[HALO] Fallout, Not a Halo/Fallout crossover Options

[Sir Radont]

Part I: Dead Spartans.

It should have been a good day. School was done for the summer, the sun was bright and warm overhead and in his backpack was a report card that proudly boasted straight A’s. Despite life’s best attempts to spread cheer, the twelve-year-old walked alone with his head hung in despair. Each step was heavy and slow as if he had to coerce his sneaker clad feet to move. To him, summer wasn’t a time for playing or a time to visit friend’s—summer was a time of pain, a time to get ‘stronger’. He didn’t want to be strong anymore, all he wanted was a normal childhood, was that too much to ask? The brown haired boy rounded a bend in the paved road.

There it was.

A medium sized brick house in a medium sized suburb sat close to the road. As he drew near his heart threatened to jump straight out of his chest. Could it be? Is he really not here? Then he saw it, an old rusting blue pick-up truck parked in the short driveway. The boy stopped, feet refusing to move. The slight hope that had worked its way into his mind vanished like a wisp of smoke in the wind. Come on, if you’re not home on time it will only make it worse. Grudgingly, slowly, he urged one foot in front of the other until he stood outside the intimidating solid oak door, his hand gently squeezing the polished handle. Turning it slowly the boy eased the door open and peeked inside.

The entryway was empty, beyond that was the equally unoccupied kitchen. Stephen took a deep breath and slipped into the house. Setting his bag down gently he crept slowly across the tiled kitchen floor, skirted the edge of an old table, and peered through the archway leading to the living room. There he was, asleep as usual with four empty beer bottles on a short wooden table next to the couch. The TV was on and a local anchor was making a rundown of the daily happenings in the world of professional sports.

Stephen’s puppy, a recent gift from his dad, came bounding into the room tearing at a multi-colored rubber ball in a fruitless attempt to get the squeaking object to surrender. Upon seeing the boy standing in the kitchen, the black Labrador dropped the ball, cocked his head sideways, then let out a yelp of happiness. Fear and despair seized the boy as the real reason for the new puppy became apparent. It wasn’t a gift of love or a gift to offer him companionship; it was, in fact, no gift at all—it was an alarm. His father had gotten tired of him sneaking into the house while he lay passed out in front of the TV, the dog would assure him it never happened again. Stephen could still remember the pure elation he felt when he first saw the dog. He remembered thinking that things would change, his dad had gotten over his mothers death and things would be normal again. The crushing disappointment of the revelation was enough to make his knees buckle; he stabbed a hand out to the wall to keep from toppling forward.

The trembling boy watched in horror as the man on the couch, his ‘dad’, was roused. Two intense blue eyes turned their steel gaze on Stephen. A scowl formed on the sleepy Italian face.

“Were you sneaking in here again, boy?” His father raged as he stumbled towards the kitchen. The big man glanced at the clock. “Ah thought ah told you t’ be home quickly.” His words were slurring as he drew near, casting an imposing shadow over his frail son.

“I-I tried, father, but…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence; a powerful hand smacked the side of his face sending him reeling to the carpeted floor. Metallic tasting blood flowed warm and unhindered over his tongue. He stifled a sob; it would only make his father angrier if he cried.

“Git up!” Mark Marioli yelled as he grabbed his son and yanked him off the ground, “only a weak fool shtays down after the firsht hit, do you want to be weak the rest of your life?”

Another powerful blow sent the boy to the floor again. Mark leaned in close and stared intently at his son, waiting for him to start crying, waiting for an excuse to unleash his fury.

“I’m jus’ tryin’ t’make you stronger. Them teachers don’t teach that at school so they?”

Stephen shook his head. Marioli picked his son off the floor by the collar. “I expect an answer when I ask a question!” He drew his hand back for another strike; Stephen threw his arms up to shield his face from the blow. Mark dropped his son to the floor.

