’d cried when he’d been forced to kill a deer? It couldn’t be. Yes Lancaster had grown into a fighter, but he’d never been so brutal, so savage.

Looking to Marcus for some kind of guidance, Jason found none. Both he and 226 were in shock, half because of what Lancaster had devolved into, or possibly evolved, and the other half blown away by his betrayal. Maybe it was one of those “by circumstance” betrayals, Lancaster had looked off, unstable, not like himself, and Jason refused to believe Lancaster would willingly turn on his brothers.

Then 243 remembered, as far as Lancaster knew, both he and Marcus were dead, killed in augmentations by forces out of his control. But still each of them had a slip of paper in the back of their helmets, poems written for them by Lancaster as gifts before augmentations. They hadn’t forgotten him, but had the thing on screen forgotten them?Shutting his eyes and exhaling loudly Jason hammered the table with his fist, which in turn resulted in the Commodore looking to him and Jason with almost sympathetic eyes. “Spartan-243, Spartan-226, you two are the top operators in this room, can we count on you?” The man asked, looking down on the two. For a moment they were both silent, and it seemed as if they would hold this vigil forever even with all eyes in the room on them.

“Yes sir.” Marcus answered gruffly, looking up and meeting the officer’s gaze with one of intensity. The man smirked almost devilishly before dismissing the room and exiting himself. As the other Spartans left, Jason picked up on the piercing gaze of one of the SIIIs who looked at him with a degree of understanding, and gave a nod of respect before exiting. The SIIIs had always been odd.

“Bastard singled us out.” Marcus growled angrily as he turned to look at his partner, whose expression had gone back to its usual stoic form.

“He knew we had ties. It was a test. You passed. Congrats.” He responded, his words icy as he stood up and walked out of the room before Marcus could protest. Jason was fuming beneath his calm demeanor, all his career he and Marcus had done has ONI asked, but they’d sworn no matter what to never strike each other. To Jason, Lancaster was included in that agreement, yet Marcus for some reason now thought otherwise. Once again he’d readied up to murder his family.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the SIII from before, and his partner, who bore a striking resemblance to Lancaster, seemingly waiting at the end of the hall for him. “Who was that guy?” The younger looking one of the two questioned, looking eye to eye with the sniper. Jason simply shrugged and tried to push past, only to have a prosthetic hand be placed on his chest, not forcefully, it wasn’t meant to physically stop him, the Spartan would’ve tried much harder if that had been the case.

“If you know something about this guy, how he fights, where he’s weak, we need to know. Else we’re gonna lose a lot of good men and women.” The man stated, his voice filled with sincerity. Jason only laughed, a harsh, unforgiving laugh. His eyes met the Spartan who had ‘B042’ on his sleeve.

“We aren’t good people, we aren’t even people. We’re assets to humanity, not human.” Jason responded coldly as he pushed past and made for his quarters. Before rounding the corner, he looked back and yelled over his shoulder, “Don’t try taking him from the front, you’ll lose.”

Cody did his best not to scowl, Jamison didn’t. “What an asshole.” The Gamma remarked angrily as the Spartan II walked away in what he saw as an overdramatic fuss. Maybe all the time stuck with just that one other guy had made this “ZARAOFF" guy forget the family side of things with Spartans.

B042 would look dead at him and give a disapproving glare which Jamison then choose not to acknowledge. When his team had died and he was surrounded by spooks so intent on getting mission details that they forgot his squad had been butchered in the process, he began to wonder just who the real humans were, and he still hadn’t figured it out.

“Maybe his buddy will be more informative.” Jamison thought aloud, beginning to move down the lifeless gray halls of the ship and back towards the meeting area, only for Cody to pull him back by his collar. His arms windmilling the Spartan fought to keep balance before turning to look at his partner with a glare. Deadpan as always, Cody simply shook his head at G144, and as always Jamison would heed his advice.

Kholo, August 5th, 2555

“But this is our fucking home! Glass or not, we can rebuild!”

Sergeant Major Daniel Klein let out an exasperated sigh as waited for the refugee to finish his rant before re-issuing his command. “At this point in time, Kholo is under investigation by the Office of Naval Intelligence. When operations have ceased, re-colonization will begin, until that time it is illegal for citizens to attempt to settle.” He stated, sounding as if he was a robotic answering machine reading off a script. He didn’t like doing this, hell the ODST sympathized with the refugees, if he wasn’t out here he’d be trying to rebuild what life he’d had on Tribute. But Tribute hadn’t been the site of numerous Forerunner artifacts including a monitor, if their Sanghelli sources were to be believed.

“Fuck your shit, this is our home, and we ain’t leavin’!” Spat an angry refugee, his saliva spraying across Klein’s visor. Coming up from his right, Private Clemens gave the man a forceful shove to get him back. Stumbling back across the glassy earth the man let out an angry roar and shot a hand inside the long coat. In that split second Klein felt a massive knot form in his stomach as his weapon raised up. He didn’t know who fired first, but after three successive cracks the refugee jerked violently backward and onto the ground, his sidearm, and M6B sliding across the dirt, Clemens stumbling backwards clutching his side in agony, and a child slumping over, hole in her chest.

“Stand down now!” Klein boomed, holding his MA5D level with the group, but it was too late for that. A boy no older than thirteen scooped up the weapon in a blur and fired thrice into Clemens, the first two shots scathing his helmet and the third smashing through his visor and boring into the Private’s skull. Then the crowd of nearly one hundred and fifty displaced colonists surged forward. He didn’t have a choice, Klein swore he didn’t have a choice as he squeezed the trigger.

5.56 millimeter rounds tore into the crowd, mowing down any struck by one of the bullets and on occasion the person behind them. Klein’s fire was joined by that of the rest of his eight man squad and the two machine guns behind him entrenched in sandbags. All too soon his magazine ran dry as a woman little older than him rushed forward, he had to do it. Wrenching the M6H from his side he whipped the unarmed woman across the head and knocked her to the ground, then quickly putting a bullet in her skull.

Backpedaling he continued to fire as they swarmed his position with rampant anger and desperation, he could only watch as the swarm enveloped two of his men, pouncing on the soldiers and beating them with whatever they could find as the shock troopers frantically slashed out with their knives. Then gunshots came from the crowd, a MA2B or some other older model weapon from the sound of it. One of his soldiers dropped as gunfire perforated her chest, the M247 she’d been manning continuing to fire as she squeezed down even in death. Suddenly and explosion rang out, one of his ODSTs having tossed a frag. Within minutes the once large crowd had been diminished to little more than ten individuals.

Standing in front of the nine cowering individuals was one woman, armed with a MA5B which she had leveled with Klein. Having slapped in a fresh magazine, Klein and the two remaining troopers raised their weapons to fire. Then, striking in a blur of speed and fury a massive figure snatched one his men off their feet and reflexively snapped his neck. Before Corporal Sharpe could react the beast of a man was on her, ramming a crudely made spear through her abdomen and spattering her blood across the dirt.

