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This fanfiction article, The First Step, was written by AlphaBenson. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission. |
Nobody grew up hoping they'd end up in a place like Arsenal. Scott Edwards, least of all. The hollowed out, kilometer and a half asteroid had been stripped of all it was worth and abandoned by BXR Mining decades ago. But, like a well-used drain catch, it tended to catch and gather the worst trash the galaxy had to offer. Pirates, smugglers, ex-Covenant mercenaries-- any type of undesirable you could name, you could bet your ass Arsenal had seen them come and go. And in the years that followed, they had built Arsenal into a floating fortress in the stars, free from all government oversight.
Including Cortana's.
Living in a dug-out rock was hardly a new idea, but there was no denying it was an effective one. The CMA, UNSC, Covenant. Arsenal had evaded and survived them all. And they'd survive this rogue AI uprising, too. At least, that was the way the locals told it.
Scott had to admit, they were a persistent bunch, but the thing was; if Cortana had wanted them dead, then the Arsenal would be nothing more than free floating slag. The fact that they were all alive to enjoy Arsenal's stale recycled air was for one reason and one reason alone-- it just wasn't worth the time and effort. Maybe Arsenal used to be big back in its day, but now? It was little more than a shady pit stop between systems.
But that could all change in a heartbeat, depending on what came next.
"That's our mark,"
Davien Calson, with his sharp eyes, was the first to spot the target amidst the meager crowd in the Wet Beak. In a seedy bar full of Jackal and human patrons both, a lone man in a trench coat and hat might not have drawn much attention. Until he took his seat at an empty booth and removed his hat. Revealing green skin and a set of gills.
Not a man. At least, not in the way that Davien and himself were men. A Yonhet. An alien species so similar to humans in appearance, it was a little unsettling. Scott had never seen one in person before. Apparently, the Covenant didn't think they made for good warriors, so they weren't ever used in the war. Of course, he was sure the Covenant thought the same thing about humanity when they first launched their genocidal campaign. And look where they were now.
It wasn't long after the Yonhet took his seat that he was joined by a small woman in a bomber jacket. Agent Arti Singh. Office of Naval Intelligence, though nobody but the undercover ODSTs inside were aware of that. To any outsider, Arti was just a girl, with big dreams of striking it out on her own, making what appeared to be nothing more than friendly conversation with the target.
But of course, what was really happening was a business transaction.
"Try not to let your eyes wander too much, sir," Davien warned. Scott couldn't see the man since they were sitting in different booths, back-to-back, but he heard the crunch of him biting into a tortilla chip all the same. "You look like a narc enough as it is already."
"I'm a concerned father, looking to talk some sense into my stupid, rebellious daughter." Scott said. "Of course I'd be looking."
"Getting a little too into the roleplay, ain'tcha Sarge?"
"You're one to talk." He shot back. "Nobody said you had to go and get your nose pierced."
"Was always meaning to. Don'tcha think it just screams 'Me'?"
"Yeah, you always did look more like a hooligan than a soldier."
"Hooligan, Sarge?" He heard Davien snort. "Really? You sure you're her dad, not her grandpa?"
If they weren't undercover, Scott would have smacked him upside the head. Maybe he still would have. But before he could entertain that line of thought, there was a clicking from his earpiece. Once, twice-- three times.
The signal that shit was about to hit the fan.
To her credit, when her eyes met Scott's from across the bar, there was nary hint of concern or fear. Door she mouthed subtly. One look, and he understood the problem instantly. Three big mean-looking Skirmishers—a subspecies or something of your usual Jackal, only larger, stronger and a lot less bald. Judging by the plasma pistols on their belts, their chests puffed out in front of them and their bright red feathers standing on end, it was clear they weren’t here for a drink.
"Red claw mark, left breast.” Davien whispered. “Tek’s goons. It really is a small world, huh?”
"One problem at a time,” Scott stood and patted himself under his pit to feel the reassuring bulk of his concealed M6 pistol. “First—I need a distraction.”
“Say no more!”
As Scott took the long way around the bar to reach Agent Singh’s table, Davien waltzed right up to the trio of birdbrains before they spotted the Yonhet in the far corner. He couldn’t get a good grasp on what was said exactly, but he heard Davien, with his arms held out wide, exclaim loudly. Like he and the birds were the best of friends. The Skirmishers, for their part, regarded the newcomer wearily, squawking among themselves in an awkward rhythm that implied they were momentarily embarrassed at not remembering the human’s name.
How strangely polite. He supposed even pirates and arm dealers needed customer service skills.
Scott found Agent Singh nursing a glass of scotch, and the Yonhet hunched over the table. Probably so he wouldn’t be seen by the newly arriving Skirmishers.
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young lady,” He jabbed a finger towards the mark. “Your mother and I told you—no more alien boyfriends!”