“Pathetic.” He turned and stumbled back to the couch. Diomed, the black Labrador, licked the boy’s bruised face in an attempt to comfort him. Stephen smiled through his tears and petted the dog’s soft head. I’ll always have you, won’t I? As if in response, Diomed climbed into the boy’s lap and laid across his legs, head resting on Stephen’s arm

For three summers Stephen endured his father’s beatings, for three summers he was a helpless, defenseless victim. The fourth summer was different. It started normal enough; Stephen came home on the last day of school expecting to be hit. He wasn’t disappointed. But there comes a time when healing wounds refuse to be torn open any longer. Instead, they scar, and eventually turn into unfeeling, uncaring calluses. His father stopped beating him, not because of any conscience he may have possessed, but because abuse ceased to be an effective means of control. The city became Stephen’s playground, and breaking and entering was his game.

He learned what made floorboards squeak and how do avoid them. Very few locked doors were able to resist his picking and even the most rusted hinges would silence themselves at his command. The sixteen year old didn’t break in to steal—he used it as an escape. The rush of adrenaline that came with successfully infiltrating and exfiltrating an occupied house was enough to sate his adventurous thirst. In his spare time Stephen joined as many self-defense and martial arts classes as he could and quickly impressed every sensei he learned from. He was a machine—cold, emotionless, and lethal. And yet through all of it, Diomed wouldn’t leave his side. The dog was a warm soothing fire in the middle of a harsh winter; the only friend to a boy who had given up on friendship. To Stephen, Diomed was the last thread of innocence left from a life that had long since deviated from a happier path.

His first kill came two years later, the target slept as Stephen arranged the ‘accidental’ death. The coroner would say too much alcohol mixed with candles is never a good combination and pass it off as an unfortunate accident. He would wonder, briefly, if the deceased would be missed.

He wouldn’t be. Child abusers rarely were. As the flames hungrily gorged themselves on the house’s innards, Stephen stood outside the range of the orange glow and watched. See you in Hell, dad. A month later the empty shell joined the UNSC. He needed weapons training, and who better to teach him than the men and woman that kill for a living. Four years later, Stephen Marioli vanished.


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Smoke always hung thick in pubs where ONI employees took their breaks and ate their lunches. Most complained that the allotted time given for the afternoon break was too short, forcing them to ingest the burgers, fries, and sodas too fast causing all manner of afternoon health anomalies. Some people never learn to drop the grease and order the menu items with the little apple symbol next to them instead.

To Ivan Kazlov though, an hour for lunch was plenty of time. The grey haired rebel spook glanced at his watch then worked on the salad in front of him. Five minutes late, this is the last time I hire this arrogant fool, he grumbled as he stabbed a cherry tomato with his fork.The spy smiled crookedly to himself, it would be the last job Jason did for anyone. It was too bad really, Kazlov hated to send men like that on suicide missions. Not that he cared if the merc lived or died, he just didn’t like to waste talent.

Ivan had hired many assassins in his time, all of which possessed of varying degrees of competence. None of them had the reputation of Jason Matthews though. With reputation comes rumors and rumors generate the stories of legends. It was said that Matthews had single-handedly killed three Spartans in hand-to-hand combat. Killing one Spartan was improbable, two was impossible, and to take on three of the super soldiers, well, just having their anger directed at you would be fatal to most men.

The windowed door to the pub swung open, letting in a shaft of sunlight that fell over tables and patrons. Kazlov glanced toward the entrance, the new arrival was in his late twenties, early thirties maybe, short but well built. Jason Matthews was about as remarkable as the salad sitting on the spook’s plate, perfect for blending into places he shouldn’t be. Sunglasses hid the merc’s eyes, when he removed them Ivan nearly gasped. The temperature of the room seemed to drop ten degrees, Kazlov was sure everything his potential employee looked at would turn into a solid block of ice. He had seen cold, piercing eyes before but they might as well be his mothers compared to the pair now moving towards him.

The suit-clad mercenary eased into the dimly lit booth without so much as a nod in greeting.

“You’re late,” Kazlov remarked without bothering to hide his irritation.