Klein’s weapon snapped to the thing and fired. Moving and inhuman speed, the figure who wore what resembled tattered ODST and possibly SPARTAN armor ducked under his stream of lead and took two steps and was face to face with the veteran trooper. As if it was a toy being taken from a child by his father, Klein’s assault rifle was ripped from his hands. Instinctively he went for his knife, but instead the attacker had buried a blade in his abdomen. Confused and practically terrified, Klein gulped and looked up into the thing’s visor.

As warm blood ebbed from the wound in his stomach and his vision began to fade to black, he glared defiantly at the thing. He wondered if it was doing the same as he bled out on its knife. Klein’s last thoughts were that of wonder, wondering just what his killer was, if the visor of the helmet had anything to say about it, it wasn’t human, not anymore. As it all faded away, the last thing Sergeant Major Daniel Klein was the crudely etched words in the visor of his killer; Man no more

Dangerous Prey

Reach, August 5th, 2539

“You got ‘em?”

“Yeah.”

“Lank, you’re up.”

They had Gold by the balls, if they struck now they’d hammer the other team in a somewhat prolonged firefight they’d would end in their favor, only problem was Cobalt apparently didn’t have time for that in a non-timed exercise.

“Movin’.” Lancaster ‘Lank’-205 grumbled, racking the slide of the MA5B in his arms. He was crouched low in the underbrush of one of the many expansive forests across Reach, roughly a hundred feet to his front was Gold Team in their entirety. They were dug in with a solid perimeter and had a relatively clear line of sight, that wouldn’t save them though.

Rising up from the brush he squeezed the trigger. The assault rifle kicked against his shoulder violently as he let off several burst of TTR before diving behind a tree, paint splattering around him as he gritted his teeth. They weren’t taking the bait, only one was firing.

Reaching into a pouch on his waist he withdrew a stun grenade and armed the explosive. Mentally counting down from six to three, on his mark Lancaster hurled the paint filled ball towards the enemy position. In the seconds between detonation his mind went over the innumerable times Cobalt had run through this drill, how many times he’d run diversion.

Boom!

Whipping around the trunk of the tree, he squeezed his eyes shut bolted forward firing blindly. Instantly the sim rounds began whizzing about his body as Gold did their best to hit him as they opened up from behind cover. Then one caught his shin, another slapped against his shoulder, another two in his chest but he didn’t stop moving.

As the paint hardened and his joints began to freeze every step became harder, and more and more shots struck him. Suddenly the onslaught of rounds ceased, forcing his eyes open he saw Marcus and Jason standing over the now incapacitated Gold. Forcing a smirk he fell to his knees, the autumn leaves crunching beneath his weight as he raised up his left arm and gave a thumbs up, they returned the gesture and rushed towards him.

In seconds they had arrived, their arms pulling his over their shoulders as they hefted up their larger comrade. Despite the pain, he fought to stand on his own, pain surging through him. His teammates-no, his brothers had long since quit telling him to ‘take it easy’ or ‘let us help’, Lancaster was determined to do this.

At first his constant refusal to go easy was something Marcus and Jason thought was arrogance, but over time they came to see it was him doing his best to not let them down. Admit it or not the two had always done the most as just the two of them, when Lancaster entered the mix things became erratic, so constantly he ran diversion, took the beatings so that they could effectively operate. Though as time moved on, the constant uphill battles began to harden Lancaster and make him exceedingly more talented.

“Why do I always have to get shot?” Questioned Lancaster, the nine year old turning his head to look at Jason who reflexively shrugged as he did with all questions, and then looked to Marcus who seemed to be thinking.

“Because you’re awesome at assaulting positions and we’re good at things more on the quite side, you’d be dead weight in that position.” 226 replied, patting his teammate on the back. It might’ve not been intended as insult, but it sure as hell came off that way, and Lancaster simply rolled his eyes, one day he’d show Marcus, one day.

Reach, August 5th, 2544

Marcus surged forward with his plastic training blade in a hammer grip slashing at Lancaster’s abdomen aggressively. Quickly 205 met his attacker’s blade, the mock-knives smacking together furiously. For the fifth time the two were deadlocked, both snarling in frustration.

Stepping forward with his right leg, Marcus feigned Lancaster into stepping back and breaking the lock, then he dropped down on his leg and swiftly swiped with his left leg, knocking Lancaster’s feet out from under him. Flipping his knife into a reverse grip, Marcus bore down on Lancaster.

205 fell back and smacked against the mat, his arms snapping up to catch Marcus’ arms as he attempted to strike him in the chest. With his team leader bearing down on him with his full strength, Lancaster only smirked as he yanked his knee up and plowed into Marcus. Without pause he kneed him again, watching as his friend gasped in shock as Lancaster followed up with an uppercut to send 226 reeling back onto the mat.

Now it was his turn to pounce, sitting up and snapping into a low crouch he leapt forward with his blade in a reverse grip as he moved to ram his comrade’s chest. As expected Marcus tried attacking rather than defending, stabbing up at Lancaster who caught him by the wrist and pinned the hand against the mat. Before Marcus could get off a punch Lancaster launched slammed a fist into his jaw, snapping his head to the side, then he simply slid the knife across the neck of his teammate. “Gotcha.” Lancaster chuckled as he stood up, extending a hand to Marcus who accepted it and was pulled to his feet.

“Fuck you Lank.” Marcus shot back, wiping blood from his lip and shooting 205 a glare before chuckling quietly. Letting out a laugh of his own, Lancaster patted his team-lead on the back as both of them stepped off the mat and returned their training blades to the box from which they came.

“What in the FUCK was that two-two-six?!” Boomed none other than Sergeant Major Nolan Byrne who stomped over to the two who snapped to attention.

“He beat me again Sergeant Major.” Marcus replied firmly as Byrne looked eye to eye with the accelerated-pubescence 13 year old with a look of disgust across his face.

“I don’t give a fuck if Lancaster won, I give a fuck that you let him beat you the same goddamn way six times!” Bellowed the Drill Instructor they’d all come to see as a father of sorts. Marcus had always been a favorite of his, which meant he pushed him harder than anyone else, and to see him failing to adapt again and again was riling his nerves.

“You block goddamn it! If you stab, he’ll get your bloody hand.” Ranted Byrne, grabbing Marcus’ arms and putting them into a block.

“Yes Sergeant Major.” Marcus gulped as Byrne gave him a shove then yanked the training knives back out of the box and forced them back into both of the Spartan’s hands.

“AGAIN!” He thundered, both of the trainees complied in silence, knowing better than to sign or groan, years of physical conditioning as punishment had forced that out of the Class IIs long ago. Assuming their fighting stances, Marcus and Lancaster stared each other down. Marcus gave a nod, and they went at it once again.