“Change of plans, Staff Sergeant.” Agent Singh said, flatly. She nodded towards the cowering Yonhet. “We’re taking this one with us. Come on. We’ll slip out the back.”
And to think I spent all night practicing my lines…
“Yes, ma’am.” Scott grabbed the Yonhet, pressed the hat back onto his sickly green head, and yanked him to his feet.
"Ow—ow!! Easy with this one, yeah?” The Yonhet cried.
He heard a loud shrill squawk, and turned and saw the Skirmishers shove Davien aside, and draw their plasma pistols. Which, of course, made the other patrons lift their eyes from their drinks and stand, hands hovering above their own sidearms.
“Faz!” The lead bird rasped, and the Yonhet winced in Scott’s grasp. Guess that was his name. “You have something! Something that doesn’t belong to you!”
“This one has no idea what you are talking about!” The Yonhet stammered. “T-this one has never met any Faz!”
That only earned him an exasperated click of the tongue from the lead bird, and the angry whirl of a charging plasma pistol.
“Woah, easy there, friend!” Scott put himself between the growing bolt of energy and the Yonhet. “There’s no need for any of that.”
“No friend of Faz is friend of Kig-Yar!” The lead bird said in the harsh tone of an alien vocal cord system that clearly wasn’t designed to speak English. “Who are you?”
“Just a concerned father, looking after me and mine.” He nodded towards Agent Singh behind him. She was shivering like a leaf. Or more accurately—like a teenager who was experiencing danger for the first time in their life. In another life, she could have been a pretty good actress, Scott thought. “You can appreciate that, can’t you?”
The Skirmisher’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took a step forward, plasma pistol growling with scorching energy. Its predatory pupils seemed to scrutinize him from head to toe, boring into his heart.
“W-Wait!” Agent Singh shoved past Scott and Faz the Yonhet, holding up a data chip between her fingers like a referee’s yellow card. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Take it and leave us alone!”
Now the bird’s golden eyes went wide, it reached for the chip instinctually with its free claw, head tilted. Its predatory instinct replaced with an animalistic fascination for the shiny tab of metal. It was inches away from plucking the chip from Singh’s shaking, slender fingers—until she flipped it with her thumb like a coin.
“Now!”
While the Skirmisher’s eyes followed the spinning arc of the chip, Scott leapt for the plasma pistol, grasping the bird by the wrist and forcing the weapon’s snout off-target as they both tumbled to the floor. The overcharged bolt burned a meter wide hole in the far wall as Scott drew his M6 and pumped the alien’s chest full of lead.
Before the other two could get a clear shot, Davien dropped them both in as many rounds. The barrel of his pocket pistol was still smoking as Scott rose to his feet and wiped the purple blood off his cheek.
However, now the rest of the patrons had either ran off during the shooting or had now drawn their own weapons to protect themselves. Which, of course, they were aiming squarely at Scott and Davien. The unease seemed to hang in the air for a long, long time, even though Scott knew it only could have been a couple of seconds.
Then, a cough broke the silence.
“Ahem. S-sorry, everyone!” The Yonhet said, climbing to his feet with both hands up to show he was unarmed. “How about this one pays for the next round?”
The remaining patrons exchanged wearily glances and hushed words—before nodding and returning to their seats. The situation, apparently, resolved as easily as that.
“That’s just how it is in Arsenal,” Agent Singh said later, when they were safe and secure on the dropship, as if she could read Scott’s mind. “Can’t fret over every little public disagreement. All the same, it was good we got out of there when we did. Any longer, and I’m sure we would have ran into more of Tek’s men.”
“Can’t say I’m sad to see it go, ma’am.” Scott let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He remembered the image of the Yonhet, Faz, handing the barkeep fistful after fistful of creds from his overcoat, profusely apologizing all the while. “You sure about this, ma’am? About taking him, I mean. We have enough mouths to feed as is.”
Agent Singh shrugged.
“This was part of his price. Apparently, he wasn’t feeling so safe in Arsenal anymore.”
“Couldn’t imagine why, if he had enemies like Red Tek gunning for him.” Scott knew better than to ask ONI, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking: “So, what’s the deal with that data chip? What’s worth coming out all the way out here and risking our necks like that?”
Singh looked at him for a while. He couldn’t tell if she was appraising the aging Helljumper, or if she was just deciding what the best sort of cell to leave him to rot in was.
“Sure you don’t have any kids, Staff Sergeant?” She smiled. Whether it was genuine or just meant to be disarming, Scott couldn’t say. “You got that interrogator dad voice down pat.”
He hesitated.
“Only the three the 105th gave me, ma’am.”
She chuckled at that, and for a time, Scott thought that was all she could give him as they sat in silence. Finally, she said:
“God willing, Staff Sergeant, it’s exactly what the UNSC needs to turn all this around.” She held the data chip between her fingers and stared into the soft turquoise glow. “Or at least, it’s the first step of many.”