“So I am.” What are you going to do about it rebel, he didn’t add.

“Let me get one thing clear, you are going to work for me, and I will not be so casually disregarded by my own employees. You may have a reputation for small petty crime where you’re from but here in the big leagues actions speak louder than words.” He was sure he’d hit the mark, every mercenary considers himself to be the best and would not take an insult lightly.

“Fair enough,” was the cold, emotionless reply.

Kazlov barely contained his shock, “Yes… good… on to business then.” The spook lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly. “For the last decade rebel geneticists have been working on turning some of our own soldiers into Spartans. I will spare you all the technical details, you wouldn’t understand the in’s and out’s of the program anyway.” It was a low blow, Kazlov knew, but this merc had to be proud of something or have some emotion in him. Jason remained stone faced. The spook continued, effectively hiding his disbelief. “Six months ago we successfully created our first soldier. He’s not trained yet and it will be quite some time before he gets used to the improved strength and speed but we are ready to start the next phase of the program, we need MJOLNIR armor.”

“So build it,” Jason suggested.

Ivan chuckled slightly, “It is far too advanced for any of our scientists. If we had a full suit of it though we may be able to copy it, or at least start to develop our own version.” They couldn’t build them, of course, but if all went well they wouldn’t need to. All Kazlov needed was a few Spartans with some exposed skin; the virus would do the rest.

“You rebels are all the same; all you want are dead Spartans.”

“No, we don’t want them dead; we want them brought in alive. Four of them.” He studied Jason’s face to discern any signs of emotion. Nothing.

Kazlov had heard rebels say they weren’t afraid of the legendary super soldiers, but behind the words, behind every pair of lying eyes, their very souls quaked with fear. The man sitting across the table was different. No nervous glances, no shifting eyes, just an unwavering gaze that spoke for itself: Spartans had died by his hand. Probably not three at a time, but somewhere Jason was hiding a MJOLNIR helmet, a trophy not many hunters can claim.

“I can’t just walk into ONI and drag four Spartans out.”

“No,” Kazlov replied, “you can’t. Which is why I have taken the liberty of finding them for you.” The rebel slid a folder of documents across the polished table. Jason flipped through them while Ivan continued, “our friend’s at ONI are developing some sort of bio weapon, specifically designed to wipe out the Covenant without damaging any structures. They’re researching and building it on the planet Ajax, it’s remote and small. There are mainly scientists there, naturally, a small group of marines, and four Spartans.”

Jason finished looking over the documents and closed the folder. “It’s doable.”

“I can spare a thousand soldiers; they will attack the base directly while you come up from behind. I know you are gifted in the areas of stealth, you’ll need those skills there.”

Jason nodded.

“I thought you’d agree. I went ahead and picked out the soldiers for you, they’ll be ready when you are.”

Kazlov leaned back; this was going better than he had first anticipated. He expected some sort of challenge, some kind of arrogant display of, “I work alone, you’re soldiers will only get in my way.” But the mercenary kept it civil and businesslike. It was unnerving really; a man with a casual attitude towards killing was hard enough to control. When someone was apathetic to taking lives they would just as soon kill the person that sent them. Money’s alluring voice fell on deaf ears when dealing with these kinds of mercs. Offer them a challenge or offer them nothing at all.

“I can offer you a hundred million up front for your services and a hundred million more upon successful completion of the mission.” He could offer him the entire planet and it wouldn’t make a difference, Jason Matthews wasn’t coming back from this one. What Kazlov underestimated was the mercenary’s intelligence, offering that kind of money up front set off alarms in the trained killers mind. There was more to this mission than getting MJOLNIR armor and he would find out what it was.

“That’ll do,” Jason said as he stood, picked up the folder, and exited. He needed a drink. Not alcohol though, he never touched the stuff. Water would be fine. The pub emptied onto a busy sidewalk in downtown Hawking, a city reminiscent of Earth’s New York. The city was just hitting its stride for the day, drivers honked angrily and people walked briskly. Three blocks away and down a back alley was a small convenience store, Jason let out a sharp whistle and a black Labrador fell in stride with him as he headed down the sidewalk.