Kholo, August 5th, 2555

As the body of the ODST went slack Lancaster pulled the blade from the man’s stomach, letting him crumple onto the ground as blood continued to seep from the wound and stained the torched soil. The fucking monster deserved worse, massacring refugees without reason other than ONI gave them orders not to let people return to try and salvage the life they’d lost. Yet somehow he felt a deep guilt as he watched the ODST’s life fade away. For a moment he stood still, looking down on the black armored prone figure, lying there on the ground.

“Who are you?” A strong female voice questioned, the distinct ch-chik of an MA5 following her inquiry. No, why? He knew he’d missed one, he knew it. You stupid shit. What would Lee think? Shut the fuck up!

Slowly Lancaster turned his head towards the woman. She hadn’t aged a day, same striking features, same beautiful green eyes, same attitude, and same nerves of steel. Opening his palm and letting the knife fall to the ground, slowly he moved his hands up to the battered ODST helmet praying that she wouldn’t squeeze the trigger.

Wrapping his taped hands around the helmet he lifted upwards, he froze as Phoebe tensed, alarmed by the absence of the hiss of a vacuum seal. “D-don’t shoot.” He stammered, his throat dry and his voice raspier then he remembered. She was going to shoot he could tell, she was gonna-then she loosened up, Lancaster continued to pull up until the helmet was free of his head.

Letting the helmet fall to his side, his left hand clutching it, he looked towards the woman and wondered if she remembered. Unlike her, he’d aged quite a lot. His face was more heavily scarred, his hair had become unkempt and mangy, scraggly facial hair had grown, and the traumas of what he’d endured seemingly drained years away from him. He was a monster. “Lancaster?” She questioned, tensing up once again and leveling the MA5B to his head.

His eyes widened in surprise, he’d just killed UNSC soldier why didn’t she trust him? What had he done wrong? Was she helping them? But he’d just seen he-shut up. It’s not like he was supposed to be highly indoctrinated and loyal to the UNSC an-then it hit him, he’d been thinking slower as of late.

“I’m not with them anymore, they’re after me.” He rasped, his eyes seemingly fading back to the cold and lifeless way they’d been before she’d identified him. She didn’t ease up, she wasn’t buying it.

“A mission went to hell, I was stranded for four years. I saw things, things they don’t want me talking about even to their fellow spooks. They want to shut me up. Please?” He pleaded, his heart rate accelerating as he began with a truth and ended with a lie.

She wouldn’t believe him, no one would, they all knew. He’d held back the truth because somehow "They’re after me because the trauma made me fucking insane” didn’t seem like a good way to avoid getting shot. Who was he kidding, she’d shoot him anyway, dumb bitch had never cared. Shut up.

Then the rifle lowered, and dropped to the ground. She surged forward and his body tensed preparing for a stab to his abdomen, but all he received was an embrace. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, doing her best to anyway, he was huge after all.

For a moment he paused, looking for some ulterior reason for the embrace and finding none. So he returned it lightly, any real effort and he’d have crushed her and for once the voices calmed. He never wanted to let go, but he did of course. Years of training and mental conditioning, suppressed sex drive and emotions, and yet here he stood, a Spartan in love.

Her eyes focused on his chest plate for a moment, sadness shadowing over them as she saw the crudely scratched characters, A137. “Did you lose him?” She questioned. See she only cares about him. Lancaster nodded in conformation, his own pain from the loss still burning, the sorrow drowning out the voices calling Phoebe’s character into doubt. She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, somehow in the eyes of a liar she saw truth.

“How do you feel about insurrectionists now?” She questioned shyly. Cowardly shits the lot of ‘em the words of Nolan Byrne blared in his mind. But he didn’t care what Byrne had said, he’d raised them up with promises of victory together, but no, so many had died on the operating table.

Jason…Marcus… were the first two to come to mind, he’d forgotten the others, names were such an easy thing to lose, but he remembered their screams. So many gone, so many. He could stop it, if he joined these rebels…yes he could show the galaxy what they’d done. Make them pay. “Where do I sign up?” He responded, eliciting a smile from the woman.

“Help me get the survivors I have a place we can go, full of people who’ll be happy to see you. Welcome to the New Colonial Alliance Lancaster.”

New Colonial Alliance? He’d never heard of that group, the URF and others yes but never this group.

It’s been four years Lank, we won the war but the UNSC is downright exhausted. What a perfect time to start a rebellion? Kick the man while he’s down. The faintest of smiles formed on his face, typical humanity.

He’d figured most of the UNSC’s political figures would’ve died in the supposedly decimating battle for Earth and allowed for new faces to come in and possibly work some things out for the colonies that remained, but no, the UNSC’s administration and governing body had been safely pulled away while their people burned in their place. Typical humanity.

Tugging at his arm, Phoebe began to lead the towering figured towards the group of survivors of the recent massacre who all huddled together at the back of the carnage. Solemnly Lancaster trailed behind Snow as she scooped up her rifle and did her best not to look down on the bodies of torn apart refugees. Sick bastards. Make them pay make them pay.

They’d been with him for years, but only now had they grown so loud in the back of his mind. After ONI had found the battered SII the voices had begun to scream in his ears, begging him to lash out and warning him to not trust those around him.

So far they’d been right, the pathetic excuses for Spartans that had “rescued” him from the hunting grounds of the machines had stabbed him in the back mere hours after meeting him. Had it not been for the voices he’d be gone, but now they wanted more than to preserve themselves, they wanted blood.

//RECEIVING TRANSMISSION…//

//INITIATING MESSANGER…//

[OPEN: (Y)/N]

//OPENING:…100%//

[OTHELLO]: HAVE SOMETHING FOR YOU IF YOU’RE INTERESTED.

[HANGING TREE]: BY ALL MEANS CONTINUE.

[OTHELLO]: KHOLO, GROUP OF ODSTS WAS FORCE TO OPEN UP ON REFUGEES, SECTION II IS KEEPING IT DOWN.

[HANGING TREEE]: WHY DOES THIS CONCERN ME?

[OTHELLO]: ODSTS ARE DEAD.

[HANGING TREE]: AND?

[OTHELLO]: THE THREE THAT WEREN’T TRAMPLED BY THE MOB WERE TAKEN OUT IN CLOSE QUARTERS WITHIN SECONDS BY A MAN AT LEAST SEVEN FEET TALL.

[HANGING TREE]: TALL INNIE WITH RUMBLE DRUGS, GET PALMER ON THIS.

[OTHELLO]: THE WORDS “MAN NO MORE” MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU?

[HANGING TREE]: YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION.

[OTHELLO]: THOUGHT SO.

[OTHELLO]: I’LL SEND A DATA PACKET YOUR WAY.

[HANGING TREE]: MUCH APPRECIATED.

[OTHELLO]: MHM, NEXT TIME THINK BEFORE YOU ASSUME I’M WASTING YOUR TIME.

[OTHELLO]: I’M YOUR TOP INFORMATION BROKER FOR A REASON.

[OTHELLO]: NOW LETS TALK PAYMENT.

[HANGING TREE]: USUAL RATE.

[OTHELLO]: NOW THIS IS SENSITIVE STUFF I SHOULD GET A LITTLE MORE THAN STANDARD.

