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This fanfiction article, Stories from the Sigmaverse/Resolve, was written by Brodie-001. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission. |
Sat on a stretch of flattened grass long since abandoned by his subordinates with his back against a tree, Magnus folded his metal hands over his chest, gazing into the dying embers of the nearest bonfire. He'd spent the day barking orders, making threats, and killing. Now came the quiet, and the contemplation that the day's actions did so well to stave off. Eighteen of theirs dead for six of ours. At least ninety grand for the components, and thrice that for the FTL drive on Venezia. AI components go to Petrovich. Magnus carried out this grim tally in his mind after each and every mission. Today, his men had stormed a merchant vessel contracted by the UNSC, intent on taking whatever they could from the hapless crew without bloodshed. Instead they found a squad of battle-hardened Marines and one hell of a firefight the moment they cut through the ship's airlocks. The money-minded among his crew might have turned tail and ran had they not feared Magnus so much, knowing that angering the infamous cyborg would lead to a crueller fate than dying in battle. Now they drank and laughed in the distance, ignoring the line of black body bags just outside the firelight. The fire sputtered for a moment, and Magnus blinked. He'd been sitting there for too long, just resting. He ran a prosthetic hand over his naked scalp, then made a fist. His sense of touch was approximated, but never the same as it had been, years ago. To fire a gun, hold a blade, to choke the life out of another person, all these things had been numb for a long time, and that had only added fuel to the fire that drove him. Magnus had sworn revenge years ago, under another name, against those who had stolen away his life and the lives of so many others. The closest thing he had to a family had either been killed or turned into a mindless, obedient soldier, and so he had broken free, seeking his own path. That had been thirty-three years ago. Now he sat in a field on a barely-charted world with an ocean of blood on his hands and most of his body replaced and nothing had changed. Ever. His new allies had become his jailers, and every word of encouragement and promise of a brighter tomorrow had been backed with threats. His underlings had betrayed him. His plans had backfired. Even the act that he thought would bring him some measure of contentment - killing the UNSC's precious Spartans - had done nothing. After all, there were so many more. So what was he doing here, right now? "Magnus!" A voice called from nearby, breaking his chain of thought. Magnus half-rose, his lips already curling into their customary half-sneer, until he recognised who was calling him. A young woman strode past the dying bonfire, tossing a few logs into it casually as she approached. The flames roared up for a second, illuminating her face beneath a dark headscarf. "Aila," Magnus rasped, his voice dry. He'd not spoken in hours. "What is it?" Aila Jokela knelt by his side, not wanting him to get up. Magnus had pulled her out of some desert massacre on Aleria a few months back, and had found a capable pilot and aide in the young smuggler. "Got a message back from home." "Mine or yours?" "Yours." Magnus nodded. The Hydra. "What did Bakos want?" "She wasn't pleased about Aleria, but she understood when you wrote about the Spartans in your report." "I could've taken them." Magnus grew defensive. "The-" "The mission had to come first, I know." Aila smiled. Magnus did not. "Any new orders?" "None." Aila shook her head. "Just to report in at the usual time." Magnus sighed. URF High Command, or whoever was left to declare themselves as such, were less than useless these days. The war had killed anyone worthwhile, barring General Miriam Bakos, but the once-feared rebel group was a a shadow of its former self. A dozen so-called cells operated independently, acting more for profit than any ideology, and anyone with conviction was being snapped up by the New Colonial Alliance these days. After all, the United Rebel Front had decades of terrorist attacks attached to their name. No, the URF was done for, and were it not for the chain binding him to that sinking ship Magnus would have cut ties months ago. No. I do it now. The thought had snaked its way into his mind in an instant. Far away, aboard the URF's command ship, was a man named Simon Petrovich. While he had rebuilt his ruined body into fighting shape years ago, he was also a man driven by revenge against the UNSC. Magnus - a name he had invented for his new attack dog - had done his bidding for years, living under the threat of having his life support implants deactivated were he to disobey. Nearly eight years of terror and bloodshed later, and the grand goals of revenge, of toppling governments and standing atop the ashes in righteous victory had not come anywhere close to being achieved. All Magnus had was his chains. "Aila," his voice grew sharper as he picked himself up. "Tell the men we leave tomorrow." "Where to now?" "Gilgamesh." Magnus began running tallies again, counting money, supplies and allies. "Then I'm going home." Her eyes widened. He'd let slip - perhaps unwisely - of his own rebellious thoughts. Of going against those holding his chains and finally breaking loose, to live as freely as he'd once imagined. Magnus had never once dreamed of a life without fighting, but in a moment of clarity he'd not had since a fateful day several decades prior, he knew that he would have to burn his entire life down if he wanted to make his own decisions. No more murder. No more following orders. Night was falling, but tomorrow, he would act.
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