A bell jingled above Jason’s head as he entered the small store. The teen behind the counter smiled politely, “I’m sorry sir, we can’t allow pets in the store.”

Jason didn’t argue, “My apologies,” the merc bent down to scratch behind the dog’s ears and whisper a command. He stood again and opened the jingling door; the Labrador obediently walked out, sat, and waited patiently. Satisfied, Jason flashed a forced smile to the clerk and proceeded down a narrow aisle to the coolers on the back wall.

Grabbing a bottle of water, Matthews turned to head to the front when the door jingled again. A sweatshirt clad teenager entered, hood pulled up over his head and hands stuffed in the shirt’s front pockets. Normally the merc wouldn’t think twice about a kid in a sweatshirt, but it was summer and over eighty degrees outside. Great, some punk getting drug money. The mercenary ducked behind a display of Pringles as the youth quickly scanned the room. Satisfied the store was empty he pulled a small caliber handgun from his sweatshirt and demanded the young girl running the register give him all the money it contained.

Jason poked his head around the display; the cashier behind the counter locked eyes with him briefly, something not many people could do. You’re brave, kid. Tears began to glisten in her blue eyes as she handed the money over with shaking hands. Matthews had two choices, he could sit back and let fate decide the outcome by itself, or he could get involved and help fate make up its mind.

If he sat back and did nothing someone might die, which meant there would be police involved. Maybe the assailant was professional enough to not panic and stay cool. Probably not. The young criminal glanced nervously through the window to the street, paced restlessly in front of the counter, and held the gun in a quivering hand while shouting commands. He was anything but professional. On the other hand, if Jason taught the punk a lesson the young girl behind the counter would be happy that she wasn’t dead and wouldn’t call the police at all.

Jason stood, he didn’t like being considered a hero, but he liked talking to the police even less.

Unscrewing the cap on his water, the mercenary took a long swallow, returned the cap, and moved casually towards the front. The cashier glanced at him then back at the gunmen then back at Jason. Stop looking at me, you’ll tip him off. One more glance and the youth got it, he turned quickly but Matthews had covered the last few meters in a sprint, with momentum and surprise on his side the merc batted the pistol away with an outstretched arm. The young cashier, eyes wide with fear, ducked behind the counter. She heard a sickening snap of bones, a scream of pain, another snap, and finally a muffled thud.

The door jingled and the cashier stood slowly, a five dollar bill was lying on the counter, lying on the floor was a young teen writhing in pain, his wrist and elbow bent at awkward angles. She quickly glanced out the window but saw only the brown bricks of the adjacent building. Maybe there were good people in the world.


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Back in the pub, Ivan Kazlov finished his salad and leaned back, a smug smile cracked across his face. He glanced down at the ONI I.D. badge hanging around his neck bearing his picture and the designation: Barry Klemens, Geneticist.

“Well Barry, I think it’s time we parted ways.”

The spook plunged his hand into his front pocket and procured a cell phone. After punching in a number and hearing the party on the other end pick up, Ivan spoke briefly.

“We’re on for tonight.”

The line disconnected without a word. To the patrons of the pub, Kazlov might have just confirmed a date with his wife, or a business meeting with a prospective contractor. In reality he had just condemned the only ONI employee with enough intelligence to catch the bug in the Spartan program before the rebels had a chance to exploit it. At this stage, even if he did find it, it was probably too late to do anything about it. But Kazlov didn’t care what was probable, he wanted assurance, and so three assassins now waited patiently outside the ONI building. Three should be enough. How hard could it be to kill one scientist?

[Sir Radont]

Part II: Defects

Author’s note: I am aware that there is a Gray Fox in the Metal Gear universe. My brother also uses the name Gray Fox when he plays Halo, that’s why I use the name in this fic; I’m not doing a Halo/Metal Gear crossover.