[HANGING TREE]: I SHOULD HAVE OSMAN DEPLOY A BRUTUS AND TIE UP LOOSE ENDS. STANDARD PAYMENT, NO EXCEPTIONS.

//SESSION TERMINATED//

UNSC I Am Your Father, August 11th, 2555

It was almost how it should’ve been. Striding down the halls and through bulkheads of the cruiser, Marcus navigated the pale gray interior of the vessel he’d called home for years. Trailing behind him was Jason who’d failed to say a word since the revelation of Lancaster as the primary target of their operation six days ago.

Somehow he felt the briefing they were about to enter was going to make things so much worse, and the knot in his stomach seemed to agree with the sentiment. Arriving at the door to the room they’d had their world shattered days earlier, the door slid open. Inside were four other Spartan’s and HANGING TREE. Two of the Spartans sat at the table, clad in ONI fatigues like him and Jason, and the others were the Commodore’s personal guard. “Ahhhh gentlemen, glad to have you her. Please take a seat.” The officer smiled.

Unphased, the two pulled out seats at the head of the long black table and sat down in silence. With a nod of appreciation, HANGING TREE pressed down on the screen of his datapad, and the holoprojecter before him came to life. A variety of documents and images appeared in mid-air, all of them relating to the glassed colony of Kholo. “The prodigal son has run home.” The ONI Officer stated harshly, the warm tone leaving his voice as he got down to business.

An image of Kholo took over the display, the world still had the scorch marks of the glassing and in some areas still burned. “Six days ago, a group of ODSTs were attacked and killed by an unidentified assailant. While we cannot provide unquestionable evidence, the garb the attacker was wearing,” He trailed off, a blurred image of a titanic man clad in patchwork armor took the place of the burning world. “Matches what Sierra Two-Oh-Five was found in, with a few minor differences all of which could easily have been made from materials on board the prowler he stole.”

His heart sank as deep as a merciless assassin’s heart could. This was it, they were going after Lancaster. Marcus looked solemnly across to Jason, meeting his partner’s gaze and nodding. “You four will be deployed in teams of two, here and here.” The man continued, the image of Lancaster being replaced with a map with two blips on it, each of which he pointed too. The first blip had ‘226/243’ above it, and the second ‘B042/G144’ both an equal distance from a large red triangle indicating the location of their target.

“You will be deployed via HEV and supplied with long range weaponry for your respective marksmen. Whoever isn’t making a shot is on security detail as the NCA has an active cell in the area, one which is sheltering 205.”

“Possibility of reinforcements?” Questioned the youngest in the room.

“Increasing by the hour.”

The officer quickly administered the answer all of the operators feared the most. They were Spartans yes, but the NCA were tough bastards and when they came they came well-armed and would undoubtedly make hitting their target difficult. “Then let’s go.” Marcus growled.

“Indeed, I’ll have the details sent to your HUDs. Oh, and SOLACE, RADLEY, this is family business for the two at the head of the table. I wouldn’t interfere unless absolutely necessary.”

Marcus arched and eyebrow and looked to the ONI man with a puzzled expression. Why was he doing this? Yes, Marcus wanted to keep this in house but it wasn’t like a spook to let an operatives personal feelings dictate objectives. He was playing at something.

“Understood.” Spoke the elder of the two, SOLACE so he was called. With that simple phrase the Spartan III drove the final nail into the coffin, Jason and Marcus were too take the shot. They had to pour all their effort, all their skill, into killing the only other family they could ever remember having. But he was a traitor, he’d turned his back on them and was launching a war against his former comrades and his home.

So they’d been told, but then again, what they were told was all that really mattered.

The First Hunt Begins

UNSC I Am Your Father, August 11th, 2555

Armoring up wasn’t something Cody looked forward too. As he stepped onto the platform and outstretched his limbs, he longed for the simplicity of his Semi-Powered Infiltration armor. What it lacked in performance it made up for in reliability and modularity, his own personal set had been fitted with an experimental shielding system, point defense gauntlets, and a variety of other additions by the end of the war with the Covenant. Now it was in some ONI storehouse, aging away

Instead of his once reliable armor he was now outfitted with the shiny new MJOLNIR GEN2. Unlike during the war when Cody was denied access to such armor because he didn’t meet the exact genetic parameters set by Halsey, now he and anyone else could be properly augmented to use the new armor systems.

As the soles of his armored boots locked over his feet, black metal now held him in place as robotic arms placed the gauntlets over his hand then locking over his arm. Without warning he was tilted back forty five degrees as the remainder of the procedure began.

He remained silent separate pieces of armor were placed over his calves and locked into place, the same process occurring with his right forearm.

Then came his thighs and arm, the smooth plating of the new MJOLNIR finding its place over the liquid gel body glove that separated man from machine. He’d seen the SIVs look about excitedly as their power armor was latched on, Cody simply looked forward as his groin and hips were covered in the titanium plates.

As usual he was pushed forward as the back plate was pressed into place, then was pushed back as it locked into place with the chest piece. As on shoulder plate locked over his right arm, the prosthetic left was also covered.

The machine whirred as it rotated the SPARTAN-III back into an upright position, and the metal clamps lowered down the crown piece of the armor. His expression was sullen as the HUNTER variant helmet was lowered onto his head.

Within a fraction of a second his heads up display came to life, his vitals and various other important. As he was released by the machine, he stepped forward and moved towards what rested on the racks before him.

After running through a quick few diagnostics the hunter stepped forward and prepared himself for what laid ahead. Attaching one knife to his upper chest, another to his right calf, another on his hip, and finally sliding a machete into a sheath which ran across the small of his back Cody finished arming himself for close quarters. The next portion of the Spartan’s armaments consisted of an M7S and an M45D as well as a pair of M9 frag grenades.

Often the necessity of so many blades was questioned, and often he failed to respond, his skill in the field speaking for itself.

Turning to look for Jamison, his eyes settled on the TRACKER armored SPARTAN-III. Unlike Cody, many of the modifications on G144’s armor were purely aesthetic. On his right shoulder rested a dark green character, which in Greek stood for gamma, homage to 144’s roots in the IIIs. Across the front of his helmet, the likeness of a shark’s mouth was carved in, which in all fairness was rather odd looking on the helmet he wore.

With a nod of approval, Cody went about placing extra pouches of ammunition across the suit in preparation for what lay ahead. Unlike when they were not operating, Jamison simply followed Cody’s lead in silence.

“SOLACE, RADLEY, let’s go.”

Both turned to see none other than HANGING TREE standing amidst the machinery of the Spartan’s preparation area, arms neatly resting behind his back and flanked by his ever present security detail. “Now Spartans, you’re on the clock.”

Neither soldier said a word, placing their weaponry on the appropriate magnetic plates and strode towards the exit. As they approached, the commodore and his protectors stepped aside as the two operators moved past.

The walk wasn’t a long one, long before the SIVs arrived and prep bays became commonplace on larger UNSC vessels the I Am Your Father had been outfitted with one and had its HEV bays constructed close by. In fact, besides the Infinity herself, no other ship had SPARTAN deployment in mind when it was being produced.

Entering the bay the commandos moved past the multitude of ODSTs on standby as well as the pod technicians that crowded the area. Even with the SIVs coming into existence, the ODST-SPARTAN rivalry remained, and it was nowhere more clear anywhere in the galaxy than in the room in which they stood right now.

“What, being normal not enough?”

“Aw, does somebody wanna be a superhero?”

“Even with all the toys you’re still just one of us.”

The mumbled insults meant for those who’d left their original units for Spartan-hood bounced off the SIIIs harmlessly and did nothing to slow their pace. Reaching their pods the two silently pulled their weapons from the armor plates which they rested on and placed them in the racks designed for the sole purpose of holding said weaponry.

Looking to his comrade one final time, Cody dragged two fingers across his visor area as reassurance and stepped into his pod. Flashing a thumbs up to the resident button pusher who dropped initiated the drop, B042 gulped as the door came down in front of him and sealed him in.

His gut wretched inside him as the pods pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and darkness filled up the glorified container. Milliseconds later light returned as all the systems of the HEV came to life. Not even bothering to glance at the vid-screen which Jamison appeared on, Cody glued his eyes to the countdown.

3…

2…

1…

It felt as if his innards lurched upwards momentarily as the pod blasted out of the cruiser and began it’s descent to the world below. Despite only having at best a few minutes until impact, something told Cody it would be a long ride.

Kholo, August 11th, 2555

“Shit HEVs!”

The curse of Private Kenny Decker made Lancaster’s eyes flash open. They were here. Rolling off his makeshift cot the Spartan grabbed up the MA2B he’d taken as his own and rushed out of his tent into the center of the encampment.

All around him were men in women in raggedy civilian garb and scavenged pieces of various battle armors, many of which came from the ODSTs slain but days ago, and weapons that had either never been in military service or had been retired for quite at time before he’d dropped off the grid with few exceptions.

“How many?”

“Four!”

“Four?”

“Spartans.”

The last to speak was none other than Phoebe herself, now clad in a full ODST BDU and toting a M45 tactical shotgun she looked and carried herself like a full blow warfighter. Not bad for someone who’d been an untrained guerilla when they’d first met.

The likelihood of fighting his brothers and sisters mortified him, but Snow had reassured him most if not all of the ‘good SPARTANs’ had died defending their race in the final days of the war, all that was left were the fakes. She’d promised.

“Give me a few men. I’ll do what I can.” Lancaster ordered, his MA2 hanging loosely in his right hand. The residents of the encampment all looked towards the titan of a man that was the newcomer. Not all of them believed Phoebe when she’d told him he was an old associate from Athena II, many had already correctly guessed he was in actuality one of the SPARTANs that assisted her there.

She couldn’t argue back with the true reason; that they were there for him, to do so would result in being caught up in her own lie. “I’ve killed them before.” He added, racking his fist against the distinctly MJOLNIR shoulder plate on his right arm as reassurance.

Phoebe snarled angrily as Lancaster had already begun scanning the crowd of insurgent fighters for viable allies in his fight against the new SPARTANs. None looked tremendously experienced and none were particularly well armed.

“Assan take your men with him, buy us some time.”

Reinforcements? He’d been under the impression this little cell was alone and now in deep shit, but if they had allies and nearby reinforcements things changed. They didn’t have to settle on surviving the engagement, they could win if the numbers were sufficient. On the ground anyway.

With the exception of Assan none of ‘his’ soldiers had a weapon developed any time prior to 2490, and what the man with the wiry black beard held was an BR55. The weapon gleamed and was well maintained just like the combat armor Assan wore, if Lancaster had to theorize he’d assume his newfound ally had a fair share of connections within the weapons market.

“How much time do you need?” Lancaster inquired, eyes following the pods as they split up, two heading east and two heading west. Silently cursing he debated what his plan of action would be. There was no way he could send any of the fighters in alone. “Get me an hour.” Snow responded, pumping the shotgun in her arms.

“Done.”

Waving for the insurgents assigned to rally on him he began laying out his plan. Kneeling in the dirt and drawing a knife the titan began etching out his plan, informing each member in detail of their role and what additional materials they would need.

Over the course of three minutes he crafted an intricate plan to distract the east bound team while they engaged the western droppers. With a huff he finished and the troops scurried about, grabbing up IEDs and other explosives before rallying back up on Lancaster and moving out.

Two squads headed east, loaded up with automatic weapons and marksman rifles, while the remainder followed Lancaster west.

Over dusty hills and through bunkers busted wide open by alien munitions so long ago, the rebels made their way to engage the aggressors. As Lancaster reached the top of a hill, he caught the glint of a scope. “Down!” He screamed, diving into the dirt as a two bullets whizzed overhead, vapor trails in suit.

Flattening himself Lancaster leveled his carbine, squeezing off a quick burst in the hostile’s direction and ducking low again. “Obscure their vision!” The rogue ordered, the black armored Assan tossing a bundle of grenades held together with tape in the sniper’s general direction. "Think that'll do it?" Questioned the rebel NCO as the explosives landed in the dust.

"We'll find out." Lancaster answered, letting off a quick burst of fire from his aging carbine.

Of course the cluster of bombs got nowhere near the sniper, but the sharp explosion flung the planet’s lose soil into the air, bringing up dust with it. In that instant Lancaster bolted towards a nearby pile of rubble which had once been a home. He had seconds before the Spartan’s thermals had him, then he tripped.

The stumble took milliseconds, but he knew it sealed his fate. But nothing happened, no shot came as he slid behind cover.

What had just happened? Pressing himself against the pale gray stone, Lancaster took a deep breath as the rattle of assault weapons fire filled the air. Looking back over at the dusty brown slope where he watched an insurgent rise up to fire, shakily raising a MA1D that had to have been a family heirloom and firing from the hip. "Anderson get the hell down!" Cried an insurgent who lunged to drag his comrade back into cover.

For but a fraction of a second 205 felt the man would survive, that something had hindered the sniper but then four shots slammed into the two men. The first pulverized the man’s skull and left his head as a simple bleeding stump. The two following left a gaping hole in the chest, and the fourth blasted the other rebel's skull into oblivion.

Watching the men crumple to the ground as blood profusely ebbed from the mangled corpses, 205 had to wonder why a supposedly SPARTAN-grade soldier, even if illegitimate would take so many shots. It was inefficient.

Two, now four, no...

“Yo get that asshole Lancaster!” Called out another from behind a nearly destroyed concrete slab from the same destroyed bunker Lancaster hid behind. Nodding in acknowledgement the titan scooted along the wall, his battered and pockmarked armor skidding against the surface as he pressed himself close. “I need covering fire now!” Lancaster ordered.