Rain fell in grey ribbons from a starless night sky; splashing without prejudice on paved roads, sidewalks, and soldiers. The UNSC marines, crouched with their backs to a five-foot high stone wall, shivered. Opposite the grey stone barrier and across a seventy-five meter courtyard stood a large house; proudly defying the disarray that had ravaged the rest of the city. The rain wasn’t so bad if the soldiers were tactically advancing through the bombed out ruins and exchanging fire with rebels down narrow streets. Keeping track of snipers in destroyed houses would keep any soldier warm. Standing in a torrential downpour at 0200 hours would make the devil himself long for the warmth of his domain.

Not all of the soldiers were cold, Radont’s MJOLNIR armor regulated the environment inside his suit, and he found himself pitying the shivering marines. All but one, anyway. Sergeant Abraham Winfield could freeze for all he cared. The sergeant knew tactics as well as anyone else. It was his disregard for life, including his own, that made him hated by the men under his command. They were all expendable, just more assets to move around.

The op had started successfully enough. The landing zone just outside the city of Krenz was void of hostiles and the small squad of UNSC soldiers penetrated two kilometers into the city before engaging any rebel forces. If the rebels tried to take cover in one of the many long abandoned buildings, Sergeant Winfield wouldn’t bother hunting them down. He let rockets do the talking, and there is no way to negotiate with a 102mm High-Exposive round. Sometimes they found the mangled bodies of woman and children mixed with the appendages of the rebels. Winfield called it a part of war. Radont called it murder.

“Spartan, on my mark I want you to empty your rockets into that house.”

I have a name, sir. “Yes sir,” was the reply from behind the mirrored visor.

“Mark!”

Radont stood and shouldered the rocket launcher. The house was old, Victorian style, with black shingles effortlessly shedding the rain. A house that size probably belonged to some rich entrepreneur before the war, now the red bricks housed rebels—or so Sergeant Winfield thought. Radont squeezed the trigger gently but froze before releasing the rockets. Something moved in an upstairs room. Through the sheets of rain the Spartan’s enhanced vision could clearly make out a dark haired woman comforting a small child. Fear was etched on each face. This wasn’t a rebel hideout; it was the last stronghold for civilians in a war-torn city. He eased his finger off the trigger and crouched behind the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing, Spartan?” Winfield fumed.

“Sir,” Radont replied calmly, “there are civilians in that house, not rebels.”

The sergeant narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His voice started low pitched and quiet but grew louder with each word.

“I don’t care if your own mother is in that house, when I give an order I expect it to be followed. Is that clear Spartan?”

Radont threw the heavy weapon at Winfield’s feet. “You do it.”

An uneasy silence followed broken only by the soft, methodical slapping of rain hitting wet pavement. The marines shuffled nervously and checked their assault rifles. No one talked to Sergeant Abraham Winfield like that, let alone refuse a direct order and then throw down a weapon.

“Fine,” Winfield said as he picked up the rocket launcher, “I’ll show you how a real soldier takes care of rebels, then I’ll make sure this is the last op you’re ever a part of.”

The sergeant hoisted the weapon to his shoulder and peered through the scope. His hand went to the trigger but paused when he heard an M225 semi-armor piercing round being chambered with cold indifference. He glanced to his left, what stared back was an M6D pistol held in steady, gauntleted Spartan hands.

“I can’t let you do that,” Radont said with an uncanny coolness.

An arrogant smile crept across Abraham’s lips. “It takes guts to pull a weapon on your CO, I like that.” Winfield returned his attention to the scope. “Unfortunately you’re gonna have to shoot me becau—.”

His ears didn’t even have time to register the telltale crack of the pistol firing.

The lead bullet penetrated his skull half an inch above his ear. The high explosive round detonated, exploding the sergeants head like a can of tomato soup. Skull fragments and grey matter assaulted the stone wall as the body slumped to the ground. The resulting puddle of crimson blood mixed with rain and formed a long red river that snaked it’s way down the rough paved road.