Seconds later 30 Caliber rounds were spewing down range from the mouth of an aging light machinegun, followed by quick bursts from Assan’s BR55. Seizing the opportunity Lancaster rounded the corner of the wall and made a beeline for the next hill and get rid of this sniper.

Three shots rang out as he rushed through the dust and suddenly the sound of the confetti maker suddenly ceased. Three shots, 2-4-3. The sick bastards at ONI were toying with him, reminding him of those he’d lost. Picking up speed as anger flooded his mind, Lancaster came over the hill and leveled his weapon at the black armored shooter who was already looking dead at him.

“Lank no!”

His eyes snapped to an obscure blur in the corner of his eye which grabbed his weapon by the barrel and yanked it downward. Releasing his left hand from the carbine, Lancaster moved to strike the blur only to have an armored hand yank him up and slam him down onto his back.

Rolling in the dust, the two SPARTANs clashed, a blur of jabs and strikes as the attacker fought to pin Lancaster down. A decisive blow would ram 205's head into the dirt

As he was slammed into the dirt, dust plumed up around him and his head began to throb from the force of the landing. Usually the interior of an ODST helmet would’ve cushioned such a blow, but the years without upkeep and constant use had worn away at the internal cushioning.

Looking past the stars in his eyes Lancaster watched as the invisible blur faded into view, a titanic SPARTAN nearly his size loomed over him. Yet for some reason, the member of this elite kill team who had him on his back didn’t strike and seemed to be in shock. “What did they do to you?” Questioned the SPARTAN as the grip on Lancaster’s neck was released, the voice was synthesized by the speaker of his helmet, but Lancaster could still hear the worry.

205 didn’t answer the Spartan’s inquiry, instead striking him in the stomach and wrenching his carbine free from the aggressor’s grip.

Pressing the weapon against his foe’s stomach he squeezed the trigger, the shields of the armor being rapidly battered away as the brilliant yellow glow flashed up with every impact.. “Lank it’s me stop!” The SPARTAN roared, rolling off of Lancaster to avoid losing the protective field.

Rolling the opposite direction, Lancaster began to rise up, the cries of his attacker falling on deaf ears as he leveled the weapon. But something caught Lancaster's eye, and stayed his hand. His gaze settled on the bold white 226 on the chest piece of the man. Before Lancaster could speak, his eyes snapped to the sniper who squeezed the trigger once, a round slamming through the torso of one of the rebels, then a second shot went through the skull of another. Assan was the only one left.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, wearing that number, calling me that name?” Lancaster hissed angrily, not pulling the trigger as the sniper fired one final time, taking off Assan’s head. Lowering the weapon, the sniper looked over to the two other SPARTANs.

“Marcus we’ve got thirty until they get COMMs back.”

Lancaster’s eyes widened beneath the battered helmet at the name. It wasn’t possible, they were dead. Grunting in frustration the SPARTAN who had tackled him reached into a pouch on his thigh band withdrew a piece of faded paper and offered it to Lancaster.

Quickly 205 swiped the paper before the man stepped past him. “Lay low, we’ll explain in a minute.”

All those who dare To face down his stare All those beware For you’ll no longer need air

Lancaster hadn't seen the now yellowing piece of paper since 2545, when he'd written the words on it.

“Two on the right!”

Cody snapped up the MA5K, leveling it with the chest of an insurrectionist and squeezing off a quick burst, his target jerking back as blood sprayed from the entry wound and tumbling to the ground. With a quick shift to the right lined him up with another’s head and he squeezed. Watching his target collapse Cody moved over a hill opening up on a group of rebels with his carbine.

Rebels dropped like flies as the SPARTAN rose over the hill, the ammo display rapidly decreasing until it ran dry with a click. However Cody didn’t rush for cover, without even looking to his motion sensors he knew Jamison was behind him cleaning up, this distinct sound of his partner’s M395 coming from behind him.

As one magazine was released, another slammed home and the charging handle was racked. Thirty-two more rounds were ready to go as the two SIIIs rushed onto a dusty highway, a group of rebels rising over the hill in front of them.

Quickly the two ducked behind the scorched carcasses of automobiles as rounds flew overhead. “Go camo, on flash bang.” B042 ordered, drawing one of the stun grenades from his belt, arming it, and hurling it overhead. In the split second before the flash bang detonated, Cody looked to G144 as both their camouflage systems took effect. He’d just wanted to check, just make sure Jamison was there with his own eyes.

As the device lived up to its name, flashing brightly with a loud bang, the two titans rushed from the safety of their cover. To the eyes of the now stunned insurrectionists they would be nothing more than a shimmer in the corners of their eyes. It would be the last thing they saw.

Rapidly the MA5K in Cody’s arms pelted the rebels, casings spewing from the weapon as he held down the trigger. The instant his magazine emptied, Cody’s right hand left the bottom of his weapon and drew up an M6 from his thigh and put two rounds in the final insurgent’s chest.

Rising up the hill, he kept his M6 raised with his empty carbine in his off hand. The rebels had fallen together, their bodies piled atop each other in a bloody mess. B042’s eyes scanned the bodies for movement, just a twitch that might indicate survival.

He’d get far more than a twitch.

Cody caught sight of the device buried in the dirt milliseconds before he made out the figure of a man holding a detonator in the distance. “Bomb!.” Jamison exclaimed as Cody whipped around and propelled himself into Jamison.

In that instant heat washed over the two SPARTAN-IIIs as the improvised explosive detonated, the force hurling them back into the street. Cody slammed against the windshield of a van, the glass shattering beneath his weight just as the front of the car caved as well. G144 slammed against the vehicle’s door, sliding to the ground and slumping over.

His ears were ringing and his vision was filled with stars and spots as his HUD beeped angrily to notify him of his loss of shields as well as the sharp decrease in his vitals thanks to the variety of scrap metal now embed within his armor and burrowed into his abdomen. His weapons had flown from his grasp, and now both hands were clasped over his abdomen.

Releasing his hand from the wound he looked down at the bloody gauntlet before letting his body go slack, a wave of pain flooding his mind. He fought to maintain consciousness beneath his helmet, every moment draining him further as the two SPARTANs lay on the long derelict freeway in silence.

Suddenly the silence was broken, over the hill rose a trio of rebels, each clad in a full set of ODST battle armor, though it seemed that almost every individual piece of their equipment came from a different set, giving the gear a patchwork look.

Two subordinates were toting MA5Bs, the leader distinguished himself by wielding an M6J and the fact that his ODST garb, was actually upon closer inspection, AIR ASSAULT gear with various kill tallies and insignias adorned upon it. Former Army Airborne if Cody had to guess, which meant this one might actually be dangerous without the use of IEDs.

As the group trotted toward the SPARTANs, Cody ever so slowly shifted his hand to the small of his back, watching the insurrectionists grow closer. As the hostiles came to a halt, B042 took note that neither he nor Jamison’s shielding had come back online, and a quick glance at his HUD’s notifications alerted him that whatever was in the explosive had hit their generators especially hard.

They wouldn’t be back on for a few more minutes in his case at least, Jamison could be better, or worse.