Nobody moved.

After a few moments that felt like hours, the marines put aside their shock and surrounded the steel colored super soldier. Radont let his gun slip from his hand, arms raised in submission. Someone walked close behind him, the Spartan knew what was coming and he offered no resistance.

“I’m sorry, Radont.” The soldier said.

“I’m not,” was the reply.

Half a second later the solid stock of an assault rifle smacked the back of his head. The ground rushed up to meet him as the world faded into blackness.


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Paul Jensen sat back in his plush office chair. He stretched his hands up and released a deep yawn. A glance at the tall grandfather clock in the corner let him know he’d been in the office too long. Seven hours already? Paul stood to stretch his legs, it felt good to stand and work his joints on the soft office carpet. A walk outside wouldn’t hurt either. Seven hours of staring at genetic codes and DNA strands would make even a hermit want to take a walk. The ONI genetisist removed his white lab coat and hung it over the black chair.

He felt his pocket to make sure his wallet was secure. A quick glance down revealed his I.D. badge was still hanging from his neck. One last sweep of the office and he exited through the translucent glass door, locking it behind him. The head of ONI genetic research should have security on his mind twenty-four-seven, or so his dad—and predecessor—told him. Yeah, thanks for the tip dad. As a former UNSC marine, Paul knew all about security but his dad felt the need to remind him on a monthly basis. Thomas Jensen was like that, always worrying about his son.

Jensen’s office exited into a white lab area. Long steel tables reflected beakers and test tubes in a polished sheen. Computers hummed quietly as they processed data from all manner of tests and experiments. He walked briskly past fellow genetisists pouring intently over microscopes and lab result sheets.

Once outside, Paul took an immediate left and headed down the sidewalk. Maaz, the star that kept the planet lit, was making it’s descent behind him. Shadows stretched long in the waning orange glow as the city settled in for another warm summer night.

Something didn’t feel right though. The hair on Paul’s arms stood at attention, his heart beat faster as adrenaline began to enhance his senses. It was the natural ‘fight or flight’ response, something he hadn’t felt since being ambushed by rebel forces during his tour of duty with the UNSC.

The former marine stopped and inspected a display window showcasing pin stripe suits. He shot a glance down the sidewalk. Big guy, black shirt and jacket, bald, jeans and white running shoes. The jacket was a giveaway; nobody wore more than a t-shirt in this weather unless they had something to hide. Paul assumed, correctly, that he hid a silenced pistol under the coat. The assassin quickly diverted his attention to a newspaper stand, but not before Paul had all the information he needed. Well, almost all. He didn’t know why the lone merc was after him. Not a big deal really, he’d find out soon enough.

Jensen continued down the sidewalk to an intersection. The light blinked a white ‘walk’ symbol; Paul proceeded across the street, being carefully to maintain a casual gait. A block to his left another black clad citizen did the same. This one was donned in the same style jacket as the first, but he was far younger and fifty pounds lighter. Two of them? I didn’t realize I was that popular. The geneticist decided to test them; he turned left after crossing the street and headed straight for the smaller assassin.

The young merc didn’t skip a beat; he turned and headed in the same direction as Paul. After a block he entered a small Chinese restaurant. He’d be back; most of these buildings had exits into adjacent alleys Jensen continued casually down the sidewalk. A third assassin turned the corner and instantly spotted his prey coming toward him not ten feet away. Paul saw the slight pause followed by a spark of recognition in the merc’s dark eyes. It was imperceptible to a civilian, but the trained eye of a marine knew what to look for. The assassin might as well hold up a sign announcing he was there.

It was time to show the mercs who they were dealing with.

At the next alley Paul turned right, hoping the Chinese restaurant had a back door leading here. It did, the door swung open and a jacket clad citizen stepped out. It had to be the young assassin but Jensen couldn’t be sure. The towering buildings on either side of the alley blocked Maaz’s waning light creating deep, dark shadows. A single streetlight protruding from the restaurant made a valiant effort to dispel the darkness. All it succeeded in doing was putting a small spotlight half way down the alley. If Paul timed it right he would meet the assassin directly under the light.

Perfect.

Jensen quickened his pace. Almost there. Just before stepping into the circle of light Paul sprinted at the assassin in a sudden explosion of speed. The merc’s eyes went wide with surprise at the site of his quarry barreling towards him. Reaching inside his jacket, the assassin procured a silenced pistol and aimed it in one fluid motion. It was too late. Paul pushed the kid’s gun arm aside as he fired; the bullet smacked into the adjacent brick building sending pieces of red brick tumbling to the pavement.

Jensen brought his knee to the merc’s gut, the assassin doubled over. The former marine went to work on the gun arm. He grabbed the wrist firmly and twisted. Bones snapped, the merc yelled and dropped his weapon. Paul greedily scooped up the pistol and slipped his left arm around the assassin’s neck. He held him tightly from behind as he stepped out of the light, the gun trained on the door to the restaurant.

The third assassin busted into the alley from the restaurant, gun raised ready to fire. He had heard the yell of his comrade in the radio attached to his ear. The silenced pistol in the marine’s hand whispered twice. Two lead bullets returned wet smacking sounds as they entered the assassin’s chest cavity. Paul squeezed his captive tighter; the merc struggled briefly then went limp. One dead assassin was enough for tonight, Jensen wasn’t a murderer.

Two down, one to go.

The geneticist quickly crouched next to a rusting steel trash bin and waited for the bald assassin to find his partners. He didn’t have to wait long, not two minutes later the soft patter of running shoes could be heard moving down the alley.

The merc slowed when he drew close to the spotlight. His gun was drawn and he took nervous, slow steps toward the bodies. The bald head swiveled from side to side searching every shadow, looking for any movement. Satisfied the area was clear, the merc knelt down and inspected the body of the younger hitman.

Like a viper rising to strike, Paul rose from his hiding spot and moved silently toward the assassin’s back. Ten feet out he ran louder so the assassin would hear him. Stand and turn, that’s all I ask. The merc obeyed, spinning on his heel with gun up. Jensen used the momentum to slam his foot into the assassin’s knee, ripping muscles and tearing tendons. The assailant dropped the gun and clutched his knee in agony as he fell to the ground.

Paul kicked the gun away and spoke forcefully, “Who sent you?”

The merc shook his head, “I-I don’t k-know,” he said between deep breaths.

Jensen fired a round into the assassin’s good knee. The merc howled. Paul knelt and pressed the silenced weapon to the writhing man’s temple. The merc’s eyes widened with fear.

“K-Kazlov. His name is Ivan Kazlov.”

Paul allowed a slight grin to spread over his lips.

“Not so tough when you’re on the other side of the gun, eh? Why did Mr. Kazlov want me dead?”

“I swear I don’t know, he gives me a job and I do it. No questions.”

Jensen frowned.

“You believe me, right?” The merc asked in a wavering voice.

Paul slammed the pistol into the side of the assassin’s head knocking him out cold.

“Every word.” The former Marine stood and disappeared into the night. He had a call to make.


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Radont tested the shackles clasped firmly around his wrists and ankles, they held tight. Sitting in an interrogation room unable to move was not something he considered necessary. He was a soldier, not a criminal. The whispers and rumors started as soon as he got back from the op. A murderer some said, others were convinced he must have finally snapped. It was bound to happen with what they do to Spartans. In truth he was neither murderer or insane; just a regular person holding on to deep rooted convictions ONI hoped would leave with training.
The room was purposefully bland. A long rectangular steel table sat squarely in the middle, the walls were constructed with grey cinderblocks and the floor was a cold slab of concrete. A single dim light hung over the center of the table, it was meant to give the interrogator more options. He could move in and out of the light, distracting and disorienting the prisoner. But when the prisoner is an eight foot tall Spartan the roles are reversed. This time it was the interrogator that left shaking and distraught.