As the head of the group racked the slide of his M6J, Cody no longer was willing to wait and find out. In the seconds it took the ex-paratrooper to level his weapon with G144’s head, a fog of angry impulsiveness rolled over Cody’s mind. His instincts seemed to take over, adrenaline hammered through his veins, as the SIII's primal instincts seemingly took charge, amplifying his abilities in the process.

In the blink of an eye the machete was yanked free from its sheath, Cody rolling off the hood and bringing the weapon down in a blindingly fast downward arc. The blade caught the rebel’s collarbone near the base of his neck, cutting through bone and flesh and flesh with a crunch.

Releasing the handle, Cody left his machete in the rebel as he fell. As one rebel to his right brought up a worn MA5B, Cody caught it from under the barrel and twisted violently, snapping the man’s wrist with a wet crack and forcing him to release the weapon.

Pivoting left he smashed the weapon into the other insurgent’s helmet, the reinforced plating caving beneath the force of the blow. Before the man could collapse, he bent in his elbow then extended it quickly, the butt of the weapon smashing through the visor of the stolen ODST helmet and blood spattering over the butt of the weapon.

Releasing the weapon and allowing it to clatter to the ground as the left soldier collapsed alongside it, Cody’s arms shot to his chest and freed his combat knife. Turning back to his right, Cody flipped the knife so that the blade was between his index finger and thumb, then hurled the knife.

With a soft squelch the knife entered the rebel’s throat. Coughing up blood across the interior of his visor, the rebel collapsed.

As the instinctive ferocity faded, the fog rolled away, and the pain rolled in. Gritting his teeth, Cody fell to his knees, keeling over in agony. Cody caught himself with his right hand, keeping himself from slamming into the ground, and his left covering his wound.

Blood trickling from his injuries, he cast a glance over to Jamison from behind his glowing red visor, though still collapsed, he was beginning to move and from what Cody could tell was not visibly injured. The Beta Company veteran sighed and looked around him, three mangled bodies lay in the dirt, their blood pooling beneath them and mixing with the dust of the glassed world.

As his shields returned, their brilliant yellow glow returning, encasing the soldier as he fell forward, and rolled onto his back. Injecting himself with a dose of morphine, B042 began pulling fragments from his abdomen. After all, he and Jamsion still had a head to collect.

Birth of the Monster

UNSC I Am Your Father, August 11th, 2555

He hated this job, he hated having to mask the feelings this assignment gave him with a smile and eerily optimistic tone, and he hated EPHIALTES. This Lancaster fellow, he wasn’t one of his kids, nor were ANATAEUS, ZARAOFF, SOLACE, BOO RADLEY, or the other SIIIs. But he still looked at them the same way, and the idea of sending the target’s teammates from training to kill him? It made the experienced ONI officer sick.

He still wondered what made Section 0 so sure 205 was beyond saving. He was assuredly not the only Spartan, or even SII to develop mental issues, yet they had tried to put him down without a thought. Now nearly 100 UNSC personnel were dead because of their eagerness, and he’d yet to see a reason. Damn idiots.

Slumping back in his chair Grant Anderson massaged his temples and sighed. Looking down at the datapad he held in his left hand he scrolled down line after line of useless information on the supposed issues that Lancaster had developed and instead began reading the SPARTANs service record.

Sargasso, RED OCTOBER, Arcadia, SWAMP FOX, and most importantly, SAVING GRACE. The entire entry on the operation was blank minus the details on the objectives, all he had in terms of information on what had occurred was an attached folder which contained Lancaster’s debriefing.

From what Anderson could tell the operation went to absolute shit, but after 205’s detailing of the liberation of enslaved colonists the remainder of the document was sealed off, locked with the highest clearance level he’d ever seen. Whatever had happened, he knew it’d put a SPARTAN-II through enough trauma over five years to essentially snap his mind like a twig.

His kids had been through the worst of anything, missions that even their predecessors would’ve gawked at and with even less adequate equipment, yet somehow this SAVING GRACE seemed to have been even worse in the end. Grant wondered what his kids would think of him now, going after someone who’d been through what they had and instead of reaching out to help, putting a gun to his head.

Anderson could practically feel Bashir’s eyes boring into his skull, that damn fluke had always had such an effect on him. He remembered finding the boy, they’d just taken 430 from an orphanage on Mars, and somehow the small street urchin who’d begged them for food earlier and received a boot to the chest from one of his operatives had snuck past three layers of security and onto an ONI Prowler. He’d taken the boy into the program because he thought his infiltration abilities would come in handy, not because he ever intended to attempt augmenting him, but the boy had insisted and miraculously came out unscathed.

Yet now he knew the boy, no, man would look at him with a mix of confusion and contempt. After all he’d gotten Bashir cleared of mental issues of which there were plenty, why not Lancaster?

Why not Lancaster?

Before he could travel any further into the depths of his mind, the door at the back of the room slid open. “Sir Codename: PRINCE OF TIDES is here to see you.” Stated one of his black armored guards, Michael-G074.

Grant hadn’t had time to familiarize himself with the SIII guards he found assigned to him, he only knew that they were former HEADHUNTER, and that both, G074 in particular, had astoundingly high protective instincts. Pivoting to face the ONI operative, the aging officer laid his eyes on his subordinate.

“Thank you Michael.” Grant gave the soldier a curt nod before remotely closing the door as the towering man that was PRINCE OF TIDES, known to him as Tobias Wingo, entered. Clad in black ONI fatigues almost identical to his own, only with the insignia of a Staff Sergeant in the place of a Commodore’s stars.

Years of field experience and subsequent SPARTAN augmentation let Tobias cast an imposing figure which was complimented by his graying black hair and numerous scars. It was hard to imagine he’d been a baby-faced marine Grant dragged out of an insurrectionist stronghold so many years ago.

“The teams have been engaged, SOLACE and RADLEY sustained injury from an IED made of a new compound but are still moving. ANATAEUS and ZARAOFF are pushing towards the rebel’s camp, and should be there shortly.” Tobias informed him, looking down on Anderson with a hardened stare.

“Something wrong?”

“This goddamn mission for one.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do Tobias.”

The room fell silent as the two agents locked eyes. While Wingo was perhaps even angrier with the objective of EPHILATES than he was, but Anderson was relieved it was Wingo going off at him and not the other lead DI of HERACLES, S-041 would’ve been much more intimidating.

For a few moments they remained silent, tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. “Any eyes on target yet?” Anderson inquired, leaning back into his seat and pivoting back to face his desk and opening up several holographic screens which flooded with data on the refugee camps on the scorched world below.

“Negative.”

Cursing under his breath Grant brought up the helmet-cam footage he’d gotten from OTHELLO, watching over and over, not to see Lancaster, or try and get a fix on his location as he could’ve been anywhere, but to see who was in the crowd. One face stuck out.