That had been over half an hour ago. The windowless door finally squeaked open. Radont sat straighter when his brother, and fellow Spartan, entered. The legendary Gray Fox grabbed an uncomfortable steel chair from the opposite end of the table and brought it closer to his brother. He sat without saying a word.

When it came to close quarters battle, Gray Fox’s skills were unmatched. Radont would have been long dead if not for the quick wits, and even quicker trigger finger, of his younger brother. The Spartan was feared among rebel forces, his name never uttered any louder than a whisper.

After a brief silence Gray Fox spoke. “That wasn’t very smart, Radont. You’ve created quite the mess for the powers that be.”

Radont shrugged, the shackles rattled, “I did what I had to do.”

How could he be so cold to the whole thing? Gray Fox raised his voice and leaned in, “You killed a father, did you know that? There are three kids and a wife that will never see their father and husband again. You did not do what you had to do, you did what you’re convictions told you to do.”

“You would have done the exact same thing,” Radont replied calmly, “you had the same convictions drilled into you from the time you were born. Even ONI with all their power can’t take those away.”

“What I would have done doesn’t matter.” Gray fox replied

“So you would let a house full of civilians get turned into a pile of ruble because of a blood thirsty, over zealous Sergeant?”

Gray Fox’s eyebrows came together in confusion, “What civilians are you talking about?”

Radont should have seen it coming; ONI knew how to control the media. To everyone outside of ONI he was just a Spartan that went crazy. Sergeant Winfield was a mourned hero just trying to make the universe a safer place. The talking heads from ONI would assure everyone that it was an isolated incident, no other Spartan was defective. They would use the word ‘defective’ because it turned Radont into nothing more than a broken piece of equipment. Nobody’s conscience ever bothered him or her when disposing faulty machinery.

“Sergeant Winfield ordered me to fire on a house full of non-combatants. He had already butchered enough woman and children in his search for rebels. I threw down my weapon and refused. He picked it up with intent to fire on civilians. Like I said; I did what I had to do.”

Gray Fox sat back in his chair, “So ONI twisted it all around. Figures.”

An armed guard entered the drab room, “Five minutes is up.”

Gray Fox stood, “I’ll see if I can pull some strings, try and educate the right people.”

“Be civil, bro.” Radont replied only half seriously.

His brother smiled, “Always.”

The steel door shut and Radont was alone again. His mind drifted back to the last words his father had said to him. Everyone is born with a purpose; they can’t die until they’ve accomplished it. It sounded funny to a six year old, but he believed it now. He wouldn’t be executed—yet.


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Paul Jensen opened the door to his house with post-battle shakiness. He entered, closed and locked the oak door, then leaned against it. Deep breathes were drawn in through his nose then released slowly. Once his heart had settled he picked up the phone in the kitchen. Seven digits later he heard ringing.

“This is detective Brian Kramer, Homicide.”

“Brian, its Paul.”

“Paul!” The disembodied voice said, “haven’t talked to you in a while, how’s life?”

“It’s ah, it’s interesting. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot, buddy.”

“Do you have an Ivan Kazlov on file anywhere? I need any information you can give me.”

“Sure thing, give me a sec.”

Paul heard the fluttering of fingers dancing across a keyboard. Brain hummed while he worked.

“Okay, we have an address here. Looks like he lives on the top floor of Gains Apartments, the big ones downtown. He was charged several times with murder and extortion but nothing ever stuck. Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Just the usual. Assassins trying to kill me and all that.”

“Was one of them a big bald guy by chance?”

Paul paused, “Yes.”

“Well you just saved me a lot of work. We got a call from a Chinese restaurant, said there was some kind of fight going on out in the ally. By the time our officer got there all he found was two unconscious guys and a corpse. You mind coming down and ID’ing them?”

“I’ll be right there.” He returned the phone to the cradle. The next few days would be busy ones.

He had an apartment to infiltrate.

This post has been edited by Sir Radont: Jul 18 2006, 06:19 AM