Armed with an old assault rifle was a woman who stood in front of a group of cowering refugees amidst the bloodshed. He knew her, even now with her clad in a rough cloak and a scarred face, Phoebe Snow was a hard one to forget. In 2553 he’d assisted the strikingly beautiful girl, helped her perfect the craft of soldiering as she and the Athena II Resistance Movement finally pushed the URF off their world.

Now, three years later, he saw her amidst piles of corpses, all victims of UNSC gunfire. But the ODSTs hadn’t fired the first shot, a refugee had. If he had to guess, this had been planned, the victims of the massacre were going to be martyrs, used to galvanize the rebel movement. And the whole thing had been possibly organized by a woman he trained, to fight rebels.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck, fuck. Osman would be up his ass for years thanks to this. “Something wrong Grant?” Questioned Tobias, learning over his shoulder to look at the zoomed in image of Phoebe Snow’s face. Anderson didn’t say a word, scrolling through page after page of information detailing Snow’s about-face-turn in the past two years and got nothing.

“Grant.”

He kept searching, there had to be more, had to be.

“Grant.”

Again and again he came up empty, there was no motive, no reason, she’d simply changed from moralistic freedom fighter to an insurgent more than willing to sacrifice in excess of a hundred people for good propaganda. I didn’t make sense.

“Grant!”

“Purge the file from all known databases.”

“I’ll get the Bat on it, but we’ve got contact. And a casualty.”

Kholo, Surface

“H-how?”

Lancaster looked at the black armored forms of 226 and 243 moving steps in front of him, his mind a mess of voices telling him not to believe his them, his heart begging him to, and a myriad of other emotions rampaging about unable to complete a coherent thought. It wasn’t possible, they were both dead, he’d seen their bodies. Warped and twisted, he’d seen them.

“Same way they got us in the first place Lank, flash-clones.” Explained Marcus, his weapon raised as he walked over the dusty surface, his weapon at ease as the trio moved up a dusty hill. Lancaster still couldn’t quite process what was happening.

Jason-243 and Marcus-226 were alive, both good SPARTANs, which meant Phoebe was wrong. No matter his qualms with the UNSC, he would not fight his family, it was a bridge too far. He’d cut ties with the NCA, tell Phoebe what he really felt, get her to stand down. They could all get out of this in one piece.

He believed that with all his being, until he saw the smoke.

“What’s going on?”

“They were innies Lank, they attacked those troopers, incited the massacre, they-“

“I know what they are.”

With that Lancaster darted around Marcus and Jason and up the crest of the hill. Murky brown dust kicked up in his wake as he moved, his mind racing and drowning out the cries of his former teammates. She had to be okay, Marcus and Jason were better than the sub-par SPARTANs he’d fought before, Phoebe could take them.

Coming up the ridge Lancaster looked down on the now burning camp below him, his MA2B carbine hanging loosely in his right hand. The cut down assault rifle held shredder rounds, exactly what he’d need to deal with the two black armored monsters below, one of who systematically executed two of the NCA soldiers, and another who was dragging Phoebe across the dirt and casting her down.

Lancaster snapped up his weapon and leveled it with the head of the man who readied his weapon to execute Snow. “No!” He exclaimed, squeezing the trigger and firing a burst of lead into the man. The rounds impacted the SPARTAN, his shield flaring up a brilliant gold.

“Lank no! Stop!” Cried Jason from behind him, sprinting up from behind him as 205 continued to fire as he continued to advance. The SPARTAN ducked to the side, sliding behind a crate as his partner snapped up an MA5K. Instantly Lancaster pivoted and let loose on the other SPARTAN who jerked slightly as his shields were him, diving behind cover as a trio of shots smacked into him from another source.

“Lancaster behind you!”

His eyes shifted back to Phoebe’s prone form, now wielding a smoking magnum which she held level with him. “No stop! Stop!” The battered SPARTAN roared as she fired off round after round which whizzed past him and into something else.

Then there was the crack of a rifle, and Phoebe went limp as round from Jason’s SRS-99 sniper rifle slammed into the top of her collarbone and burrowed through her chest. For a moment he froze, his eyes fixated on the woman’s limp form, his arms going slack and the carbine clattering to the ground as his vision faded to black and closed his eyes to hold back a tear.

When his eyes opened, he was kneeling over Jason’s dead body, bloody knife in hand.

He lowered the rifle as the woman collapsed, her M6 falling to the dirt and blood beginning to flow from the wound and soak the dusty soil in the thick crimson liquid. Just another terrorist, but now he and Marcus had to deal with the repercussions of Lancaster coming into view.

It wasn’t hard to cut the audio of a helmet-cam feed, more than once Jason and Marcus actually been ordered to do just that, so their handler’s wouldn’t have to hear the screams. Doing moments to hide the fact they were speaking with Lancaster was a piece of cake, but if they cut the vid feed questions would’ve been asked, thus why they’d kept him behind them.

But now Lancaster had come into view, and any hope for he and Marcus’s plan to get Lancaster out of ONI’s sight until he and 226 could clear his name had been dashed. Perhaps they could still negotiate taking him alive, but there was no way 205 was walking away now.

Opening up a channel to RADLEY and SOLACE, Jason broadcasted a quick and simple order, “Stand down.”

Both of the SPARTAN-IIIs winked their acknowledgement lights on TEAMBIO, and it was only then the SII sniper noticed both of the IIIs were in the yellow, which wasn’t a particularly good sign. What was a good sign was that they followed the command, and even better still Lancaster had dropped the raggedy carbine he’d been using.

Placing the rifle on to his back, Jason reached up and pulled his helmet free, the vacuum seal hissing as it was broken. Tucking the DEADEYE helmet under his arm, Jason placed a hand on Lancaster’s shoulder, trying to help his friend remember who he was and who mattered more. “Come on Lank, they were terrorists, they were just gonna use you to hurt the innocent. Me and Marcus can pull some strings, you’ll be with us, it’ll be just like it was supposed to b-” Suddenly he stopped as Lancaster snatched his arm with alarming speed and twisted violently and jerked him forward.

Caught by surprise Jason tumbled forward and landed on his back with a thud. As dust plumed up around him, Jason blinked rapidly to clear his vision when suddenly an armored gauntlet hammered his face and snapped his head to the side. “Lank what’re you-” Lancaster hit him again, his head bouncing off the ground and right into the next blow as blood filled his mouth.

Jason could make out the screams, but that was it. As he felt something jagged cut through the gel layers of his undersuit he cringed, letting out an agonized cry as the object was yanked out. He couldn’t see, his eyes swollen and fill with dirt and with blood from a newly acquired cut running down into them, but he didn’t need to see to know.

Lancaster-205, his teammate, fellow SPARTAN, one of the only two people in the world he considered family, was about to kill him. The same Lancaster who’d once been the awkwardly tall and painfully shy boy that had been assigned to his training team all those years ago. The one who after years of effort on his and Marcus’s part, finally came out of his shell, and with their help grew into a tenacious and powerful soldier.

He was family, someone he’d have sacrificed anything for.

And now he buried a knife in his throat.